Second First Date

I am not resentful that you do nothing to help me set the places for our second first date. It was me who set them on our first first date and I like the symmetry of doing it again. It all adds to the ritual.

I open the worn picnic hamper that once belonged to my Baba, wondering if you will remember it is the same one we used all those moons ago? Probably not. You have never had an eye for details like that.

It is not windy atop the hill but, as I set two paper napkins down on either side of the weathered wooden table, I quickly rest our cutlery on top of them, in case an unexpected gust comes and blows them away. I do not fancy chasing after them; I am not wearing the right shoes for chasing.

I am in those indigo heels that you always say you like so much - so I suppose they proved the right shoes for chasing you, at least.

Next, I bring out the plates. These belonged to Mum. They aren’t anything fancy, but, since she passed, all of her stuff that came to me is pregnant with the life that she should have had, the life that was taken from her, the life that she bequeathed me to live on her behalf.

These are not the plates that you and I used last first time. Back then it was just a first date - I did not know that you were going to be the one. If I had, I would have used the best crockery.

“I suppose that is the way of things though. We never know how they are going to turn out.”

I say this without looking up at you, my eyes and hands buried in the hamper, and so I do not see the look on your face, yet I know the one; that flashing smirk you do when you think I have said something stupid, something obvious, yet you still find it sweet.

What’s that, my love? You want to hear about the food I have chosen? You have always loved hearing me tell you about food as much I love you talking about wine. Very well, you can have your wish...

I pull out a jar of pickled turnips, acidic and crunchy, stained pink by the pieces of beet in the aromatic brine. I made them myself. I know you won’t eat any - you can’t stand vinegar - but I used my Baba’s recipe, and, like mum, I want her represented as much as possible today. I will need the strength of both.

Next comes out the chicken liver pâté. I know you will love this. I added extra port because you like the sweetness. Mum used to do the same thing for Dad. She always believed the way to a man’s heart was through his belly. When she met you, she conceded that you were clearly not a man, but she was immoveable on the point that my best bet of winning you over was with my cooking. When you were out of earshot, we giggled together, Mum and me, that you and Dad were both so partial to the sweet things in life. And she warned me that, like him, the older you got, the more all those extra desserts would start sticking to your waist.

I wish that she had been around to see that.

I open the lid of the Kilner jar that the pâté rests in, just so you can see the yellow ring of clarified butter sealing it. I know how much you love the texture of the butter melting on your tongue, a subtly different smoothness to the pâté, both rich and fulsome, yet complimentary. I always tell you it needs one of Baba’s pickles to cut the richness, but you never agree; as long as you have the right wine then nothing else matters.

Always the same. Me the gourmand. You the wine connoisseur.

I make you wait to see which wine I brought, first bringing out melba toast, bracing myself for the inevitable teasing you will give me because I did not make my own, but bought it in a packet.

When you fail to poke fun at me, I feel momentarily flat. Although, if you had done, I would only have worried that I should have made it fresh, even though I know you don’t really care.

I take a deep breath of the April air, fresh and fragrant, grassy notes rising into my nostrils. The springtime promise of budding flowers and brighter skies has not yet been fulfilled by the heady decadence of Summer. The evening will start to cool soon.

I lay a bunch of washed, red grapes on a plate. I know you must think they are overkill in the symbology department but what can I say? We both like grapes. And not every item of our picnic has to have its own unique resonance. The occasion is quite poignant enough.

Anyway, like the man said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

I bring out the cheeses next. I went to two different places to get all three.

Would you like to hear about them?

First is a Tunworth; that delicious, British soft cheese that looks like a camembert but whose demure exterior is in almost agonizing, aching contrast to the complex, subtle yet increasingly insistent, notes that take over your palate, flooding your brain with signals from every receptor in your mouth as synapses pop like fireworks. It ruins your tongue for minutes afterwards, as it undergoes its own slow recovery, during which everything else tastes worse than orange juice and toothpaste. Unless, of course, you have the right wine pairing. And I know I do, as you spent about two years testing candidates before deciding on tonight’s choice.

