Sitting in my kitchen drinking tepid tea, willing the phone to ring.

Filling the silent moments with the memories of our recent conversations. And daring myself to dream.

The most beautiful day, unseasonably warm, sunnily passing by my windows.
But I'm just waiting for it to end.

And with his consent.
The Chef.
In repose.

A Change of Plans

The announcement came a couple of days ago that this would be a casual affair. There would be no caterers for Monsieur Ex was determined to delve into the mysteries of the American Thanksgiving dinner and prove himself master of Turkey With all the Trimmings. His boyfriend, for his part, had unearthed a very large book of recipes in which the chapter on pies was well-thumbed, and it was his fervent desire to reproduce for our gathering his mother's famous pumpkin pie. It would just be the three of us, they said, and I was immediately captivated by the cosiness this night promised. Charged by the spirit of my two hosts I spent the day before alone in my own kitchen amid quantities of apples and, unobserved and untutored, with nothing more than a few helpful tips gleaned from the supermarket cashier still revolving in my head, I finally emerged with my first homemade apple pie.

I arrived with my parcel at 3 o'clock, the appointed hour, to find my friends closeted in the kitchen which had become ground central in the flat. Pots steamed. Bread cooled. And in the midst of this two grown men wrestled with a turkey the size of a five year old child. Naturally we had drinks. In the living room we sat on plush sofas and sipped strong liqueurs while wafting through the flat came the fragrant aromas that seemed to present themselves severally and individually for inspection. We became aware of the exotics first, the cinnamon, the cardomon, the cloves. Then came the savoury scent of roasting turkey, all but stopping conversation dead as our hunger peaked.

Dinner Was Served

We piled our plates with turkey and gravy, with steamed zucchini and carrots, with stuffing and hot buttered bread. All lovingly prepared by the hosts themselves and all absolutely delicious. We sipped the excellent beaujolais and passed the platters round again and again, refilling our plates. Never had we enjoyed such a feast. The hours passed in this very pleasant manner and eventually coffee was brought to the table. It was followed quickly by linzer torte, pumpkin pie and my own apple pie. I can tell you we took our time over these. There was ice cream too and a lovely cognac, which made our heads swim.

And Then We Were Five

Night had fallen and the three of us were flung carelessly on the plush sofas smoking companionably and drinking whatever lay at hand. The homely aura that hung about this scene had allowed us long ago to kick off our shoes, and we none of us felt the need to stifle our occasional yawns. At around 9 o'clock two others who had promised to drop in for drinks appeared. A colleague of Monsieur Ex, far from her native France, and her bosom friend, a Greek baritone currently performing in (to me, at least) an obscure opera. The woman was small and exquisitely dressed but neither of these facts nor that she was the only woman in a room thick with men caused her the slightest ruffle. She chattered on unself-consiously in a charming mixture of French and English which perfectly matched those curious utterances of Monsieur Ex.

I was suddenly seized with a passionate interest in opera and put one or two questions to the frankly handsome baritone. He pulled his chair quite close and treated me to his smiling dulcet responses. In an accent enriched by Milanese la-la-la, he paid me rash compliments and I looked into his frankly beautiful eyes and tried to change the subject. We spoke of our mutual affection for Milan and of our upcoming Christmas holidays. We touched benignly on great operas, and I silently chastised myself for never having paid much attention to the baritone roles. At some point he took my hands in his and I felt a tremor run through me at his frankly sensual touch.

The Last Act

The time had come for the guests to relieve the hosts of their responsibilities and we did so with gentle tributes and kisses and little pats. I, for one, was most appreciative of the relaxed tone of the day and will forever remember this as my favourite Thanksgiving. My two new acquaintances and I surveyed the deserted streets and instantly lost all hope of finding taxis. Finally one came and it had the lady's name written all over it. I bade her goodnight and the baritone kissed her cheeks and we were thus left to our own devices, which manifested themselves in the form of two espressos at a late-night cafe several yards away.

It was clear we were embarking on rougher seas which lie far beyond flirting. I had no business sitting across from this man and as I was mentally grappling with all the reasons why not, he leaned closer and hovered there, his lips inches from mine.

A Change of Plans

The announcement came a couple of days ago that this would be a casual affair. There would be no caterers for Monsieur Ex was determined to delve into the mysteries of the American Thanksgiving dinner and prove himself master of Turkey With all the Trimmings. His boyfriend, for his part, had unearthed a very large book of recipes in which the chapter on pies was well-thumbed, and it was his fervent desire to reproduce for our gathering his mother's famous pumpkin pie. It would just be the three of us, they said, and I was immediately captivated by the cosiness this night promised. Charged by the spirit of my two hosts I spent the day before alone in my own kitchen amid quantities of apples and, unobserved and untutored, with nothing more than a few helpful tips gleaned from the supermarket cashier still revolving in my head, I finally emerged with my first homemade apple pie.

I arrived with my parcel at 3 o'clock, the appointed hour, to find my friends closeted in the kitchen which had become ground central in the flat. Pots steamed. Bread cooled. And in the midst of this two grown men wrestled with a turkey the size of a five year old child. Naturally we had drinks. In the living room we sat on plush sofas and sipped strong liqueurs while inhaling the fragrant aromas that wafted through the apartment and seemed to present themselves severally and individually for inspection. We became aware of the exotics first, the cinnamon, the cardomon, the cloves. Then came the savoury scent of roasting turkey, all but stopping conversation dead as our hunger peaked.

