Read Online Eye of the Whale by Douglas Carlton Abrams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Carlton Abrams
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synonymous. After her dissertation was finished, she again promised herself, she’d learn how to cook.
While cooking was an art that escaped Elizabeth, baking was a science that she at least understood. She kept flipping through the box looking for the recipe. At last she found the one card she had used before. The title for Italian cream cake was written in English, and the ingredients and directions were written out in red ink. Red meant that this was one of Frank’s favorite recipes, and the three exclamation marks in the upper-right-hand corner indicated that it was his favorite food of all. Frank’s mother had made this cake on everybirthday since he was born. Baby Frank had probably gone directly from breast milk to Italian cream cake.
Elizabeth pulled the card and then knelt at her yellow Pelican case, which was lying by the front door. Holding the recipe card in her teeth, she used both hands to open the clasps. As she opened the cover, her heart started racing.
Where’s the DAT recorder? In a flash of dread, she realized she must have left it on Teo’s boat. She had been in such a hurry that she had grabbed her Pelican case and hadn’t double-checked to make sure all her equipment was in place. She had not been in her right mind, but she was annoyed at her carelessness. She picked up the tape from the whale rescue that she had carefully removed and labeled that morning. Thank God, she still had the recordings from just before and after the song had changed. But now she would need to go into the office to turn the recordings into digital files and post them to WhaleNet.
There was still plenty of time before the guests—really just Tom and Jenny—arrived. Frank was coming home early to start cooking. He loved to cook, having learned it at his mother’s side, although she thought it was somehow a character flaw that her son should enjoy it so much. Elizabeth wrote out a note to Frank and tucked the recipe into the Pelican case to take to the store.
F RANK PUT DOWN the two full bags of groceries and looked at the note that Elizabeth had written on the flip side of his note to her. The straight letters were efficient and well formed: Don’t let the party begin without me! Off to the office. Home around 1600. He tossed the card on the table, disappointed that she had gone to the office before he even had a chance to see her. What can’t wait until tomorrow?
He decided to change his mood with some music. There was no cooking without music, loud music, so he hit his “Italian cooking”playlist. He had not had time to cook a proper meal since medical school, and he looked at the kitchen like a long-absent lover. He took out a bottle of Riserva Barolo to let it breathe—and to taste it. He held the cool glass and ran his finger across the label. How long had it been since he had drunk a good bottle of wine and celebrated with friends? He recalled the life of joy and laughter he had known in Boston before residency and fellowship, before a blanket of numbness and exhaustion had enveloped him. The deep red wine stung his mouth, its blend of oak, black cherry, and plum awakening his tongue.
Flavor, his mother would always say, could not be added; it must be the foundation for everything, and so all Italian cooking began with soffritto. Frank chopped the onions and the parsley, then stirred the translucent heap as it cooked in the extra-virgin olive oil. Many made the mistake of cooking the garlic first, but if the garlic cooked too long, it would turn bitter. In Frank’s opinion, one could never have enough garlic—he crushed a dozen cloves with the flat of his knife. Once the skin was removed, he chopped them finely to bring out their full flavor. Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” began to play. Holding down the tip of the blade with his left hand, Frank sliced the plump cloves along with the increasing tempo of the song.
He used the back of the knife to scrape the garlic into the
While cooking was an art that escaped Elizabeth, baking was a science that she at least understood. She kept flipping through the box looking for the recipe. At last she found the one card she had used before. The title for Italian cream cake was written in English, and the ingredients and directions were written out in red ink. Red meant that this was one of Frank’s favorite recipes, and the three exclamation marks in the upper-right-hand corner indicated that it was his favorite food of all. Frank’s mother had made this cake on everybirthday since he was born. Baby Frank had probably gone directly from breast milk to Italian cream cake.
Elizabeth pulled the card and then knelt at her yellow Pelican case, which was lying by the front door. Holding the recipe card in her teeth, she used both hands to open the clasps. As she opened the cover, her heart started racing.
Where’s the DAT recorder? In a flash of dread, she realized she must have left it on Teo’s boat. She had been in such a hurry that she had grabbed her Pelican case and hadn’t double-checked to make sure all her equipment was in place. She had not been in her right mind, but she was annoyed at her carelessness. She picked up the tape from the whale rescue that she had carefully removed and labeled that morning. Thank God, she still had the recordings from just before and after the song had changed. But now she would need to go into the office to turn the recordings into digital files and post them to WhaleNet.
There was still plenty of time before the guests—really just Tom and Jenny—arrived. Frank was coming home early to start cooking. He loved to cook, having learned it at his mother’s side, although she thought it was somehow a character flaw that her son should enjoy it so much. Elizabeth wrote out a note to Frank and tucked the recipe into the Pelican case to take to the store.
F RANK PUT DOWN the two full bags of groceries and looked at the note that Elizabeth had written on the flip side of his note to her. The straight letters were efficient and well formed: Don’t let the party begin without me! Off to the office. Home around 1600. He tossed the card on the table, disappointed that she had gone to the office before he even had a chance to see her. What can’t wait until tomorrow?
He decided to change his mood with some music. There was no cooking without music, loud music, so he hit his “Italian cooking”playlist. He had not had time to cook a proper meal since medical school, and he looked at the kitchen like a long-absent lover. He took out a bottle of Riserva Barolo to let it breathe—and to taste it. He held the cool glass and ran his finger across the label. How long had it been since he had drunk a good bottle of wine and celebrated with friends? He recalled the life of joy and laughter he had known in Boston before residency and fellowship, before a blanket of numbness and exhaustion had enveloped him. The deep red wine stung his mouth, its blend of oak, black cherry, and plum awakening his tongue.
Flavor, his mother would always say, could not be added; it must be the foundation for everything, and so all Italian cooking began with soffritto. Frank chopped the onions and the parsley, then stirred the translucent heap as it cooked in the extra-virgin olive oil. Many made the mistake of cooking the garlic first, but if the garlic cooked too long, it would turn bitter. In Frank’s opinion, one could never have enough garlic—he crushed a dozen cloves with the flat of his knife. Once the skin was removed, he chopped them finely to bring out their full flavor. Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” began to play. Holding down the tip of the blade with his left hand, Frank sliced the plump cloves along with the increasing tempo of the song.
He used the back of the knife to scrape the garlic into the
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