To be completely honest with you, I knew the house was on fire when I sat down to eat. The detectors were blaring loudly and I could smell a faint tinge of hot smoke in the air. I thought that the fire was upstairs somewhere, yet, as alarming as this was, I was determined to enjoy the meal I had cooked.
I prefer cooking whitefish on a flat, iron griddle. I'm not sure where I learned this, but it has become my method of choice. I always start with a little pool of olive oil - not too much - which I dust with garlic and other spices, depending upon my mood. I always use garlic, though, because I am enamored of the stuff. Once the oil is hot, I spread it with a thin, metal spatula and place the whitefish in the middle of it all. The griddle should not be too hot, lest the middle end up too cold, but the griddle must be sufficiently hot, lest the outside not develop that wonderfully crisp layer. I always turn the fish only once, and I always cook by feel. I have no idea how hot nor how long. I just sense it, and it always works.
When I was halfway through my salad, something collapsed upstairs, something big. I began to feel anxiety and regret at the thought of losing my belongings to this fire, some of them precious and irreplaceable. I steeled my jaw, however, and mustered my failing resolve to maintain a certain quality of life in spite of my circumstance.
I took a sip of the wine, a dry Merlot, a bit too tannic, but fleshy and good, and continued with my salad. I have simple taste in salad. I like a green or slightly red leafy lettuce, my favorite being a Cos, with small, cherry tomatoes and a little freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. For a dressing, though most today love a vinaigrette or some variety of oil and vinegar emulsion, I like the tiniest bit of a traditional Worcestershire-based Caesar. I am not a fan of croutons.
I was just starting the tilapia when I first saw the flames. Looking through the dining room door into the foyer, I could see the balusters of banister burning, igniting the handrail. I began to suspect that prudence would dictate the cancellation of dessert, but I struggled in my spirit, knowing that compromise of this sort would, if you allowed it, slowly degrade life into a collection of base necessities, devoid of joy and virtue. My struggle was cut short, however, when I heard the beams above me start to crack. In a disappointed rush, I grabbed what I could and scrambled for the door, barely escaping with my life as the ceiling crashed down behind me.
And so, here I stand in the front garden, a plate of tiramisù in one hand and a bottle of Merlot in the other. I can hear the sirens approaching, and it makes me grateful for good neighbors. I admit, I'm surprised at how far the fire has gotten already. The top story is completely gone, and the bottom is, in my estimation, beyond hope. At least the firemen can keep it from spreading to the surrounding houses. In time, I know I will feel deep pangs of regret for all the treasures I'll never see again. Right now, however, I'd trade them all for a fork.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
P.S. - Is there something wrong with me? I think the following is hilarious. Thanks for stopping by.
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