You once told me that we made no hard promises to each other. I suppose that's true, but we did tell stories, then, stories that carried the weight of fairy tales and scripture passages. And while those stores we told weren't cast in stone, I believed them as we spun them, thinking that someday we would live them. Maybe those tales we wove were like spun sugar, high, fragile, tall tales that were meant to be savored like the desserts we pulled off in my kitchen. Maybe they were illusions, not too much different than the kind children have about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. All well and good until you grow up and get to be one of those characters yourself. Your life of imagination then becomes real and you find that you end up making up your own form of reality. I do every time I mix up a batch of whipped cream.
It's not much of a story, a short one for a Sunday. Good in that I've spent a lot of time in the kitchen lately and no longer have to look up how to make a pot fresh whipped cream. That all came about because of those weekday evening visits we used to share together, the one's that your arranged to have happen on Mondays and Wednesdays when your people were off at bible study. We had two hours to ourselves, sometimes more, sometimes less, but we worked those minutes to the max. We mostly spent the evening playing games, fast, fleeting evenings salted with talk and music and dessert. Once we prepped you for an interview by studying up on online databases, another time we sat in front of the computer and looked up restaurants in Seattle and the rules to rummy. Many times the candles were lit, the fireplace roared, and we played round after round of acey ducey and Yahtzee. Rarely did we have time for much of anything else. We sometimes went out and shopped, managed to watch a movie once or twice. But no matter what we did those hours would fly by, always went away too fast. But the most distinct memory of all those evening distills down to the very same thing, and that was standing in the alley watching your taillights go down the drive. Those nights always ended in goodbyes or goodnights or see you laters. Never thought that the goodbyes would someday would last forever.
There were two nights in particular that stood out, that were extra special. One was your birthday, the other Valentines Day. How we lucked out and got to have those two special evenings for ourselves was part of that magic we shared, was that ability we had to weave gold out of dross. Those two evenings were highlighted by gifts and food and cheesecake. Fresh baked cheesecake topped with freshly whipped cream. I couldn't imagine wanting to gild the lilly but we did. You taught me about chilling the bowl and the beater, but after that the mixer was on it's own. Each time that cream would rise and so would we to the occasion. High piles of fluffy goodness graced our slices of cake. It was a delight, not such much in eating it but in the making. Kitchen teamwork for a dulcet treat.
But it was the conversation we had on the couch at the end of that Valentine evening that has stayed with me, the same way that a good telling of Jack and the Beanstalk or the The Three Billy Goats Gruff will stay with a child. It's not to say that I was child-like when we told each other our dreams that night, but it was more a case of being embued with a particular form of magic that is only found in the heart of lovers, fools and children. Maybe my heart was pumping joy juice that evening instead of blood, but that's okay. I heard and believed, not too much differently than you must do on Sundays with your fellow Christians.
We talked about a hotel in Vancouver, a special one that you heard about, what was it, the Four Seasons? I can't remember the name right now but I remember that we looked it up later. We talked about a time when we could go there, not as lovers but as mates, partners, married folk. We talked stupidly, as if a extreme form of madness had slipped silently down the chimney and addled our brains. We talked about something that seemed to be a like a honeymoon, something that spoke of commitment, but like in the way Corelli's lovers spoke spoke about their future lives at the end chapter 45, in an "after the war" sense. We had no sense saying those things to each other. It was like promising your kid a bicycle at Christmas in July. You might not remember saying what you said but that kid of yours never forgets.
So we talked and then the talk came back to the Kitchen Aid. It was lacivious, that talk, and we ran out of time, and all we wanted to do was haul that mixing bowl full of whipped cream upstairs. We figured, well, when we did the Four Seasons we'd just take that mixer with us. Make up a batch and take it to bed. No cheesecake needed. Only two lovers in the sack.
We never lived out that fantasy, we were never allowed to haul that contraband mixer over international borders. We took that cheesecake and that whipped cream and made up stories, instead. Sky high we were but like all good things that fly too high saw those dreams of ours come crashing down. We woke up in that wee kitchen of mine and realized we were two responsible adults again. Our fantasy world took a back seat to our realities. The only thing to come out of those tales was the realization that a good cheesecake could be tasty with or without whipped cream. But no matter how you eat it, always be sure to chill the bowl and the beaters before hand.
Like with all good fairytales, there is a hardcore moral attached. Mine was believe with all your heart but next time keep your eyes open and your feet on the ground. That and keep your mixer ready. Never can tell when it'll come in handy across the border in Canada.
Love, your WHMB
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