OVERHEARD......

It was like a scene like a Woody Allen movie. We were sitting in an Italian restaurant off 35th Street and 5th Avenue - a nice little place with soft lighting and white tablecloths and fine linen napkins. Waiters stood silently in the shadows awaiting our every move - to remove an empty place, or fill a water glass, or add more cheese to an already towering salad or entree.

A superb dinner of various dishes, we were stuffed and were enjoying our second (third?) glass of wine, when we couldn't help but overhear the conversation at the table next to us.

Two men, dressed in suits, although the jackets had long been thrown onto the chairs next to them, and shirtsleeves rolled up, neckties pulled loose, were deep in conversation.

"How could she do this to me" said the larger man of the two. His friend was thinner, smaller, but no less invigorated by his question. Long past thirty and soon waving goodbye to 40, they were deeply entrenched on the circumstances of the situation at hand.

"I know!" he answered, taking a long, last drink from his wine glass, draining it in one final swallow before returning his full attention to his beleaguered colleague.

"I mean" the larger man bemoaned "this is the woman who said she loved me with everything in her being!"

“Yes!” affirmed the friend. “She even wrote to you from the hospital when she was in a straight jacket!”

“No, wait” he corrected. She must have had somebody write it for her” he replied, satisfied that there must have been a conspiracy,

Only in Manhattan.

God I love New York.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

Four years ago today I married the love of my life.

And they said it wouldn't last.

CHEF FOR A DAY

I love to cook.

So did my ex-husband, and his desire to cook for a living is probably one of the reasons we are apart now. I never felt at home in my own kitchen. He was good at it, but so was I.

A grand and spacious room, with wood cabinets everywhere and enough counter space to feed an army, I would attempt to make it mine by bringing my own creations into the fold. Pots and pans of the finest make, utensils and machines everywhere, ready to be used for feasts and banquets. A "Butler's Pantry" hosted yet more dishes and urns and glasss ware.

As a young bride, I had my own Irish culture to share, but was anxious to learn his. No one would teach me their recipes, handed down from family to family, only sparingly and begrudingly shared with me.

"How else will our daughter learn your history, your culture?"

I used to plead "Show me how to make this!" and after badgering I would be shown.

Once.

One year I received a tin full of hand written recipes. I thought it was a wonderful gesture, until I tried to make each item and learn every card had one crucial ingredient missing.

I learned how to cook Italian from the chefs on t.v., not by the one I was married to. Nothing was ever done quite right, could have cooked a little longer, needed more salt, you used too much sugar.

Along with everything else that was wrong with me, so was always something I cooked.

"There, I fixed it for you," he would smirk.

So I stopped.

I stopped doing a lot of things.

It was the manifestation of a lot of other problems, and I knew it was time for me to go.

I am in a much smaller kitchen now, an 1/8 of the grand size I used to get lost in.

It is compact, new and efficient, the design of a bachelor and someone who didn't entertain or cook for many very often.

A sailor's galley, it is reminiscent of how he thought his life would be.

"Let me cook for you," he said, and he wanted to, so I let him.

But there came a time where I wanted to do for him.

Nervous and anxious, I made what I made best, and it was excellent. Slowly but surely, I got comfortable in the kitchen again, creating small feasts and small treats, baby steps similar to the steps I had taken with my new life.

Even my children were surprised.

"When did you learn how to make this?" they would ask.

"Have you been practicing? What is this called, I didn't know you could cook so good!"

Nothing new. It was always there, fighting to escape.

He invited it out again.

My kitchen is now cozy and warm, inviting and homey. I feel more at home here than I ever did in the mansion.

But I've come to realize the reason behind my serenity now in this room where much love is shared, in the form of sauteeing, baking and blanching.

It is appreciated.

Sincere and heartfelt appreciation goes a long way.

I've also learned to never let someone bully me again.

I don't intend to spend my life in the kitchen, and neither does he.

But it's nice to be able to visit there once in a while.

LIFE LOVES

There was a man at my old city church (back when I used to attend regularly) who would introduce his wife as “the love of my life and the life of my love.” He would state it time after time when meeting someone, and she just about glowed every time he said it, forty years later.

The church is gone now, recently closed due to the ravages of the economy and lack of attendance. It doesn’t seem real, hearing a church would close – after all, its God’s house, isn’t it? But God’s house, like everything else, needs money to pay the heating bill, keep the lights on, and pay the lay staff that worked within it.

It was a shame and it happened three more times within the span of five years at three other church buildings. Gone, too, are the elementary schools that were attached to them. No more CYO basketball games, no class reunions. I felt like a part of my heart was ripped out, and I only attended for twenty years. I can’t imagine the pain felt by those who family history is entrenched within the walls and on the grounds.

My husband has begun what to his thinking is a necessary leg of yet another journey, a short term assignment working in nuclear power once again. Thankfully, it is a desk job and he no longer will feel the brunt of the physical side of this business, wearing his already overworked body into the ground. As Martha would say, “it’s a good thing” and I’m glad he’s doing it. But I miss him terribly this go round, and I don’t really understand why. He’s been gone before, on the road performing his comedy act and building a nice career in that business. He’s been gone two days and it feels like two weeks.

I think part of my missing him is the realization of what we have and how long it took for us to find it. Recently seeing my children’s fathers again (yes, you read that right, there are two before him) confirmed what I had recently come to realize. These men were placed in my life at strategic times, to help me raise the children we would have and to perhaps allow me to help them in their lives as well. Although it flies in the face of religious sanctimonious tradition, I did not live out my life committed to only one person. I think God wanted it this way, because my last and final husband truly is the love of my life. He saved him for last. Although I loved the others in my own way, I have been moved to see what the truest form of love really is.

My children are grown now and have found their loves as well, moving towards the direction to which they know they are destined. They seem so much smarter than I was in matters of the heart, not making the mistakes I did. I can’t help but think they learned by osmosis, hearing the gospel on Sunday in the churches that would not be there when they were old enough to want to attend.

Our lives are what we make it, I guess. We must learn to stand on our own, whether or not there are old church buildings still standing or strong shoulders of the men we marry to lean on. I think that’s the way its really supposed to be. The love of my life has been both the church and a man who finally found me after forty two years of searching. I miss both of them terribly, but understand the reasoning behind their leaving. Perhaps I needed one to fall in order to find the other. The Church is not dead, God is everywhere, and there will be other buildings in which he'll build his house. I’ll be here when they return, offering up praise and thanksgiving, and grateful for another day to do it all over again tomorrow.