But a few years ago, I met him again. He'd grown up, been dating goat cheese and was suddenly oh-so-much more appealing. I'd also matured, way past Campbell's Won Ton Soup and deep into the heart of roasted chicken, black beans and succulent artichoke, dripping with butter onto my tongue.
My friend Hilarie Lambert re-introduced us again at a dinner party, and the attraction was definitely there. He wasn't sour like before, or strange, and he had this amazing complexity that I'd never noticed. Even though we briefly chatted, I knew that I'd be thinking about him again soon, and I was.
We flirted. We'd go out to lunch, especially to our favorite lunch spot where he seemed to get a lot of attention, and where I'd get a little more than expected. We'd meet at the farmer's market, and I'd stop and chat for a while, but we'd never make firm plans.
Still, this Spring I started thinking about him again. I knew he was fresh into town, ready to go, and I heard that he was at the farmer's market and willing to hang out. I made a date to see him -- I was late, way too unfashionably late -- and he was just leaving when I arrived. He looked a little put out among the boxes, but I persuaded him to join me anyway. I was determined.
We got home, and he seemed to relax into himself, to radiate his sexiness even more.
But, as I always am, I was a bit nervous, despite knowing exactly what to do. I left him to be, and said, "Another night."
Last night, beets and I went all the way.
Roasted in a mere inch of water, a little sprinkle of olive oil and kosher salt and cracked pepper, he came out luscious and tender. The scent of roasted beets is like sweetgrass after a May rain. It's very subtle, and the opposite of the fuchsia stains it leaves on my cutting board, my knife, really, everything everywhere. It's a hot mess of a vegetable, but with tortellini and some freshly shaved Parmesan it is a revelation -- of living, eating, spring and all things good and earthy.
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