Coffee Ballet

An arm over here reaching for the pot

A hand on the spoon, over there

We cross paths on the way

To a perfect cup

Of java to start our day

Our minds on "Hold"

Not a word is said

In this morning routine

Too early for words

Anyway

Our bodies

Doing the coffee ballet

Last night we worked together making “shells” and cooking up a batch of sauce. The tomatoes seem to multiplying on the counter top. It reminds me of the scene in Disney’s Soccer’s Apprentice where Mickey is chopping the brooms trying to eliminate them but they multiply with each hatchet whack. Same with the tomatoes. Every time I go out to the garden there are three or four more ripe ones. And that is not counting the tiny cherry tomatoes that come in daily waves of a hundred or even two hundred. It doesn’t matter if I go out to the garden once or twice or three times, there are always more ripe ones and I bring them in and put them in the bag along with ten pounds of others or on the counter-which is now (even though we cooked as many as we could last night) covered in red.

We were both exhausted yesterday after work. Elisabeth had a mildly rejected look that sent me hiding on the front porch. I was in my own world of shit so it was best we went our separate ways for a little while, at least until the question of dinner came up. When we are like that-tired and lost in the outside world-we work! It is just what we do. Some people go bowling. Some might write stupid journals and drink whiskey-we work! We both stood in the kitchen and simultaneously began chopping and clanging utensils and pots until our old selves returned. It only took about five minutes of labor to begin to make us whole again and by then all of the anxiety and exhaustion fell away like Batman’s cape and we swung for an hour on our web of activity and the smells and feel of the tomatoes and the popping oil and crunch of garlic on the cutting board.

At one point She asked me to put the cubes of fresh mozzarella into the finished shells. She was in the process of filling them with the stuffing and there were many stuffed and sitting on a plate. I reached over her arms and picked up a shell and pushed a dice-sized cube of cheese into the stuffing and set it down in an aluminum pan that had a small amount of fresh sauce on the bottom. She continued spooning the ricotta and egg and spinach mixture into the al Dente shells and putting them on the plate. I was on the wrong side of her and our arms cris-crossed as we worked on our separate tasks, but it was somehow orchestrated. Our arms wove a web of work that was funny but awkward. At some point we both recognized the disjointed organization and Elisabeth told me to exchange places with her. I did. It was as if a knot came undone. We worked then with a physical independence that was soothing but, somehow, less intimate.

In a half an hour the pan of bubbling shells came out of the oven and we sat to eat. The air coming through the back door screen had turned autumnal and I felt somber but comforted by the smells of the cooking and the company of my wife. By then we were both very, very tired but it was good tired. The day had passed.

The Recipe

Shells cooked just shy of al Dente.

A mixture of ricotta,

salt,

pepper,

egg-beaten,

and spinach-cooked and squeezed dry of all water (I like to use the water in the sauce but Elisabeth won’t hear of it!)

mozzarella-cubed to ¾” x ¾”

grated Romano or parmesan of ?? your favorite hard cheese

fresh gravy-

put a large tea-spoonful of the ricotta mixture into each of the shells and push a cube of the mozzarella into each stuffed shell. Place the shells into a pan with a little of the gravy and when the pan is all full spoon the gravy over all of the shells. Coat the whole pan with some of the grated cheese and pop into the oven for a while until everything sort of melts and melds. Serve with more sauce on top and some wine. Eat Up!