I've known Vince pretty much all my life. I will always cherish the kindergarten picture of Vince sitting at a little round table with his little square head and a brush cut and Izod shirt looking cute as ever--like a miniature Brad Pitt. I started to hang out with him in sixth grade and our friendship grew over talk of girls and sports and more girls. I spent more and more time at his house and at Steve's backyard basketball court, cutting the fingers out of our gloves so we could play ultra-competitive games in the winter. I will never, ever forget Vince rolling on the ground in uncontrollable laughter after Tom missed a lay-up and threw the basketball over the garage and into the next county.
As Mrs. Bielski grew to know me, she took pity on the growing, skinny kid with the big hair and emaciated look (those were the days--more hair, less waistline). I'd walk into their kitchen and Dolores would ask me if I wanted to stay for dinner. She'd be frying a big steak for Paul and there would be a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove and the smell of garlic and olive oil filled the air. Being the polite teenager I was, I would always decline her invitation with a "No, thanks, Mrs. Bielski. My dad has dinner waiting for me at home." Little did she know, dinner at my house was a dried-out pork chop covered in cream of mushroom soup and an iceberg lettuce salad with Thousand Island dressing. Small wonder Vince never accepted a dinner invitation to my kitchen.
As Vince and I grew closer, our tastes and appetites converged. We discovered our mutual love of chocolate chip cookies. Vince and I could whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies in a fraction of the time it would take to make a good carbonara, and devour them in minutes. Then we would go outside, play more basketball, and run off the 3,000 calories we had just consumed. We did this over and over and over until we could make cookies without reading the recipe. Like all great chefs, we made our cookies by feel, by intuition. This became such a part of our friendship that we continued to bake chocolate chip cookies and send them to each other on our birthdays. The tradition ended not too long ago when our waistlines reached middle-age proportions and we decided we would be better off treating each other to a round of golf as a birthday present.
Back to earlier days, though. Dolores's cooking was forever in my mind and in my nose, and finally, after years of "No, thank you" I finally said yes. It was like a floodgate opened. The garlic, the broccoli, the carbonara, the salads with tart olive oil and lemon dressing, Paul's fresh walleye from the waters off the cottage. The food was simple but sublime. Remember, I grew up on meatloaf and rubber chicken. Vince's family opened a world of culinary curiosity and delight that remains with me to this day.
As we muddle through middle age, Vince and I remain as close as ever. A deep friendship forged by food, adventures, and deep roots, which, no matter how far we travel, we always return to.
Vince, my brother, I wish you the happiest of birthdays with decades more to come of food, wine, garlic, chocolate, golf, and a deep, abiding love and respect for each other.
Bill
No comments:
Post a Comment