Tag Archives: Dinner

Together

Dinner in Riardo with the birthday folks behind

***

It was just a ten-minute walk from our B&B to downtown Riardo. I had asked my family to go ahead towards dinner since I had an appointment with an antibiotic needle. So now it was just me, on a dark residential street. I could hear the music of Italian voices on the higher floors of the homes I passed. Just like Flemish, I didn’t understand a word … and that was fine. Kids played in the muted light of a side street. All was well.

As I reached the main drag, I came upon a restaurant full of folks on its streetside patio. Two men were yelling at each other, gesturing wildly. I loved the energy, even though I’m not the yelly type. It reminded me of Roma and New York.

To my left, I heard “Bruce”, and there was Lydia in the street, waving me on to the pizzeria. Thank you, my friend.

The blackboard by our table told all, except I needed my friends to tell me. I knew I wanted pasta. After all, when in Riardo … Spaghetti porcini (with mushrooms) sounded fine and “Oh my God!” it was. What was that sublime flavour on the noodles? I told my gracious hostess that it was the best pasta I’d had in Italia. Her smile was all I needed in reply.

Behind us sat a large family. At least twelve folks, young and old and in between. Lots of gay chatter, again unknown to me. I loved it. My birth family was small and I wanted to borrow some energy from the humans at the next table. Mission accomplished.

The swimming family was tucked into a corner and three other groups soon sat down at the remaining tables. Wow … together indeed.

The big family started saluting the woman of the hour with the familiar tune of “Happy Birthday”, although naturally the words were Italiano. I zoomed to Google Translate and found “Buon Compleanno”, which I said to the woman when she came over to us, offering two plates of cake and other sweeties. She smiled and said something enthusiastic. Soon other desserty plates were being placed in front of all the other diners. I whirled around to the partygoers and yelled “Buon Compleanno!” Laughter erupted.

Ahh … there was such contact, across permeable boundaries of tables and languages. Just human beings, laughing in the night.

Home comes in many flavours.

Day Seven: Des Gens Extraordinaires

The family Nachtergaele has a cat. We leave for Senegal in two days. Last night, Poopi curled up on top of a piece of luggage lying in the living room. Lydia knows that Poopi knows we’re leaving and she doesn’t want us to go.

We need to be in each other’s presence. We need to love even more than we need to be loved. Both are blessings.

This morning, the family’s housekeeper Karin was cleaning up. She only speaks French, exactly the situation I’ll face in Senegal. I said “Bonjour, Karin.” She returned the favour. I saw her stare at the piece of luggage. Perhaps Poopi left a little poopy – I didn’t look closely. What I did do was furrow my brow in potential translation. I so much wanted to communicate with Karin.

“Le chat dormit au bagage.” That was my best attempt at “The cat slept on the piece of luggage,” although I couldn’t remember how to do the past tense, or the word “on”.

Quite proud of myself, I wasn’t ready for the barrage of words that came back. And memories returned from Jody’s and my vacation in old Quebec City in 2008. The Francophone no doubt thinks I understand a fair bit of French and blasts out a sentence or two at supersonic speed, leaving me in the linguistic dust. But really, who cares? I will love my new Senegalese friends, with or without our mutual understanding of words. Our eyes will make meaning.

Now it’s later in the morning and Pil and I have been talking at the dining room table. I still have happy memories of the 12% (!) beer we shared in Bruges yesterday. We look out over the back field and watch flocks of pigeons fly. Pil is so happy to teach me about local things. These pigeons will hang around some more, as long as the weather stays warm (5 degrees Celsius) but when winter sets in, they’re off to Spain.

Down by the pond, the orange leaves of a weeping willow are waving in the breeze. The two Shetland ponies are searching for the best grass. Mom is about thirty and son around ten. They have each other. An orange-headed woodpecker has just stopped for a visit near the window. Peace is here.

Away up on the horizon, vehicles move left and right. Who are those people? Where are they going? Do they have the same joys and sorrows that I do? Of course.

***

This evening two families enjoyed food at a Chinese restaurant. Liesbet is Lydia’s best friend and the two of them sat side by side, joking in Flemish most of the evening. The love between was as clear as a moonlit night.

Both Lydia and Liesbet had gifts for all of us. Liesbet and Lode gave me two jars of mustard created in Oudenaard. Lydia presented me with a quill pen – a fine white feather inscribed with “Dream On.” It’s so sweet to be included.

The meal and the wine were delicious but eating was just a convenient excuse to be together. The four kids gabbed away, and so did we five adults. My goodness, I’m part of a family after being alone for four years.

I said silly things to the servers and at one point started eating a decorative onion. Anything to get a laugh out of people. I threatened to approach the table next door to see if they were as nice as us but Lydia held me back. I enjoyed myself so much.

I’m in Belgium. Sure the streets wind so exquisitely and are often cobblestoned. Sure the buildings are ancient and the old brick shines in the sun. Sure the beer is strong and the wine sublime. But give me people any day.

We were together
I don’t remember the rest

Walt Whitman

Dish Drainer

The kitchen and I have never been good friends.  Jody was a marvelous chef and created many brilliant meals for me over the years.  As for this entity, I was an incredible dishwasher.  But I’ve never learned to cook.

Since moving into my condo six months ago, I’ve wanted to have friends over for dinner but I’ve been too scared.  What would I feed them?  How would I do this and how would I do that?  You can’t just wash dishes – you have to present the yummies.

Farm Boy has been my frequent rescuer with tasty dinners.  On Wednesday, I walked in there and threw myself on the mercy of the manager.  I was so embarrassed and she was so kind.  “Happens all the time.  Gentlemen who don’t know what to do.  We give good advice.”  Whew.  My heart slowed down a mite.  And I left the store with a plan: mesquite chicken, oven roast potatoes and corn with coriander.  Not to mention a kale salad and something called maple cream pie.

Now it’s yesterday, and I realized in all my months in the condo, I’d never washed a pot.  The dishes from the few little faux meals were gobbled up by my dishwasher.  When I left Jody’s and my home last summer, I got rid of a lot of little things, such as a dish rack.

Here I was, worrying about how to dry pans, how to warm things up in the oven, and where the heck was the corkscrew for the wine.  Goodness.  I ventured forth to the supermarket and found a small white dish rack.  It sat proudly on my counter overnight.  This morning, however, it looked wrong.  (Remember, I’m the professional dishwasher.  I should know this stuff.)  It finally hit me – I didn’t buy the accompanying drain board.  Silly me.  Back to the store.  Unfortunately, the only drain boards they had were black, even though they sold white racks.  Arghh.  To another supermarket I went and now the two white folks sit companionably in the kitchen.

Okay, I’m exhausted.  Dinner is tomorrow at six and somewhere in a celestial realm, Julia Child is cluck-cluck-clucking at me.  (Sigh)

And then my dear wife’s voice to the rescue: “It’s okay, Bruce.  All is well.  Your guests won’t die tomorrow night.  In fact, they’ll enjoy themselves.”  Thank you, Jodiette.  Perhaps I’m overreacting just a tad.

How can I be so confident in some areas of life
and so plastered with sweat in others?
I don’t know
Maybe just a human being being human