Next out comes a Manchego. Spain is a truly magnificent country. You always laugh at me when I say that, because I have never been, but I have eaten Manchego, and I am sure that any country capable of turning sheep's milk into that deep, nutty, majestic cheese is one blessed by God.

Anyway, you must let me wax lyrical about cheese because I let you do it about wine. See? We are meant to be a couple. We go together like wine and cheese.

I hope you realize how much I love you. It better be at the forefront of your mind as I whip out the last of our cheese board…

Dairylea Dunkers.

I make an involuntary face and hope you do not see it. I do not want to argue again about whether I am a snob.

I am sorry, my love, but not liking this particular ‘cheese’ product does not qualify anyone as a snob. Remember I told you I had to go to two different places to get all three? That is because the artisan cheese shop I bought the first two in did not carry Dairylea Dunkers - that should tell you everything you need to know!

How many times have we bickered about whether they even count as cheese, me tearing my hair out as you laugh at my increasingly irate protestations and munch on more of the awful things?

Do you see how much I love you, as I blaspheme against the Gods of Cheese, placing the packet down on the table? I am a heretic for my love of you.

I stare past you now, out towards the setting sun. I know I am letting myself focus on the cheese to avoid the next bit. You know how I can procrastinate. It is just I know the next bit is going to hurt. Maybe I can hold off a little longer... Would you mind?

Remember when I first bought your subscription to Bright Cellars? They were just starting out then. I was so thrilled to have found them, as I knew you would fall in love. When I got you to answer their quiz for your taste profile, I had to pretend it came from a magazine so I wouldn’t give the game away!

I never told you, but after they sent your first six bottles, and you loved all of them, I cried. I was just so burstingly happy to have made you happy.

As the years passed, and you learned more and more, going from an enthusiastic beginner to, at least, a knowledgeable amateur, your Bright Cellars delivery was something you looked forward to each month. How many hours of my life have I spent listening to you talk about their latest suggestions or exalt their sophisticated algorithm that honed in ever closer on your perfect bottle? What would I give for just one more?

Now the tears are rolling down my cheeks. I do not wipe them as I reach into the hamper and pull out the last bottle.

Ever since you died the Bright Cellars deliveries still come. They are so bittersweet. They bring painful memories, but they provide a joyous lifeline to you, my love. Now I wait eagerly for them on your behalf.

I know you disapprove that suddenly I seem to consume more wine since you were taken. It’s funny how things work out, no?

But this bottle, this one we share tonight, is the last one that was delivered to you. That you picked up, in your hands, that you read the label of, and packed away like an old friend. It is a Merlot. One that you requested many times as you loved it so much.

And this is the last time we will drink it together. Together, apart.

I pull out a wrap that belonged to you, draping it across my chilly shoulders just like you would have, smelling your comforting yet mysterious smell, that still lingers somewhere in its warp and weft.

I uncork the bottle and let it breathe as I place two glasses down, staring across at the empty space where you should be sitting. Where you would be sitting, if the cancer that has taken from me all the women in my family had not found a way to jump from my bloodline to yours, and to rip you, too, from my breast.

This date is my offering to you, my dearest darling. I cannot go on living like this, mired in black, sucking misery.

And yet, I must go on living. Just like I did when Baba passed. And when Mum finally lost her fight.

Your battle was shorter, we found out too late, and I have raged at that for long enough. It was you that told me that to make the most of every moment after you passed, but I was not ready. I had to grieve…

And then I had to create this ritual for us.

I take a deep breath. And begin to pour the wine.

You see, this might seem like a last date to you. You always had a literal mind. But it isn’t...

I accept that you are no longer alive. I know that you won’t drink that glass of your favorite Merlot I just poured you.

And that is okay.

It hurts - but it is okay.

I am ready to do what you wanted. I am ready to add your strength to Baba’s and Mum’s, and to allow joy back into my life.

It is true that I will never go on another date with you sitting opposite me. But this is the first date of the rest of my life, and you will be with me on every single one.

I reach past my own glass and pick up yours.

“Cheers,” I whisper.

The sheer, aching beauty of Love and Loss floods through me, as I take that first, deep sip of the ruby nectar that you, my beloved, loved so well.