Rachel Frick Cardelle

I need nothing else but the sound of sizzle and the rich, almost cough-inducing smell of blackening adobo on fresh fish emanating from the kitchen to know that I am yet again going to have a once-in-a-lifetime memorable meal. I listen from the sofa while he moves about the kitchen, easily shifting from chef to diplomat as he assures the cats that no part of the Geneva Conventions has been violated if the fish isn’t for them, then transitions into the annoyed, tired parent of a toddler as he curses in Spanish at the puppy for yet another transgression. I relax into the frustration of solving the complex mathematical construction challenge that is my knitting, trusting that once completed the recipient will wear it, knowing that it isn’t a knit sweater but a warm hug she puts on. Our open floor plan allows my husband and I to engage in our separate missions yet share the flavors of each of our days with one another, and I know the salsa and salt of our commentary on the human comedy witnessed over the course of the day will find its way into the meal, adding to the flavors more conventional kitchen spices bring.

I have participated in so many different types of meals over the course of my life. I’ve eaten meals that were forgettable only because I paid them no heed at the time, instead focusing my full attention on the computer screen in front of me with an unfinished grant demanding completion. [A grant is a demanding master even before it is won for it holds the promise of turning into a fairy godmother prepared to make the recipient’s dream come true if only the writer of the grant will do her job well.] For several decades the bulk of my evening meals were an intentional break in the day to spend time with three little girls, a brief flash of time before they grew up and flew away on strong, independent wings like I had once foolishly thought I wanted them to learn to do. Those meals, prepared by me for the inhabitants of our nest, were never about the sensory experience of my tastebuds, but rather about the monitoring of who at the table liked what and whether there were any clues to be heard in the sing-song conversation and silences that any decent mother would catch and respond to.

Now our nest is empty of little women and holds cats and a puppy. I have semi-retired from cooking while, fortuitously, my husband has discovered the comfort and relaxation to be had from tying on an apron and puttering about the kitchen. It takes just a little time for his fish preparation to go from a sizzle in my ears to a succulent, moist, melting flavor in my mouth. I take a bite, close my eyes, and experience awe at the world class, fit-for-Anthony-Bourdain plate of quiet happiness that is my dinner. And because my husband’s love is so strong, yet another salmon has not had to die in vain.