Dying for Chocolate

In my mind’s eye I could see Philip, see his questioning look. It reminded me of the questioning look I had received from a male social worker at a National Organization for Women meeting, the first and last one I ever went to. The social worker had talked about spouse abuse.

“Look,” I’d said defensively to the social worker during the break, incipient tears closing my throat, “sometimes it’s hard to leave.”

He had given me a questioning look.

“I guess I need to see a shrink,” I’d whispered to him then. “Are you available?”

Sage that he was, the social worker had said I should work with a woman. Which is what I began to do. It was very hard to be verbally vulnerable, to let down defenses and admit that I was staying in an insane situation. You’re so together, people always said to me. You’re so articulate. No one said to me, You’re so crazy. Until that NOW meeting, I had not admitted that I might indeed be losing my mind.

CRUSTLESS JARLSBERG QUICHE

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

½ cup all-purpose flour

1 ½ cups milk

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ cups small curd cottage cheese

1 teaspoon Dijon-style mustard

9 eggs

11 ounces cream cheese, softened

¾ pound Jarlsberg cheese, grated

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat oven to 350° (high altitude: 375°). In a saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat, add the flour, and stir just until mixture bubbles. Slowly add milk, stirring constantly. Stir this cream sauce until it thickens. Set aside to cool. Stir baking powder, and mustard, and salt into cottage cheese. Beat eggs well, then beat in softened cream cheese and cottage cheese mixture. Slowly beat in cream sauce, then thoroughly incorporate Jarlsberg and Parmesan. Pour into 2 buttered 10-inch pie plates. Bake for about 45 minutes or until puffed and browned. Cut each quiche into eight large wedges.

Makes 16 servings

“I know what losing your mind is,” Arch had said to me once as I drove him to first grade.

“You do?”

“It’s like when you can’t remember someone’s name, just for a minute. And just for that minute, you’ve lost your mind! Then it comes back.”

“Ah,” I’d said.

It came back. My mind. The counselor was wonderful. The cooking was salvation. André, who trained me in catering, was a friend. In his big Denver kitchen the activity swirled all around me as I tried to keep tears from falling into the bread dough I was mixing.

“You know salt slows down the action of the yeast,” he had said once over my shoulder. He saw me crying but never asked about it, just handed me gifts of food to take home to Arch. He would ask me, How did that dinner for Mrs. Sweeney go? Those chile rellenos stay hot? André offered his presence and his faith in me. It sped up the healing process.

Cooking helped, both before and after I told John Richard I was divorcing him. That was what I would have told Philip, I decided as I scooped the egg, cheese, and sauce mixture into two pie plates. Cooking anesthetized my feelings. I could throw myself into a complicated recipe and within an hour I would feel better.

Wait a minute.

By the time I was done, I would feel better.

The cooking took the pain away.

Anesthetic. That was it.

Philip Miller. He had not felt any pain in his eyes for thirty minutes because he had had anesthetic in his eyes from the glaucoma test. He could see. He just couldn’t feel the damage that was being done to his eyes until it was too late.

I reached for the phone.

Tom Schulz was not at his desk. I left a message and finished preparing the dinner. The quiches puffed up to golden-brown perfection. Arch had two slices, Julian four. When we finished, General Farquhar surprised us with a new jar of macadamia-nut sauce for our pound cake.

Later, I tucked Arch in over his protestations that he was getting too old to be tucked in. I asked him if he remembered when he was six, telling me that losing your mind was when you forgot something.

He said, “Why? Did you forget to call the people for the magic party?” I had promised to do it as soon as I got home.

I apologized. I promised to get the list from tue Poe book and make the calls first thing in the morning. Kids could do things on the spur of the moment, couldn’t they?

He said, “I guess,” and gave me a brief hug.

I went into my room and waited for the house to get quiet. I was going to sneak out. I didn’t want anyone in the household to know my intentions.

Ten o’clock: Adele tap-stepped her way up to the master bedroom, ran water for twenty minutes, and then settled in after a therapeutic soak.

Eleven: The general’s muffled telephone voice stopped and the door to his study gently opened and closed. Then there was the sound of more water, then quiet.

Midnight: The faint boom-boom and twang of Julian’s rock music stopped wafting up from the ground floor.