At Home

All grown up

After five days of alone time at the cottage, and seven days of not showering, the Beast arrived on Friday night in order to celebrate his 29th birthday over the weekend. He was wearing a navy blazer and a tie. We headed straight for the dock and had ourselves a drink.

Maybe it was on account of not really talking to anybody for five days, but I found everything the Beast said to be particularly hilarious.

Foodie: You look so nice!

Beast: Well I’m all grown up now. I’m a man. But let me tell you, I can’t wait to get out of this outfit and leave the office behind me.

Foodie: Hahahahaha! (This was funny because he doesn’t work at an office! HA!)

Beast: Did you hear that 900 dolphins and 5,000 pelicans washed up dead on the shores of Peru?

Foodie: That’s terrible!

Beast: Do you know what the 2012er I work with said? He said, “Well, I guess they chose to leave.”

Foodie: Hahahahaha

Beast: Like a dolphin would choose to leave. Man, if I were a dolphin I’d be spinning in circles rubbing my genitalia up against other male dolphins’ genitalia all day, just having a fucking blast.

Foodie: Hahahahaha

Beast: Can you believe the cottagers down the way are playing their shit music so loud? I should go upstairs and start blasting some Miles Davis and teach those fuckers a thing or two about music.

Foodie: Hahahahaha

Beast: Wow, 29. Do you know I’m the same age now as when you were, when we first started dating?

Foodie: Silence

That night, I grilled us up some pork chops with Diana’s barbecue sauce, asparagus, green onions and baked potatoes.

The Beast topped his like a child might.

We drank some wine, watched some episodes of the West Wing, which we have become addicted to. And then we had some birthday cake, which I prepared from a mix earlier that day.

Beast (drunk): I fucking love Toby and Josh man.

Foodie (also drunk): Toby and Josh are the best.

Beast: Who do you think I’m more like? Toby, Josh or Sam?

Foodie: Josh, without a doubt.

Beast: I’m more like Toby I think.

Foodie: I fucking love C.J. man.

Beast: You’re telling me.

Foodie: Would you, you know, with C.J.?

Beast: Ah, yeah.

It rained most of Saturday but it didn’t matter. We played cards, read and relaxed with more West Wing. The Beast also showed me several captions he’s submitted for the New Yorker’s cartoon caption contents. They were all quite good. I really hope one of his submissions gets published soon.

For his birthday dinner the Beast brought up two rib eyes from the Cumbrae’s butcher shop just down the street from where he works on Bayview. The Beast and I have had the pleasure of getting to know Stephen, the butcher, and his endearing wife Bella at a few dinner parties and other social engagements.

Stephen, the sort of man everybody wants to talk with (see above photo) when he’s out and about, will go out of his way to engage with us at these sort of events. And when he sees the Beast along Bayview, dressed in his blazers adorned with pocket squares, he’s always sure to wave and greet the Beast with real enthusiasm and sincerity. I can’t really explain why, but this breaks my heart.

Anyway, at one of these parties, Stephen brought three bistecca fiorentina-style steaks and cooked them for the party of a dozen or so guests.

It is safe to say that neither of us will ever have meat approximating this ever again. On top of that, the host of that dinner, my former boss, served several bottles of Barolos from his cellar. Although that evening ended with the dinner’s host showing me photos from his last trip to Italy on his new Macbook and me– drunk on the most glorious wine I’ve ever tasted–knocking over a glass of water and breaking his computer and then crying–no, not crying, sobbing like a child–out on the deck, while several wives tried to sweetly console me, it’s safe to say that this meal ruined the Beast and me for every day eating.

Beast: The boy at Cumbrae’s said to cook your rib eye for seven minutes a side for medium and mine for five minutes a side for medium-rare. Then we have to let them rest for 1o minutes.

Foodie: Was Stephen there when you bought them?

Beast: No, but I saw him earlier in the day. I was driving my boss’s Mercedes running some errands for her and he waved and was yelling my name. I couldn’t figure out how to roll down the window though, so I just waved fanatically. I wonder if he thought the Mercedes was mine?

Foodie: That’s sweet. Do you want me to do all the grilling?

Beast: No, I’m 29 now. I’ll do it.

And did he!

We ate our steak dinners, which were the best steaks we’ve ever made ourselves, with a lovely bottle of Stratus red wine and with more West Wing. It wasn’t a fancy night out but I’m certain the Beast, who isn’t terribly keen on socializing, wouldn’t have celebrated his 29th birthday any other way.

We picked some trilliums to bring back for his mother tonight for Mother’s Day.

In a few hours we will start packing. It will be hard to leave. However, I am looking forward to shaving my legs.

3 replies »

  1. Please tell me you didn’t pick the leaves too, although it looks like you did. It’s horrible to pick trillium flowers, which are extremely slow-growing, but at least if you pluck the flower only the plant has a chance of surviving. But picking the leaves as well often kills the plant completely. At any rate, it will take years for the plants to recover if they do at all.

    • Tybalt, I’m afraid I did pick the trilliums. Their beauty got the better of me. I hope you won’t think me a savage. Please take some comfort in knowing that I chose just 12 flowers from a sea of a thousand, maybe more. And that they will brighten up a mother’s day, for a brief moment: that is, until she finds out what a savage I am.

  2. No, I don’t think anything less of you! I am glad to hear there was a lovely field of them. I hope she loves her Mother’s Day and for God’s sake don’t tell her 🙂

    For now, anyway, trilliums are not threatened, although they are having a hard time of it in lots of areas.

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