“Even the most serious and sturdy among us seem to be only one man away from being reduced to mashed potatoes.”
--Elizabeth Gilbert
It’s about to explode.
In. My. Face.
The water bubbles aggressively, threatening to spill over the sides of the pot on the stove. Beneath the glass cover, jet-black shells pop open one by one. With eyes as wide as hard-boiled eggs, I stare, waiting to see if the steam will blow the top right off.
I’m in the midst of my maiden culinary venture and I’m as awkward and apprehensive as I was the night I lost my virginity. I never imagined I’d be standing in my kitchen barefoot, dressed in polka dot pajamas, teaching myself to cook. A year ago, I didn’t even know what mussels were.
Then again, a year ago I never imagined my heart would get broken by a man like Puck.
* * *
Welcome to the last moment of my normal life. It’s a sunny Tuesday a week before my 26th birthday and I’m at my favorite coffee shop. The cursor on the blank screen of my Vaio flashes menacingly back at me. I gaze off into the parking lot, waiting for a flush of inspiration. Then the door whooshes open, a burst of June breeze snaps me from my daydreams, and in walks the hottest thing I’ve ever seen on two legs. At six feet tall, with massive pecs, trim waist, and an ass as tight as a clenched fist, he’s the kind of guy who can make even his pink dress shirt look macho. He doesn’t walk; he does a body-builder strut, the kind of stiff swagger seen on the likes of Sylvester Stallone. In fact, he resembles Rocky with his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp and a rough, gruff voice.
He orders an espresso, saunters over to the bar, and spins a stir stick round and round in his little paper cup. I can’t take my eyes off him…or, more accurately, his ass.
He turns around. Our eyes meet. Neither of us smiles but I feel like I’ve just been struck by lighting—and I liked it.
The world as I know it has been obliterated.
The day that glance sealed my romantic fate, I was a recovering serial seductress with dozens of conquests under my belt. The requirements were simple: any man with a pulse, a penis, and a PhD. I sought out frustrated artists who’d abandoned their craft for the daily grind, mediocre runners looking for a second wind, men with an unsatisfied sweet tooth. I selected men so blinded by their own shit that they wouldn’t bump up against mine. A stable, emotionally secure partner simply wouldn’t do.
My technique was standardized: witty repartee, a few cut-throat sarcastic jokes, and a request to check out the victim’s apartment. Once inside, I’d peruse the CD collection, slide a hot little hand across a hairy thigh, and bashfully confess my crush in a come-hither whisper.
In and out of bed, men were transfixed by my maniacal energy and unpredictability. I was praised as “juicy”, “bewitching”, an “enigma”, a “fabulous freak of nature”. What I lacked in sexual experience, I made up for with enthusiasm. I was not only multi-talented, I was multi-orgasmic.
“One more time,” men would plead, as though I were some sort of sexual Tilt-a-Whirl they didn’t want to stop.
“I have no limit,” I’d sigh after a handful of orgasms, my legs cramping from the exertion. “Believe me. Can we please watch Seinfeld now?”
I liked to get the first fuck out of the way within 48 hours while my wiles were still fresh enough to fog the rational brain. “I never do things like this,” I’d always say as I puttered off to the bathroom to freshen up. “I hope you don’t think less of me.”
* * *
If you are what you eat—or who you eat it with—I’d been binging on beefcake of the tall, dark, and handsome variety. My standards had plummeted so low that men were simply meal tickets. If I continued to rely on men for my soul food, I was bound to starve.
Suffering from Sugar Daddy crash, I vowed to do things differently in the dating department. I’d let men approach me, I’d play hard-to-get, I’d follow The Rules.
Then I met Puck.
The Canadian cutie encouraged me to experiment. He taught me that eating wasn’t only for nourishment; it was a carnal, visceral, sensual experience. With the right man, the right ingredients, and the right ambiance, eating could be more satisfying than sex—unless it was sex with Puck.
Puck filled my stomach—then he broke my heart. You know the drill: Boy meets Girl. Girl falls in love with a fantasy. Reality hits and relationship implodes. After our affair ended, he became the yardstick—phallic pun very much intended—that I measured subsequent suitors against. No one surpassed him—in the kitchen, between the sheets, or anywhere else. Puck ruined me for other men and other meals.
Every woman has dated—and been dumped by—a Puck. And every woman has her own way to cope with the loss of love. Some knit. Some meditate. Some journal. Some drink.
I took refuge in the kitchen. My goal: to recreate the meals I shared with Puck and heal my heart in the process.
