Caesar Salad and the Algorithm for Love
The plot thickens here, you know. We’re mixing egg yolks with oil and vinegar, we’re emulsifying, and before we know it it’ll be difficult to tell where you begin and where I end. Once the eggs and oil and vinegar are completely combined, add a tablespoon of anchovy paste (for umami), fresh ground black pepper (for heat and depth) and kosher salt (to taste). Keep mixing. Everything should be evenly dispersed; we want a bit of this and a bit of that in every bite. Taste it but remember that we still have many more steps until the salad is complete.
Using a serrated knife, cube a loaf of sourdough bread for croutons. Toss the bread cubes in butter and a mix of herbs then put them in the oven at 350°F until golden brown. Remove from heat before they burn. I’ve burned far too many croutons by simply forgetting them. Chop the romaine lettuce into bite-size pieces—it’s too much for us to handle whole. Now you have all the components of a Caesar salad. Are you ready to combine? Are you sure? Because once everything is in that bowl you can’t try to pick out just the golden-brown croutons or just the Parmesan crumbs or just the bite-size pieces of lettuce or just the granules of salt. There’s no going back to the distinctly separate components, and it’s rude to pick at your food.
I’m trying to learn your language, you know. I wish I could download all of your stories into my head so I wouldn’t forget. Can’t you write me a code for remembering the drops of honey in your eyes? Can’t you coerce your line of data into something other than C language, something more like a recipe or a poem? I’ll tell you, I performed an exhaustive search of my hard drive after I slurred that first liquor-soaked “I love you” but I couldn’t find a single error condition so I left that note up in the air until the alcohol evaporated and all that was left were the letters, crisp and clear. When you wrote the same ones for me, I watched the air leave your moving lips and form clouds in the cold. I felt that I could sit upon those enchanting puffs of your breath and float there forever.
If we make salads fearlessly, tossing little green leaves around in a big bowl with our bare fingers, pinky promising beneath the dressing, does that mean we’ve found it? Have we explored further than before and happened upon some delightful chunk of data stream all our own? I’m not sure. I’ll tell you that between me chewing bites and you programming bytes we form an unexpected flavor profile. I’ll tell you that sometimes when we’re walking through this city I feel a strange thrill in my heart, like we’ve already arrived, like the roots of the trees around us are pushing our strides imperceptibly closer together until we’re no longer two shadows on the sidewalk but one. I look into the eyes of the strangers we pass as I always have, but I’m no longer searching for something within them to claim. Now I’m wondering if they’ve found it, if they know what we know and if it looks the same as ours.
Ours, ours, our lush oasis drifting above time and space and yet so completely rooted in the reality of each moment, each smile line deepening when we laugh, each brushing of your lips on the crook of my neck, each intentional glance from across dining room tables, each mug of black coffee sipped and spilled and shared, each easy silence. Everything tastes brighter here. Everything makes less sense but makes more love here and I never want to leave. The plot thickens where we begin.