Tag Archives: relationships

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“I like the way you say Raspberries”

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The internet dating pool is a playground. You meet all sorts of people. Typically, they’re engineers, bankers, accountants, pilots but every now and then, you speak to someone whose professional choice gets your full and undivided attention. “I’m sorry, but did you just say you’re a mathematician?” Sploosh. “A Human Rights specialist for the United Nations?” *fans self* or most recently, “You’re a chef? You mean a real one?”

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Now if you know me well enough, you’d know that I have a massive weakness for food, nay, a deep and dark love affair with food. I’ve gone out with people who have actually mentioned things like “wow, you really like to eat, don’t you?” or “You talk a lot about food!” Why yes, I do, thank you very much. So imagine my absolute delight when I found out that I was talking to a chef. When you put two people who love food together at a table, some kind of magic happens. Immediately, you are given free rein to go into explicit detail about the creme bulee you once had at a tiny little French restaurant that still haunts you to date. Suddenly, you no longer sound bat shit crazy when you passionately talk about your lobbying for the ban of Vanilla essence and Matcha-based desserts. And just like that, everything’s on the table for discussion.

There are things people don’t tell you about dating a chef. They’re intense, wildly intense. It’s almost a little intimidating. They’re also constantly working – The kitchen is their mother, wife and mistress. They make this crystal clear, from the very beginning so if you date a chef, you find creative ways to fit into the crevices of their busy lives..

When I first started chatting with Mr Chef, I didn’t know what he did for a living. We had a heated discussion on what is the definitive American dessert – Pecan Pie or Carrot Cake. To which I said, I’m not a fan of neither but I can make a delicious pie and cake. He said he could too. But because I’m an arrogant asshole, I said “I’m sure you could but mine probably tastes better.” Of course, once I found out that he was a chef, I pretty much swallowed my words whole and felt a little embarrassed. “If I had known you were a chef, I wouldn’t have made that douchey comment about being a better baker,” I texted, sheepishly. To which he replied with much class, “I’m sure you’re still the better baker.” Sploosh.

I met Mr Chef for dinner a week later. We had been exchanging messages all week on discussion topics ranging from food (big fuckin’ surprise!) to films and Mr Chef’s life in the Big Apple before coming here. It’s very rare that I would agree to a dinner on a first date – feels like too much of a commitment, having to sit through an entire meal with a stranger. What if you’ve realised you’re having a terrible time by the time you’re done with your appetiser. You can’t just feign an emergency and run away. It’s 2015 – People know all the tricks there are in the books! So my strategy is just to go for a drink and see where the evening takes us. However, it seemed only right that two foodies (one professional, one amateur) should bond over a meal. Indian, it was – my choice, of course. I was 5 minutes late, something that always leaves me unnerved on a date. I like being early. Alas, traffic fucked me over. He politely waited outside the restaurant. I gave him a peck on the cheek and led him to what could quite possibly be the best Indian meal of his life. Unlikely. But I enjoy dishing out the hyperboles.

Statistically, it takes 1200 seconds, that’s 20 minutes, to decide if there is chemistry between two people. I might have over-generalised this statement but it is true to me. It takes me all in all 20 minutes to decide if there is a spark. I mean sure, we could all argue that chemistry can be built over time. The question here is, could this time be spent doing something else worthier?

Mr Chef was quick to inform me from the very beginning of the evening: “I just want to say that this is my resting face. It looks like I’m always annoyed or bored but I assure you that it has nothing to do with how I actually feel.” What an unfortunate resting face. I chortled, and we proceeded to commence selecting our food – He sank at ease into his seat and told me he trusted me to make the right selections off the menu. As we perused the menu, I wondered at what point was I going to feel this said chemistry, if at all. I looked up and sneaked a look at his face. Was there a facial feature that gave me the butterflies? Nope. What about his hands? Hmm. How does one find chemistry when it doesn’t want to be found?

We talked about dessert – easily one of my favourite conversation topics – and the varieties that we enjoyed baking and stuffing our faces with. The topic of tarts and pies came up. “I am rather selective when it comes to tarts. Lemon and raspberries are acceptable. I don’t understand the appeal of pumpkin.”

Mr Chef smiled and said, “I like the way you say Raspberries.”

Sixteen minutes in. Damn it. Where are you hiding, Chemistry? Show yourself!

It didn’t make an appearance that evening. We did however, have an enjoyable meal and comfortably discussed many things from useless trivia to David Sedaris to our shared love for Wes Anderson films.This comes easy for extroverts. I think I was hoping for chemistry. Chefs are supposed to be intense, passionate and ooze fiery sex appeal. False advertising, I say. This is what happens when you’ve watched too many episodes of Parts Unknown, lusting after Anthony Bourdain. I have no one to blame but myself.

I paid for dinner, like I usually do when I ask someone out. No big deal. Controversial decision, I hear from the people I speak to regarding bills on the first date. To go Dutch? Should the Guy pay? Should the Girl? This is perhaps best left for another entry. Mr Chef didn’t seem too pleased with the idea of me paying but he didn’t persist. I don’t like the drama. He walked me to the train station and we parted ways with a quick peck on the cheek.

“Shall we see each other again?”

“Sure, why not?” I said.

“Maybe we can watch a movie or something next time round. I have a crazy schedule. I never plan things so you’ll have to let me know.”

At this point I thought, “never plan anything? Well, that’s just lazy.”

I smiled very politely and said “I guess I’ll let you know then.”

Because 20 minutes was all I needed to figure out that there wasn’t going to be a second date. Maybe I’ll need to manage my expectations and find myself a pastry chef next. In the meantime, I suppose binging on re-runs of Parts Unknown and No Reservations, while fantasising about my life with Mr Bourdain will have to suffice. Sploosh.

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The boy with the gift of laughter.

