Foods of love - dan BROTZEL
We met at a farmer’s market, standing by a stall offering South African beef jerky and biodynamic Stilton. I laughed as you hoovered up all the samples, feigning gourmet appreciation to cover your greed.
On our first date, we saw Super Size Me at your beloved arthouse cinema, followed by Belgian waffles and ice cream. The next few months were a blur of weekends in bed, fortified by home-made cafés au lait and Cumberland sausage sarnies.
The day you proposed, we sat against a windbreak on the beach, one cold February morning. Remember? We shared a tray of vinegary chips to wash down the little bottle of warm Cava you’d bought along. (I’ve still got the wooden fork somewhere.)
The allotment. Years it took to get it, and then we found chard and squash were about the only things we could grow that didn’t get eaten away. But all those wonderful picnics we had there, drinking stewed tea from your grandad’s old Thermos. Rummagings in the shed. And all those excruciatingly ingenious marrow recipes…
After I gave birth to the twins, you surprised me with a feast of all the things I’d had to give up while pregnant: bubbly, Brie and prawns. Mealtimes took on their happy routine: slow-cooker casseroles on a Saturday, Sunday roast, hot chocolate after the kids’ school concerts, your eccentric ‘power salads’ in summer.
For your 50th, I got you that French Country Cooking course you were always going on about. It was always easier to get you to cook when it was for some birthday or special event – I lacked the ‘big match temperament’, you’d say. (You lacked the ‘washing-up-as-you-go gene’, I’d reply.)
And so we entered a double-cream era of cassoulets and tartiflettes, ragoûts and terrines de veau, soufflés and coq au vin. You were happy to drive miles for an obscure ingredient or kitchen implement, something you’d only ever use once that was then tucked away forgotten in the back of the cupboard with all the other oddities.
After your scare came the keep-fit years – the bikes, the lycra, the couscous, the pine nuts, your obsession with fresh carrot juice. Sally marrying Alexios and the big fat Greek wedding feast his family put on – we didn’t eat for a week afterwards. Our retirement trip to Japan, and our first (and only) taste of fish sperm and curry doughnuts.
But of all the meals that make up a marriage, I never saw this one on the menu: vending-machine Hula Hoops for me, and nil-by-mouth for you.
Originally Published by Retreat West 2018
Dan Brotzel is the author of a collection of short stories, Hotel du Jack (Sandstone Press), and a novel, The Wolf in the Woods (Bloodhound, forthcoming). He is also co-author of a comic novel, Work in Progress (Unbound). His new book, Awareness Daze, is an account of his attempt to observe a different awareness day/fake holiday every single day for a year. Twitter: @brotzel_fiction. Bluesky: @danbrotzel.bsky.social
