I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (32 page)

Yield: 12 muffins (if you fill the cups to the rim, as I do, you’ll get only 9 muffins from this recipe).

I spotted his silhouette first, a small man with a big pack on his back. When he emerged at the British Airways terminal at
JFK, we hugged and Lachlan took my hand the way he always did as we walked to my mother’s car.

“When we get home we’ll take our clothes off and have a shower and kiss,” he said, which was a lot more than I was expecting
to hear from him, let alone do with him. Adding two planes and jet lag to the equation of Lachlan’s low libido and inclination
toward exhaustion under the best of circumstances had me poised for a joyous but chaste reunion. Our stunted sex life had
entered my mind while Lachlan was away, but I really didn’t care that much about it. Just looking at him made me smile: his
elfin face, his slim body wrapped in a boy’s-size navy blue Lacoste shirt that was worn and old. I washed that shirt carefully
for him and made sure not to put it in the dryer. Lachlan wanted to preserve it, and it merited preservation.

We took a shower and kissed and did all the things that Lachlan’s surprising statement implied. Even more astounding was the
stack of presents he’d brought for me—there was a rather nice camel-hair scarf, a book of essays by Aldo Buzzi, a little sequined
star for our impending Christmas tree, and a package of breadsticks called Kissini, which he had bought for their name. When
I got out of bed to make coffee, the sight of the clementines decanted into a clear glass bowl and the honey-colored apple
muffins on the dining table was almost as beautiful as that of Lachlan emerging from the bedroom in his T-shirt and Marks
& Spencer boxer briefs. I had been thinking my apartment was perfect as it was, but that wasn’t the case. I needed something
to fill it, and that something was Lachlan.

As much I was over the moon about the place, I was having a hard time finding peace there. I constantly had the urge to fix
it—there was always one more thing to buy, or arrange, or clean—making it difficult to read, or watch TV, or kick back in
any way. Whenever I tried to take a bath, I would manage for five minutes or so, then I’d feel compelled to leap out to attend
to something or other. From the day I arrived with my furniture and boxes of things that I would mostly end up getting rid
of to make way for new things, I never felt as relaxed as I did that Sunday.

We lazed around the apartment most of the day, then took a walk to Green-Wood Cemetery, a Brooklyn landmark in whose Gothic
gates lived a family of parrots. I wanted to show them to Lachlan because he had a thing for parrots— something to do with
his years as a language instructor.

I bought a bird for us to have for dinner, thinking the chilly day called for a stew of chicken and wine, which I call coq
au vin, though my own version strays a bit from the traditional French recipe. While the chicken cooked in wine, I soaked
in the tub, melting in the warm water and suds.

Calming Coq au Vin

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 slices pancetta, chopped

1 medium onion, chopped

1 chicken, cut into small pieces

½ bottle dry white wine

1 tablespoon butter

6 ounces mushrooms, sliced

½ package (5 ounces) frozen peas

1 cup rice

¼ cup chopped parsley

Warm 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large skillet over high heat; when the oil is hot, add the chicken pieces and brown on all
sides.

Meanwhile, in a large Dutch oven warm the other tablespoon of olive oil and add the pancetta; when it is halfway to crisp,
add the onion and cook until soft, about 10 minutes. When the pancetta is fully crisp, the onion is soft, and the chicken
is browned, add the chicken parts to the Dutch oven and pour in the wine. Remove the fat from the chicken-browning skillet,
add the butter and mushrooms, and cook until they give off their water; then add them to the chicken, cover, and cook for
45 minutes. When that time has passed, add the frozen peas and cook an additional 15 minutes.

Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil, then add rice. Check for doneness after 10 minutes (it may take 15). Drain
in a medium strainer and serve chicken over rice on plates. Garnish with chopped parsley.

Serves 2, with leftovers.

I was apprehensive about a few things—like Lachlan’s return ticket. The date on it—a few days shy of the absolute limit for
visitors without visas to allow for weather conditions that might require Lachlan to fiddle with the date—stayed in my head
like a bad song. I was also concerned about keeping up my regular activities while he was staying with me, mostly because
I didn’t want to miss a moment or meal with my beloved. I would have to find a way to get in the “Core Fusion” (a compilation
of yoga, Pilates, and ballet that is offered only at a fancy spa inconveniently located in Manhattan) classes I was taking
four times a week and that had become a necessity for my physical and mental health, especially since I had every intention
of feeding us well. Then there was my spiritual health, nurtured by Sunday Mass. I had not yet told Lachlan that I was a practicing
Catholic, though I had hinted about believing in God. Lachlan didn’t chafe at any of my lifestyle requirements; in fact, my
fear of being away from him for those hours was for naught. He ended up accompanying me to almost every activity except work
(and he showed up there from time to time, too).

