“Donch bluff me,” I texted Nai in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, “I hear a rumour you are back in town today.” There was silence, and then there was silence, and then, some hours later, the reply: “I never bluff you,” he said. “I am behind 10,000 Arabs at Heathrow.”
There were calls about town, then, to Marc just back from Provence, and Nai just back from KL, and Marc had said, “May I suggest some kind of food- and drink-related carry-on,” so of course the next thing I knew I was saying, “I think we should come to my house and I will make a roast chicken, no?”
Stephanie Alexander, she knows things, and her roast chicken gets better every time I make it. I even got it to brown perfectly this time, no thanks to Stephanie Alexander. “Put the pat of butter inside the chicken,” Stephanie Alexander says; she doesn’t say “Rub down the chicken with butter”, but she should. Oh, my word: the chicken, the kitchen, Claudio kept mixing up the two, but it was understandable, because come nine o’clock Monday night, both were scented like buttery heaven and rosemary bliss. The blustery summer day had turned into a blustery summer night, and we were glad for oven heat and the sharp smell of Marc’s cigarette.
Nai’s head was swimming from jet lag and weariness, and, minutes in, he’d forgotten where we’d begun – “What?” he’d say in response, to anything, really, and then he say, again, “What?” Oh, how we like boys!, and how boys like football. “What country you are,” Claudio had said to Marc, and Marc had said, “I’m French.” “Ah,” Claudio had said, and he’d put his hands out in front of him, his palms facing out like innocence. “Ah,” he’d said, “I don’t like football.” This from the boy who, just the day before, was proudly telling me and Nora, upon his return from a game in the park with his new English-class classmates: “Italians, you know, we play football, we stop to – how you say – applaudire for the girls.” So boys like girls, but boys also like football; Juventus this and Fiorentina that, and they were all big grins and firm handshakes by the end of the night.
There were garlicky roast chicken leftovers in a sandwich today for lunch. “Roast chicken leftovers are better than roast chicken!” Suzzan e-mailed. “How come ah?” “Can’t talk,” I didn’t say, “eating.”
There were calls about town, then, to Marc just back from Provence, and Nai just back from KL, and Marc had said, “May I suggest some kind of food- and drink-related carry-on,” so of course the next thing I knew I was saying, “I think we should come to my house and I will make a roast chicken, no?”
Stephanie Alexander, she knows things, and her roast chicken gets better every time I make it. I even got it to brown perfectly this time, no thanks to Stephanie Alexander. “Put the pat of butter inside the chicken,” Stephanie Alexander says; she doesn’t say “Rub down the chicken with butter”, but she should. Oh, my word: the chicken, the kitchen, Claudio kept mixing up the two, but it was understandable, because come nine o’clock Monday night, both were scented like buttery heaven and rosemary bliss. The blustery summer day had turned into a blustery summer night, and we were glad for oven heat and the sharp smell of Marc’s cigarette.
Nai’s head was swimming from jet lag and weariness, and, minutes in, he’d forgotten where we’d begun – “What?” he’d say in response, to anything, really, and then he say, again, “What?” Oh, how we like boys!, and how boys like football. “What country you are,” Claudio had said to Marc, and Marc had said, “I’m French.” “Ah,” Claudio had said, and he’d put his hands out in front of him, his palms facing out like innocence. “Ah,” he’d said, “I don’t like football.” This from the boy who, just the day before, was proudly telling me and Nora, upon his return from a game in the park with his new English-class classmates: “Italians, you know, we play football, we stop to – how you say – applaudire for the girls.” So boys like girls, but boys also like football; Juventus this and Fiorentina that, and they were all big grins and firm handshakes by the end of the night.
There were garlicky roast chicken leftovers in a sandwich today for lunch. “Roast chicken leftovers are better than roast chicken!” Suzzan e-mailed. “How come ah?” “Can’t talk,” I didn’t say, “eating.”
posted by stellou at 10:58 PM
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