03 April 2011

Salt and Spilled Wine

Magic happens at Pike Place Market on a daily basis. A couple of weeks ago, I witnessed a man propose to his girlfriend on the cobble-stone street outside the main entrance, which was followed by a big YES from the female, followed by hysterical, happy-yet-piercing sobs from, weirdly, both parties. A week ago, I found a tarantula hiding behind some books on a shelf. I’ve always wanted one, so I ‘adopted’ him and named him Sir Bitchin’. He’s crawling across my back as I write this; he’s an excellent masseur.

And just last Monday, while shopping for spices and bread, I ran into a good friend of mine, Meringue. We had been out of touch for a while, so it was a pleasant kick in the balls to randomly bump into her like that. Her mountainous boobs on display in a tight cabaret vest as usual, she toppled crowds of people over like a rock slide does trees while making her way toward me. She clapped me on the back with an unashamedly loud chortle when she finally reached me and we went and got some cinnamon rolls to oil the gears of the catching-up process.

To make a long story short, she informed me that she was having a grand dinner party at her relatively brand-new incredibly chic condo the very next day. Meringue had a dilemma, though; she couldn’t cook to save her own big-breasted life, and everyone knew it. So, she asked me if I’d be interested in cooking for 10 – 20 people. I took my time mulling the question over. I had never cooked for so many people before in my life, and… Well, the thought of such a crowd of people, most likely ones I hadn’t even met before, packed into a condo on a rotating planet with a core of magma over a billion degrees Fahrenheit, spinning around a giant star that will eventually implode and destroy the obscure galaxy situated in this corner of space we happen to be in this very second… Yea, I went through a minor cold sweat-inducing anxiety attack thinking about that, but, damn, I love to impress people with my cooking, so I agreed.

The big party started the next day at 6 o’clock and, I have to say, the menu was perfect. For appetizers, I made prosciutto-cupped quiche and green onion and fontina arancini. For the main course, I made a steamed clam and chorizo soup served with artisan garlic bread, and I had also cooked some lobster tails and crab claws. For dessert, I made a six-layer coconut cream cake that defied the laws of gravity. People were experiencing strong food-related orgasms the entire night, let me tell you… I was worshipped by these lesser beings that didn’t know the difference between beef and veal, and it felt so freakishly good. Meringue let me know that, without me, her party would have exploded into a massive fireball of doom and even greater doom… Which was true.

But anyway, sporadically throughout the night, I had been chatting with a very attractive Middle-Eastern man by the name of Chief. Independently wealthy, Chief is a man 10 years my senior with a career and a body that the Greek Gods of Hotness themselves would worship and weep over. He’d come and visit me in the kitchen and help me out every now and then by adding some spice to a certain dish or by pouring me a glass of wine. Every glimpse I caught of him sent shivers up my spine. Delicious, delectable shivers.

At the end of the party, while everyone was saying their goodbyes and I was cleaning up the Holocaust of a mess in the kitchen, I thought I heard Chief call my name. With a half-full jar of fine, expensive salt in one hand, I made my way toward the swing-hinged kitchen door. Unfortunately, Chief was coming through the door as I was making to push through it and, because neither of us was paying attention, we slammed into each other, knocking us both sprawling and sending my jar of amazing salts and his full glass of red wine crashing to the floor. The sound of glass shattering has always made me very uncomfortable, and I winced during my ungraceful descent toward the floor, knowing full well what was about to happen. After a few seconds of dazed confusion, we both sat up and, looking at one another, busted out laughing. I still don’t know why it was so funny, but it was. We both apologized profusely to each other and started cleaning up the fresh mess we both committed.

It wasn’t till after we were finished cleaning the entire kitchen when I noticed I had a giant piece of broken glass jutting from the underside of my wrist. We both noticed this alien material sticking out of me when he handed me a new wine glass and was filling her up. Blood was pouring from the wound and running down my arm, but I just looked up at him, said something like “Whoops”, and cracked a smile. He didn’t take my injury so lightly. His beautiful black eyes were filled with genuine concern and fright as he took me by my other hand and led me to the bathroom. He tenderly took up my wrist with the finger-tips of one hand while he pulled out the glass as gently as possible with the other. He then gingerly cleaned the deep cut as best he could, then wrapped it up in gauze. We stood staring into each other’s eyes for what felt like hours, holding one another’s hands, smiling faintly. I eventually leaned in and gave him a small kiss on his lips, and whispered my thanks in his ear. I left the party with blood-stained gauze wrapped around my wrist, and I couldn’t remember a time being any happier.

We have a date scheduled this Tuesday. I’m trembling with excitement already.

Point of the conversation: Always keep yourself open to a little magic.

- Zac

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