* * *
So I embarked on my gastronomic mission and now I’m stranded in my kitchen, staring down a pot of mussels. The recipe, which was only supposed to take 20 minutes to make, has consumed an hour-and-a-half so far. It’s 93 degrees outside and who-the-hell-knows humidity. I’m hungry. I’m dehydrated. I can’t follow a fucking instruction to save my life.
The house is saturated with steam, the timer is beeping, the fire alarm is blaring, and I keep bumping my head on the open cupboard doors. Red pepper flakes are scattered all over the floor, olive oil is dripping down the side of the stove, and the dishes are piled so high in the sink I can’t turn on the tap. I’ll be lucky if I finish this recipe without burning down the house.
I’m only moments away from the culinary climax, but I can’t unscrew the cap from the jar of spaghetti sauce. Wrinkled old Paul Newman stares back at me from the label with a way-too-satisfied smile on his face. I’m stranded, abandoned, and unable to access the essential ingredient. I try the banging method (hey, it works with men!) to no avail. I hate to admit it, but I need a man’s muscles in order to make my mussels.
I leave the jar in a pot of warm water, hoping the heat will loosen it up. In the meantime, I remove the slimy yellow flesh from inside the shells. The mussels look like faceless fetuses and they smell, well, fishy. I’m surprised to find that most of the weight of the mussels is in the shell—not unlike Puck who, at around 200 pounds, had the thickest shell of all. My two pounds of in-the-shell seafood has shrunk to barely a handful of fish by the end of the preparation process. It’s just about right for my appetite.
The jar of spaghetti sauce opens and I tackle the final steps of the recipe. The emotional tumult of cooking is eerily similar to the roller-coaster ride of my relationship with Puck. There’s the anticipation and excitement, the unpredictability, the snap-crackle-pop urgency, the coordinated dance of heat and chemistry.
In cooking as in love, timing is everything. And even if you follow steps one thru ten, there’s no guarantee you’ll have an edible entrée—or a ring on your finger—at the end.
As the fish comes to fruition, I feel like I’m nearing the end of a marathon sex session and my reward will be to recline, collapse, and bask in the afterglow.
If homemade seafood is rare in the Rivera household, this is even odder: me eating, unashamedly, outside. To sit down on my patio and enjoy my fishy feast is indulgent.
The mussels bob in the bruschetta sauce, that bloody color transporting me to the first morning-after I spent with Puck. In an instant, I’m leaning against his bathroom doorway in my JogBra, my skin salivating from the steam while he showers.
“I’m taking off,” I say, hoisting my overnight bag onto my shoulder.
“Okay,” he says. Puck pulls back the shower curtain and pokes his head out, water dripping down his freshly shorn face. “But come here first.”
As I step toward the shower, I see that he’s nicked himself shaving. I wipe the bloody dibble away from his lips and we kiss.
“See you later, alligator,” he says with a smile.
* * *
The sauce, the spices, the memories…
Now I’m hot again.
My senses are overwhelmed as my tongue fondles the squishy fishy skin before it slides down my throat. The mussels, for so little substance, pack a lot of flavor. Like my short-lived fling with Puck, the concentrated taste is a shock to the system. The meal is beyond succulent and so impressive I can’t believe I was the one who created it. To think a woman who once subsisted on Lean Cuisines and sugar free Jell-O could cook!
Across the yard, my neighbors Peter and Anika dine. He, a beer-bellied Blonde, has just grilled steak and corn-on-the-cob; she, plump with the weight of a happy marriage, serves a fruity beverage from a glass pitcher. The couple talks between bites; they gaze at the sky, then at one another.
A fat cat saunters back and forth between their chairs while they play footsie. The breeze brushes Anika’s auburn bangs off her forehead. She smiles.
The sun slants across the suburban streets surrounding my townhome. In the distance, a train whistles; nearby, children whiz by on bicycles. It is a perfect summer evening, save for one detail: I’m single.
I sip my bottled water and stab at the mussels. With each mouthful, I relive the highlights of my time with the man who introduced me to this food. I imagine Puck across the table from me, his fork poised in the air as he relishes the flutter of flavors on his taste buds. I imagine his stunning smile, the one I once told him, “makes me stupid.” If my heart could speak as loud as my stomach, I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think.
When the entrée is gone, I return to the kitchen and clean up the mess accumulated during my first foray. By the time I’m ready for bed, the pristine kitchen reveals no evidence of the havoc wreaked only hours before. If only hearts could return to such a spic-and-span state…
I came. I cooked. I conquered.
So why am I still hungry?
June 2007
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