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(Contribution)

I met a boy last weekend – A boy whose laughter sounded like the chimes of church bells. The first time he laughed, I felt a somersault deep in my belly. It was an entrancing laugh, the sort of laughter that could light up an entire room. Whoever said that a smile could light up a room didn’t get the best possible deal. A bellowing laugh that could illuminate any room – now that, that is something special.

“You’re funny,” he said.

“I like hearing you laugh. Looks like I might have to try and be funny all night,” I replied and meant every word of it.

Church bell chimes and somersaults all night. Sometimes that’s all you need to feel, on days where you feel like you couldn’t feel anything at all.

His gift of laughter was paired with incredibly beautiful eyes. Somersaults. I couldn’t quite say if they were gray or green. Somewhere in between and I loved that they were undefinable. It always makes me flutter when I can’t quite find the right words to define something. That mystery of it makes me feel like there are so many things and instances where there aren’t words in the lexicon to describe, perfectly. It makes me feel like there is so much I don’t know.

The eighth time I made him laugh, I recall vividly; He said he was shy and yet, he was quite the rebel – leaving his home in Brazil to travel the world and get paid for it. I called him a Unicorn and said shy rebels don’t exist. I gently poked his forehead with my index finger and jokingly and accusingly asked where he was hiding his horn. He laughed, touched my hand and kissed me. The church bells in my head chimed.

The boy whose laughter sounded like the chimes of church bells was sweet, affectionate and gentle. It would be unlikely that we would see other again. And yet, our paths had crossed for some reason. Later that evening, in bed, he rested his head on my chest and we talked about why we do the things we do. We talked about the people we love. We spoke of the places we love, the music we listen to and our fears.

“Am I too heavy for you?” he asked.

“No, I think you’re just fine.”

We made love later that evening. It was intimate in every sense of the word. I had never been with anyone who kissed every inch of my body or someone who wanted to look at me throughout the night, every line, scar, mole and fold on my unforgiving body. Somersaults.

“You have beautiful eyes”, I said.

“You have a beautiful smile” he replied as he kissed the tip of my nose.

Short of breath and exhausted, I sought to remember the moment. I attempted to memorize it all. The pursuit of pleasure often involves feeling good in the short-term. We take what we can get and continue to stay on the hedonic treadmill with the hopes that one day, we will reach a permanent state of eudaimonia. But this was different. It wasn’t just a one night stand. It was a feeling that was going to stick. And that the lesson to be learned from this was that I could be loved the way I deserved, even if only for one night. And it reminded me that physical affection is something I couldn’t do without, even if I tried. As we lay exhausted and wrapped around each other in bed, we enjoyed the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was perfect. I strived to remember the moment.

We hugged and kissed for minutes after, remembering the features we like on each other’s faces.

“Never stop laughing, okay?” I demanded gently as I kissed him one last time, after clothing myself slowly, relishing every remaining moment of his company.

“Only if you never stop smiling,” the boy whispered.

Somersaults.

“Deal.”

The church bells chimed again, a little softer, almost as if it were far in the distance but I could still hear it. I can still hear it.

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If Stanley Tucci Were Your Boyfriend

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tucci-866x1024If Stanley Tucci Were Your Boyfriend. Such a good piece by Mallory Ortberg.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would never bother you about the fact that you own two clearly well-worn copies of both The Devil Wears Prada and Julie and Julia. If he knew you were going to have a particularly hard day at work, he’d call out “Gird your loins” after you as you left the apartment, because he would know how much that would mean to you.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your apartment would redecorate itself in only the finest and most luxurious of fabrics. The predominant colors would be Nantucket blue, slate grey, and the color of the sea before a storm.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, it would always be the second week of fall. The sun would never set before 8pm, but you would never sweat again.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your relationship would be two-thirds what he and Patricia Clarkson had in Easy A, and one-third what he and Meryl Streep had in Julie and Julia.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would occasionally turn to you, smile warmly, and call you “Champ,” while wearing a scarf.

He would also call you “Sport.” You would find it endearing and waggish and not in the least patronizing.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, the two of you would go dancing, but he’d never make a big deal out of it.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your dad would refer to him genially as “The Tooch.” “Come to the house this weekend, and bring The Tooch with you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would own a good cheese knife. Nothing pretentious. You wouldn’t need a whole set. Just one. But it would be perfect, and you would never have trouble sliding Camembert pieces off of it. You would be the kind of person who invests in small, good, useful things. You would treat yourself with compassion, and you would never eat Cheetos in the shower.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make pots of red sauce on the weekends, and make you taste all of them. He wouldn’t Bogart the kitchen, either, and he’d be more than just complimentary about your own (inevitably inferior) attempts at cooking. “No, it was extraordinary,” he’d insist after cleaning his plate. “Just extraordinary.” And there would be a light in his eyes that would let you believe him.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, Nora Ephron would still be alive somehow. She would have dinner with the two of you at least three nights a week.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, every single one of your friends would act like the guys on Friendsdid while Monica was dating Richard. “Your boyfriend is the coolest,” they’d tell you. You’d have to ask them to go do something else once in a while so the two of you could actually get some time to yourselves. “I’m sorry about those guys,” you’d say to Stanley Tucci, while he’d look intently at you and say “Don’t ever apologize to me on behalf of the people who love you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would instantly become the kind of person who takes long, luxurious baths in a clean, bone-white tub.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make excuses to run out and pick up a paper and buy you breakfast while he was out. “It’s nothing,” he’d say if you protested. “I don’t even remember how much it cost. I threw away the receipt. Stop asking.” If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would wear perfectly cut waffle-print shirts just while drinking coffee at your kitchen table, but your life together would be more meaningful than a collection of expensive fabrics and bougie breakfast foods. Your life together would be more meaningful than your life before.