Dinner Was Served

We piled our plates with turkey and gravy, with steamed zucchini and carrots, with stuffing and hot buttered bread. All lovingly prepared by the hosts themselves and all absolutely delicious. We sipped the excellent beaujolais and passed the platters round again and again, refilling our plates. Never had we enjoyed such a feast. The hours passed in this very pleasant manner and eventually coffee was brought to the table. It was followed quickly by linzer torte, pumpkin pie and my own apple pie. I can tell you we took our time over these. There was ice cream too and a lovely cognac, which made our heads swim.

Night had fallen and the three of us were flung carelessly on the plush sofas smoking companionably and drinking whatever lay at hand. The homely aura that hung about this scene had allowed us long ago to kick off our shoes, and we none of us felt the need to stifle our occasional yawns.

The Last Act

The time had come for the guest to relieve his hosts of their responsibilities and I did so with gentle tributes and embraces and little pats. I, for one, was most appreciative of the relaxed tone of the day and will forever remember this as my favourite Thanksgiving.

I imagine some attempt will be made to uphold the traditions of this time-honoured feast, but there may be one or two twists. One may, for example, find turkey on the menu, though I suspect the caterers will have tarted it up a bit and whipped it into a bisque or ingeniously layered it in puff pastry.

Champagne will inevitably flow.

I've been invited to share Thanksgiving dinner at the apartment of Monsieur Ex and his new boyfriend. The assembled guests will be chirpy and fun and decidedly Euro. The rooms will fill with lanky black-clad beings exhaling whorls of duty-free smoke and idiom. Every one happy to be surrounded by so many flowers and friends. Every one in his heart giving thanks for this something to do, a place to be as everything else is shut.

Do you know, I think I'll go.

Only about an hour outside of New York and easily accessible by train. He cooks, you see, and there are other enticements as well. Did I mention he has a spare bicycle?

(1.) The judge, presenting his compliments to JHP takes pains to remind him that no fewer than three of his telephone messages have gone unanswered. He acknowledges the possibility that JHP is overbusy, though he is quite at a loss to imagine any endeavour so taxing as to keep a man from the simple, almost effortless job of returning a message.

(2.) JHP presents his compliments to the judge and begs to thank him for the concern he has most considerately shown. He trusts the worthy judge has enjoyed his recent holiday in Amsterdam, and rings off with his best wishes and a hearty, 'see you soon'.

(3.) The judge, some five minutes later, laments having missed JHP again, and the necessity of having to address an answering machine. He has become annoyed with the game of 'phone-tag' and would be glad to know if he shall soon have the pleasure of JHP's company. He is a patient man and asks but little in life.

(4.) JHP regrets that during the past few weeks his time has not been his own and unfortunately can see no end to the rigours of his schedule. The good judge seems to be more than usually occupied himself, JHP remarks, as he too has been obliged to communicate with the gentleman's voicemail. The patience the judge exhibits is admirable and JHP, on his side, shall try his best to imitate it.

(5.) The judge is extremely dismayed to discover that the state of the world is such that two friends who live five minutes away from each other find such difficulty in organising an interview. He begs to know if JHP (who makes time for everything else) will make time to accept an invitation, humbly given, for drinks tomorrow night?

(6.) JHP is sorry to disappoint the judge but prior commitments demand his presence elsewhere on that night and he must again be denied the honour of that gentleman's pleasant company. He wishes the judge, in the ringing tones of finality, a good weekend.

(To this message no reply has been given.)

For weeks the sun has risen and set on days of delightful solitude and worthy contemplation. I see few people and the invitations that once piled pyramidically on my writing table are now just a memory. New York has finally given up on me and I for one couldn't be more pleased. My withdrawal from society has been dramatically absolute. Then came beautiful Betty and her husband Alex simply panting to have me present as they welcomed the world (a world inhabited predominantly by refugees of old blighty) to the opening of their new boutique. Naturally I went. How could I say no with beguiling Betty’s eyelids batting and Alex pouring promises of French champagne in my ear? They were all there and it was good to see the old crowd, but I was beginning to run out of polite excuses to explain my recent retirement.

We raised our glasses in tribute to our host and hostess and to the beautiful shop, and then, mercifully, I was led away by Betty on a tour of the merchandise. Here I shall come, and so should you, for the perfect gift for well, almost any man. Lord Willy's (for such is the name of this new downtown gem) is just the very place for custom shirts; solids, stripes, what you will, with an array of boxer shorts and pocket squares to match, because, as I often say, coordination is key and it’s not enough to be smart, one must be comprehensive. Unfortunately it’s not really mon truc, but my Christmas list is sorted.

I stayed exactly ten minutes and after a discreet farewell and best wishes to the two entrepreneurs I stole away like a thief in the night. I was home by nine o'clock.

I promised myself I wouldn't write about him here. No veiled descriptions and no third person accounts of romantic meals and city strolls. He knows too well the kinds of stories that fill this space. I do wonder if he'll think I'm denying him a priveledge by leaving him out, or paying him the highest honour.

I tried so hard
All summer through
Not to think too much of you
But the more I try
The more I find
I just can’t leave the past behind.

Times that are happy are times that are few
And once I was happy when I had you.

But days have come and gone since you were here
Nights are twice as long without you near
Pictures on my mind stand out so clear
No matter where I am or what I do
My darling
All I see is you.

You’re there in every dream I ever dream
There at every place I’ve ever been.

Everyday I find
You’re in my heart
And on my mind
I close my eyes
But I’m not blind
I see you still.

And when I throw my arms out wide
I find that you’re not by my side
But one thing is for sure
Until I do
All I see is you.

I won’t live again
Until I’m with you.
I won’t love again
Unless it’s with you.

So until the day
When you are back
With me to stay
In every way
All I see is you.

Dusty Springfield, I must admit, said it best.