Lachlan and I easily fell back into all the routines we had established in August. On Saturday mornings, he would listen to
Scottish Premier League football on Radio Scotland, which we got by way of the Internet. He was a fan of Hibernian and would
curse out all the other teams that kept his beloved “Hibs” from first-place status. I’d go to the farmer’s market and do laundry
while he oched and ayed and made all sorts of Gaelic noises to vent his emotions during the game. Then we’d sit down to a
British (not English!) breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and Heinz baked beans (I wasn’t so into the beans). While eating,
we listened to
Your Call,
a show for obsessive Scottish football fans who would phone in and wail about the rich Lithuanians who were buying up the
local teams, trading players, and causing mayhem. One of the hosts was a woman, and we joked that I should call her to get
some sisterly advice about the Hibernian fanatic in my house. We were sure they never got a call from a place as remote as
Brooklyn.

Breakfast was the best part of the day. I loved watching Lachlan douse his toast with butter and orange marmalade. He would
ask me if I wanted a second piece while he was making his third. I’d always say no, then reluctantly give in, and Lachlan
never tired of being amused at the predictable outcome of my indecision. On weekdays, I loathed tearing myself away from him
while he sat on the sofa listening to the BBC World Service on the radio. During the day, we’d e-mail each other and talk
on the phone, then I’d return in the evening to find him right where I’d left him, reading and wearing two pairs of glasses,
his regular distance glasses with reading glasses over them. In between he might have ventured out to the local bookstore;
he’d most certainly have made himself lunch and followed that up with a long nap. He seldom left the house unless he was going
somewhere with me.

We went to see our long-anticipated Borat movie at a local theater in Park Slope. We got there early, assuming the theater
would be packed with our fellow Ali G lovers. Alas, Park Slopers are a little more Charlie Rose than Ali G—there was no one
in the theater but us and another woman who happened to be from London. We ended up talking to her because we were sitting
there alone with her for such a long time and Lachlan had a hard time biting back on his chattiness. “I pictured seeing this
in a big American theater,” he said to me right before the lights went down. I spent the entire movie fretting over the fact
that I had failed in selecting the correct venue for this most important outing. Why didn’t I opt for a gigantic multiplex
in Times Square? That was the coming-to-America experience Lachlan was looking for, and here we were sitting with Polly from
Pimlico. It was just then that I felt my serenity beginning to take its leave.

Lachlan’s problems were of the physical variety. Once he adjusted to the time difference, he came down with a terrible cold;
when that went away, he discovered a tiny pimple on the back of his neck that had to be cancer. In the midst of all these
woes, Lachlan wasn’t “feeling very sexual.” Thanksgiving fell in the cold portion of this cycle. I picked up some echinacea
on my way home from work on Wednesday and made this lasagna with the leftover mozzarella from the September tasting that I
had been saving in the freezer. That’s what my mother always made the night before Thanksgiving, a little nod to our other
culture, but not the big nod other Italian-American families make of serving pasta as a first course on the holiday. That
is a custom my mother finds unconscionable. Don’t ask me why—my mother is my mother, is the best reason I can give.

Thanksgiving Eve Lasagna

For meat sauce:

(You can use this sauce with spaghetti or tortellini or any pasta you like.)

1 pound ground beef

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 small yellow onion, chopped

1 clove garlic

Pinch hot red pepper flakes

1 (28-ounce) can tomatoes

½ cup red wine

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup basil leaves

Brown meat over medium heat until red color is all gone and it is an unattractive gray. Heat olive oil in large skillet over
medium heat and add onion, garlic, and red pepper; sauté until garlic is golden and onion is translucent. When meat is fully
browned, discard the fat and add meat to the pan with the garlic and onion. Add tomatoes, wine, sugar, and salt; bring to
a simmer, lower heat, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Add basil leaves.

For filling:

2 pounds ricotta

2 eggs, lightly beaten

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup water

Olive oil for brushing

Here’s where I save you a big labor-intensive step:

1 (9-ounce) box no-boil lasagna noodles (I know I disparaged the brand earlier, but Barilla’s are good)

4 cups shredded mozzarella (I recommend you shred it yourself with a box grater or food processor fitted with a shredding
blade)

1 cup freshly grated parmigiano (I recommend you grate it yourself)

Freshly ground pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Mix the ricotta with the eggs, then add salt and water. Brush a 9 by 13-inch baking dish with a little olive oil and a layer
of sauce; then arrange the noodles, followed by ricotta, topped with 1 cup of mozzarella, ¼ cup of parmigiano, and freshly
ground pepper, followed by a ladle or two of sauce. Continue this for three layers of filling, then top with one more layer
of noodles covered with sauce and sprinkled with the remaining cheese.

Bake for 45 to 50 minutes, until browned and bubbling. Let stand 10 minutes or so before serving.

Serves 8 to 10.

The herbs and cheese got Lachlan well enough to make it to my brother’s in Connecticut. I prepared him for insanity, as I
do anytime someone I want to impress is about to be confronted with my family, though no one ever thinks they’re strange at
all. Lachlan found only kindred spirits. “She reminds me of you,” he said of Carla, “she sparkles.” He discussed Raymond Carver
with Matthew and Monty Python with Nick. Nancy, in California, was present by way of Matthew’s laptop, which he set on the
table to include her in the fun via Skype. This, to Lachlan, was madness, and the rest of us just found it irritating, so
I put the computer to sleep while Matthew was too busy cooking and serving to notice.