Well Water

There are few individuals with whom I can dine. I say this without hesitation or a hint of snobbery. It's simple: People have different tastes and how they measure up over a meal can either make or break and an evening. There is one individual with whom I can always break bread. We share what you could say are similar aptitudes of taste, desires, needs, and random cravings. So when we have the rare occasion to dine or casually nibble and imbibe, I scan a wine list without fear as she scans the list of  amenable canapes or what we call in North America,"Appetizers." I have a sneaky feeling that we will reach a mutual agreement about our choice poisons and dish du jour without second guessing. There is no pleasing the other - no momentary caution of, "oh she doesn't eat this" or " I know she would really like this, but hell I hate tomatoes in winter,"  and so on. 

In the game of life, what we eat does determine to some extent what we are. Brillat Savarin's anecdote still wrings true and occasionally haunts me when I stop to think what my insides might resemble after an indulgent occasion - they might be glistening like an iridescent  extra terrestrial alien egg or perhaps they're wrapped in a moomoo covering up their wobbly bits. Without straying too far -  what we eat does determine many things, but who we eat with can determine a number of outcomes. How you enjoy food is to some extent an intimate and individual act, but I cannot think of anything that inspires more joy than sharing food with someone. It's an intrinsic part of our human existence to eat together. But, how we enjoy it and how we share that enjoyment is a whole other thing entirely.

My friend and I have some interesting common traits that  have played a subtle role in our palates' development and ability to share and always enjoy food together. It's called well water and yes, it comes from a well dug in the ground - to be exact, the soil of Albermale county where it is rocky  but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. It's a cheerful place and one where honey suckle perfumes the air each spring and fireflies make their starry debut every year on my mother's birthday, June 1st. 

Oddly and unfortunately, Miss Gerrow and I did not cross paths during our mud pie making days. I am confident that if we had, we would have had  quite a dirty tea party that would even make the Mad Hatter blush. But, we have made up for lost time ( or so I would like to think so) and during my year in San Francisco, I noticed more and more how our taste buds were alike - from slices of piquant salami to late nights of making a mouth-watering home cooked meal wine in hand to lazy Sunday afternoons of splitting dessert at Tartine Cafe over a glass of sparkling white wine. Yes, you could say we were soul mates when it came to our choice gruels and would cackle with delight as we bit into our flakey buttery croissants over bowls of lattes. I can never watch the Godfather without thinking of that soggy Memorial Day weekend when we watched all three over spaghetti and meatballs and homemade chocolate chip cookies, and yes wine. It was a merry year of good eating, cooking, and the constant discovery of new tastes, recipes always spiced  with a sense of mutual appreciation. We would both say, "It must be that well water," and would laugh. But there is something to the weird country voodoo that lives at large in Free Union's untamed woods. It cast its spell on me and Abby at a young age.

So on this fine femme's birthday, I salute her high brow taste, sharp culinary skills, and think fondly of the last time I saw her, when we split a pastry over frothy lattes at New York's Stumptown Roasters. She knows my morning ritual well and I hers. So happy birthday dear dear friend. I raise my goblet of well water to you. 

 

Comments

[Abigail Gerow]

Meatballs will forever be enshrined by thy holy nickname.

To be bound forever by well water...I hear the cackling, the rocking of chairs on porches, the clinking of wine glasses and the country crickets getting their mate on.

can't wait to share with you as we wander into our "wobbly bits."

thank you for the birthday prose!

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