Moussaka and Bach may sound like an unlikely marriage but they happen to marry well in this kitchen tonight. Hubby calls it the 'Last Supper' and I wave my wooden spoon at him in a threatening manner. The sauce drips down onto my apron. Stains are permanent.
Everything can be a first or a last depending on how you look at it. Bach intercepts the brewing feud. He softens it with a slight dip that rises quickly when least expected. Nobody likes Bach in this kitchen but me. I am quick to suggest that this is my office and so a mass exodus ensues.
Hubby goes to California tomorrow. Not the first time to go back to where he comes from but the first time to go see our newly transplanted son who lives there now. I bite back my envy and dip aubergine in olive oil. I add salt for effect. I swallow dabs of garlic to hold in my regret. I also pack a candle for the new girlfriend. The candle is called Irish Rose bound with a bow. Ribbons bind the soul. Especially ivory ribbons.
Moussaka is easy to make. The stages are clear cut and easy to follow and if you keep your head about you when it comes to the custard making stage you are on a home run. The result is guaranteed.
Travel, on the other hand, is nebulous. All those dreaded airports. Miles of artificial florescence. Shoes off. Passport. Shoes on. Belts off. Search. Penetration. Inspection. Paper sandwiches. Strange air.
Bach has all the answers and the questions and please hubby don't ever say last to me again. Last is so final. I've had enough last to last me a lifetime. Try lasting. Lasting works. Like music that never ages. Like in this kitchen right now. Bach. Moussaka. Evening sunlight on wall. Green dream catcher on back door gathering it all up to turn around tomorrow and toss it back in, throw it on the table a thousand dreams like a stew of aubergines and Bach, melding like butter and spice into something altogether beautiful.