Stories from my first kitchen

Not many days ago, I had emailed my friend Andrew, of the bingo and meatballs, with a tale from the days when I actually DID do a cooking class. Andrew loved the story and wondered why it hadn't been posted here. A very good question. I guess I have been focusing more on recipes and stories of my family, but those early, "formative" days in my first kitchen are indeed a part of what and who I am. So I will post that story, some day. But today, I'm going to post another one from that kitchen. I think it's more revealing than many things I could write. And the mood just seems right.

The kitchen in question is one I shared with three roommates during my last two years of law school. The first of those years was way better than the second, and this story is from that period.

I lived with two law students, Brian and Steve, and an MBA student named Chad. Yes, there were Chads before they were hanging. I think of all of us, Chad has kept his youthful idealism much more than the rest. No question about it. He actually teaches business ethics. Thank heavens someone does. I remember the stand he took when he wouldn't take a summer internship with a company that had a big presence in the meat packing industry because he didn't eat meat. And he had wonderful parents who supported his decision every bit of the way. When I finally met mom (Ardith), it was love at first sight. Well, Chad features in this story, a bit later. And if you stick with this one, you'll know why I wanted you to have that introduction.

I was in law school from 1979-1982. Much happened in all of our lives during that period of time. And one thing that happened, and it was a BAD thing - a very bad thing - was John Lennon being killed. He was shot the day before Brian, Steve and I had to take our final exam in constitutional law. For those of you who do not share the law school experience, the final in "con law," as we called it, was akin to things like rabbinical certification, circumcision, and anything along those lines you can imagine. So we were all pretty wired, and trying to forget all of it by watching Monday night football. Chad, kind soul that he was, and is, was watching it with us, although he was a rugby and squash kinda guy, for whom football bore no interest whatsoever. The news broadcast interrupted the game, and we all listened. But the three law students were all so caught up in the intricacies of due process and equal protection analysis, that it just didn't register - or so it seemed. We studied as late as we could, and went to bed, nervous, but as confident as three students could be, for the four hour exam we had the next day.

It wasn't pretty. I remember wondering why I had so much time after I had answered the third question, and why was there another page in my exam book? OOPS. There was question number 4. And I had thirty minutes to write an anawer. My next door seat mate, Steve N, recalls me just laughing helplessly as I tried to outline the pros and cons of Roe v Wade as it applied to basic constitutional law. Yeah, try doing that in half an hour.

When I have an exam, or a difficult task in front of me that requires careful concentration or presentation, it's like a balloon: the minute it's done, it "pops." I remember none of it. And then, what has been held at bay comes out. And it hit me : John Lennon had been shot. I remember it was cold, I was tired, and I went back to our apartment, really at a loss of what to do.

We had the progressive rock station on, and of course, it was filled with remembrances of John Lennon. Interviews, recordings, the whole nine yards. And as I listened, I did what I always do when I'm glum: I wandered into the kitchen. I pulled out chocolate. Eggs . Butter. Flour. Sugar. And I got to work. Brownies. Chocolate cake. Cup cakes. I went out to the store for more. Chocolate pudding. And I wasn't done. The chocolate chip cookies were up next. Tray, after tray after tray. Somehow, by cooking, I fought off the blues. For a while. Somewhere about tray number six, they played someone doing in improvisation on "Imagine," and then John Lennon's recording of it. That song always slays me. Has there ever been a more beautiful statement of what things COULD be like ? Well, it got to me. And after four or five hours of holding it back, I broke. And I just started sobbing. Not crying, mind you. Just big, deep, wrenching sobs, like I didn't know I had in me (I still wonder how salty that batch of cookies tasted). I didn't turn around, I was too distraught. And the next thing I remember was Chad's arms around me. Chad was, and is straight. And he knew I was gay. And it didn't matter. He was taking care of a f riend. Doing nothing , just holding me, his head on my shoulder, not holding tight, just holding me and letting me sob. Not saying a word, just being there.

I still remember that warmth. And I still remember saying "it's ok, I'll be alright," and Chad saying "Yeah, you'll be alright, but it will never be ok again. Everything changed today. But now, we have to figure out what to do What do we do with this cake?"

Well, four guys in their twenties can make a good dent in sweets, but we had a LOT to do. So, since it was exams for both of us, and everyone needs sugar during these long exams in business school and law school, what we did for the next few days, is we brought the goodies to our schools, and gave them away. Yes, we could have sold them, and we thought about that, but decided that John Lennon would not have wanted it that way.

To this day, when something truly traumatic happens, I head to the kitchen, and I cook. I cook big. I've gotten a lot more leery of people touching me, and I'm not sure if what Chad did would have the same impact, but I will never forget that moment in the kitchen when I felt like someone was protecting me, someone was watching over me, and I didn't have to be afraid.

Chad and I have very much fallen out of touch, simply by the "slings and arrows" that control our lives. I'm going to try to find him and send him this little story.

So, thank you Andrew, for waking that memory up again, and thank you Chad, for doing what you always did, and I suspect still do, so well. We used to call Chad the doctor, the patcher, the fixer in the apartment. I bet he still is.

And I still make chocolate chip cookies. Chad, you want some? I realize I owe you. Let me know where to send them