yesterday's storylet

[ritaxis]

Last Month with an R in it

Just as a polyglot country speaks its own argot in which the words do not mean what they meant where they came from, an immigrant country confidently cooks and serves "mother country" dishes which never existed in any other place before.

In this way you have American pizza: chop suey: fortune cookies: cappucino: and cioppino. Cioppino is San Francisco's own fish soup. It differs from bouillabaisse in two ways: the base is a tomato one, and not a white stock: and bouillabaisse requires correct ingredients while cioppino is made with whatever you can catch. A hundred years ago, that meant an amazing variety and quantity of fish, molluscs, crustaceans and occasionally other invertebrates. Now you have to use what there is.

If you're purchasing your seafood, you can pretty much use whatever is available. If you're foraging for the materials yourself, you need to pay attention to the date. Some fish are only legal at certain times of the year. Because you're likely going to use a lot of mussels and, if you can afford it, crab, you need to do this in the cool months -- the months with an R in them -- the months without red tide.

Paul had a friend who likes to go pier fishing and surf fishing, and he had a friend who likes to dig clams and gather mussels off of rocks. He only just realized in late March that if he put them together with Marek on the right beach he'll have beach cioppino. A frenzy of telephoning ensued. "-- and Marek," he urged after securing his cooperation, "the wine goes into the cioppino, not the cook, right?"

"Sure," said Marek, not even defensive. "Except for a swig after we get all the critters into the broth."

"Well. At least let Gerry drive you."

So it was arranged that on the day of the beach cioppino Mackay's little brother would pick up Marek and his enormous stock pot. They would come early, but not so early as Paul and his fishermen friends. Marek made an excellent tomato broth. He tied down the lid of the pot with a greenish and rough-looking rag of a rope, much stronger than it looked. Gerry had a pile of paper logs in the back seat. Marek threw some things on top. "So, I'm the chauffeur," Gerry said, zooming away from the curb, fishtailing and sending Marek careening like a seasick pendulum before he had a chance to buckle up.

The fog was in and the wind was up and Jackson could not get warm enough. Smoke from the fire ring followed him wherever he went, coating his skin with the greasy soot and causing his eyes to tear.

He watched Marek trading cheerful manly insults with Paul's fishermen friends. Marek took everything they gave him and took it all away to clean. He came back to the fire smelling of surf and fish blood but with no gore actually on him. His cheeks were red and his eyes darted around as he settled in to the final steps of the cioppino. "Ten minutes!" he shouted.

Jackson helped Mackay and Gerry lay down blankets under the windbreak and dispose the bowls and utensils. These had been Jackson's contribution. Paul had been muttering about how difficult it was to find paper bowls that would serve and he put his foot down. "Just because we're camping in the wilderness for a day doesn't mean we have to behave like hoboes," he said. "Tell me how many, and I'll bring what we need." Which meant he had talked himself into providing two dozen each of soup plates, glasses, salad plates, and full cutlery sets. He was proud of the deal he'd found: poackages of twelve in clear glass. "It's just that paper and plastic make the food taste funny," he'd insisted, as Paul rolled his eyes.

But now as they sheltered in the windbreak and accepted the passed-around plates of soup and the French bread (another one of those new-mother-country innovations), they were all glad of Jackson's particularity.

Jackson looked around. "Where did Marek go?" he asked Gerry. He wasn't serving anymore and he wasn't eating with the group either.

"Over there," Gerry said, pointing to the end of the beach. Marek was there all right, huddled into his sweatshirt, kicking at a rock. Suddenly a large floppy dog appeared, running circles around Marek. The dog bowed and leaped, inviting Marek to play. Marek joined him, crouching and splashing in the waves, as wet as a seal.

"He's going to get sick," Jackson said. He got up, but he didn't walk to Marek, but to his own car, where he pulled out blankets and a change of clothes he carried around for emergencies. When he came back, Marek was running up and down the beach, followed by the dog. He marched up to him and called his name.

Marek pulled to a stop. He was pale and trembling. "Get it off," Jackson said. Marek shook his head, backing up.

"You're too cold," Jackson insisted.

"I'm warm where it counts," Marek said.

"You can't stay like that," Jackson said.

"I'll be okay," Marek said. "I've done it before."

Marek strode away from him, back to the group, where he began cleaning up. Gerry pushed him down next to the fire and took over the cleaning up. Marek huddled into himself. Jackson rinsed the dishes and put them into the tub in which he had carried them here. Marek popped up and lifted the stock pot onto a blanket so it could be moved to the car. Gerry stopped and wrapped an arm around Marek's neck. He leaned forward and said something to him in a way that gave Jackson uncomfortable deja vu. He looked away from Marek and Paul caught his eye. Paul gave him a rueful smile.

Jackson watched Gerry hand Marek into his car and pile him with blankets and towels. He saw Marek give Gerry one of those radiant smiles that Jackson had not seen directed toward himself during this year.

Gerry said, "What the hell were you doing? We're not in Santa fucking Barbara or something. That water's cold."

"I didn't feel it," said Marek, who had returned to his normal color. "I was having a good time until people started interfering. That dog was a trip."

"Yeah, and your next trip would be to the emergency room. Why wouldn't you take a blanket from Jackson, anyway? He was trying to help."

"He doesn't like me."

Gerry suddenly adjusted his approach to the curve. "You think you're going to ask the fireman does he like you? Help's help, man."

Marek thought about this for a while. "I honestly think I might rather die than smell him close up again."

"What?"

"It drives me crazy. It's like Proust's fucking madeleines except there's no memory behind it. It's like I remember crap that never happened. Like I know what he tastes like --"

"Whoa, TMI! There's such a thing as too much information. There are things I don't want to know."

"Sorry. But nothing like that has ever happened. I kissed him once. That was a mistake. He never forgave me. It wasn't like I jumped him --"

"Don't go there."

"I mean it wasn't."

Gerry mulled this over for a bit. "So the deal is, you can't stand him because you think he doesn't like you because you kissed him? You like him, then?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"I don't know. I don't even know him. Just all my friends are his friends and he's always there, glaring at me. And I hate pissing him off."

Gerry sighed. "Well, you pissed him off good today, anyway. You should have let him help you."

Paul trailed after Jackson and helped him wash his dishes. "Are you okay?" he asked, as Jackson silently polished several microns of silicon off a glass plate.

Jackson shrugged. "I just can't figure out how I became the big bad wolf," he said.

"Too much huffing and puffing," Paul said.

"So what does he do when he's not cooking or trying to die of exposure?" Jackson asked.

Paul grinned. "Ready to admit it now?"

"Just . . . studying my prey, I guess."