The love click
Love is an odd thing. It comes and it goes; never by will, though sometimes by whim.
Love can be made, but never manufactured. It is an odd mixture of emotions, admiration, a bit of gratitude, wholehearted respect and heaps of trust, all whipped together with a spark of magic that melds it into that ineffable something we call “love.” The oddest thing about love is that it seems to spring up in an instant as though a heavy clasp on the heart clicks open a latch that lets all those happy feelings surge in and swell until that tough old muscle turns to mush. Each tender moment shared is a massage breaking down the tense sinews that surround the heart and weave themselves into a protective carapace. Love grows until, like the lobster, we shed the shell and live unencumbered of its protections for a while. But love can click closed in an instant as sudden as its opening, and once shut, the heart rarely recovers its tenderness. The shell grows thicker and harder to crack every time it’s broken.
Love differs depending on its object. There’s a line in an old Swedish film that has stuck with me. A young couple was quarreling, when the man said, “You love the dog more than you love me!” His bride paused to swallow a bitter retort. Instead, she glanced at the shaggy heap of dog lying beside her and anger seemed to melt from her face. “No,” she replied, “but I love him better.”
That sensibility, the knowledge that the heart loves in quality, not quantity, struck me as I absorbed the feelings flowing around my family on Mother’s Day.
Seventeen people, ranging from newborn to 90, spouses and siblings, mothers and offspring and offspring’s offspring, the group was a Petri dish of emotions under pressure. For the most part we genuinely love each other, although it would be fair to say that, like many families, we probably wouldn’t know each other were we not kin. Still, it’s a genial group. Siblings tease and clown around; cousins huddle companionably in the kitchen, sharing tips on everything from herb cultivation to golf swings. Husbands and wives team up to whip one another at whiffle ball and pool. Every grownup cuddles every child, cooing “how pretty” or “how big you’ve grown.” It’s semi-annual bonding in action and each shared laugh loosens another heartstring and makes us realize how tenderly we care for one another.
But, there’s a caution in the room – a dark cloud that smolders in the corner. It is the aunts -80- and 90-year-old sisters -who have carried on a feud as long as anyone can remember. A few years ago, the birth of a grandchild seemed to spawn a rapprochement. Last Sunday, the aunts’ hearts clapped shut with an echoing click and a jealous snarl from the younger, “It was never yours, anyway!”
What wasn’t? When we asked each arguer privately, she feigned ignorance. It doesn’t matter – whatever had clicked shut in their childhood, the love of a new generation had opened only a crack. Love, once removed, was easily slammed shut by the breath of a cool breeze.
The moral of the story? When love strikes, grasp it eagerly and tend it gently. Love is a fragile thing, a mystery, a gift.
Eggs Lutece
Serves 4
This recipe is one of those oddball gems that cookbook editors slip into a book as an afterthought. It’s adapted from “The Lutece Cookbook,” a small, distinctly unglamorous compendium of the simple French delicacies that made the restaurant famous. But this dish was never served to the well-heeled diners in the front of the house; it was what the staff cooked for themselves-cheap, easy, delicious, as good lukewarm as hot, in case you had to leave your supper to serve dinner to someone else.
My cousins and I experimented with the recipe for Mother’s Day brunch where this humble offering shared a table laden with the best New York City had to offer-golden quiche and frittatas, coffeecakes from famed bakeries and fresh bagels with Scottish smoked salmon. Our relatives scoffed when they realized it was just hard-boiled eggs but when we told them we found the recipe in “Lutece,” the doubters scooped a spoonful “to try.” At the end of the day, this was the recipe they begged for. “I could eat this morning, noon and night,” one aunt groaned as she scraped the last bit of sauce off the baking dish.
1 28-oz can whole tomatoes (or 2 1/2 lb. fresh)
4 Tbs. butter
1 small sweet onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 bouquet garni (parsley, thyme and bay wrapped in cheesecloth)
4 eggs
4 Tbs. heavy cream
2 Tbs. chopped chives
1. Squeeze seeds and juice from tomatoes, reserving the juice. Chop the pulp. Taste, adding a pinch of sugar if too acid or a squirt of tomato paste if too bland. The key is to make sure the tomatoes taste summer fresh.
2. Sauté onions in 2 Tbs. butter and cook until transparent. Add tomatoes, garlic, bouquet garni and salt and pepper to taste. Cook 20 minutes until thick. Add juice, if necessary.
3. Meanwhile, hard-boil eggs 9 minutes. Transfer to ice water.
4. Heat oven to 375 degrees.
5. Slice the eggs in half lengthwise and whip yolks to a paste with butter, 1 – 2 Tbs. of cream, chives and salt and pepper. Stuff the whites and pack in a small baking dish.
6. Mix remaining cream into the tomatoes and remove herbs. Pour over the eggs and bake 10 minutes.
Variations: You could substitute fresh tarragon, chervil or parsley for the chives.