Peeling the Onion

Our last day in Portland. So sad. But ready to return to the ocean and the puppy dog. The Neighbor showed up and asked us to bunk with him and a friend who lives there in the Alberta District, a stones throw from the Kennedy School so really, how could we refuse to dwell for a day and a night amidst such hipness.

We've known our dear Neighbor for some time now, sharing meals and beach fires and more than one holiday feast. He helped Second Edition haul 30 boxes of books up a flight of stairs and often takes the puppy dog to the beach when we're just too whooped. He even introduced us to our first dine and dash experience and just last week thankfully caught us when we fell out of a tree. You think you know someone, and then they surprise you.

I've always believed that who people are in the kitchen is much more true than who they are in the bedroom. How one hands the other a knife or a jar of spice, whether the elbows poke or snugly press, who sautes and who chops, who wipes and who lets things fall to the floor. It's the dance. Strangers or lovers, friends or acquaintances, family or co-workers. Even soon to be comrades. All comes out in the choreography of the kitchen.

Saturday morning, the Ranger and I were lured downstairs by the smell of brewing coffee and frying sausage which is just too much to bear no matter how much that pillow calls. The Neighbor and his friend -- let's call her Lovely because she is -- were already hard at it, their bathrobes swooshing to and fro. And there it was like a lightening bolt: The Neighbor is in love. Deeply, warmly, perfectly in love. It was the way he opened the pickle jar for her after he saw her struggling and then fed her one of the spicy, tangy slices.

Good Lord, The Neighbor, the consummate bachelor, the flirtatious bar fly, he's in love. I never even bothered learning the names of his dates because...the trade out was always so quick.

My happily-ever-after self just wants to fold these two into a ziplock so that no one can escape. Together, they made us amazing egg, sausage, french bread, sharp cheese mountains of goodness washed down with splashy mimosas. The minute my fork pierced that delicately cooked egg yolk, I knew they were done for.

Later, after the Lovely left for work, I said, "Dude, you obviously love that girl. What are you going to do about it?" he answered, "I could never live in the city and she could never live in the country."

Sorry, but this just makes me roll my eyes. Make it work, people, make it work. Because when you find someone who belongs in your kitchen, can your heart be far behind?