Is there anything better than having someone cook for you and invite you in? I found the measure of friendship in a home-cooked meal.
The year my father died, I learned about friendship.
You might have read some of my posts about the rough year I had when my father was dying. I found myself in Ardmore, Oklahoma — the town where I was born, and the Mayberry-ish place my parents had been living since 1952. I left Ardmore when I turned 18, waving goodbye from my rear view mirror. But challenging circumstances led to the purchase of a house there, and many many days spent trying to help my parents. I was dealing with heartbreaking circumstances, and I missed my husband, my kids, my friends.
A chance encounter with the friend of a friend
I was running into Cafe Alley, the best restaurant in town, to pick up some carryout. I was hungry — hungry for Cafe Alley’s smoked chicken, but starving for friendship and companionship. Through the crowd, I saw Vicky. Vicky is the best friend and partner of Chris, who I have known since I was 3. Here is a picture of Chris and me in preschool, making drums out of oatmeal containers for Thanksgiving:
I think I had met Vicky once. I did not think she would remember me. I hesitantly approached. I introduced myself, and started to explain my presence in Ardmore, and that I’ve known Chris forever.
Vicky looked me in the eye, gave me a huge hug, told me it was wonderful to see me, and said that I must come to dinner for a home-cooked meal. She was lovely. I did not expect anything to come of it, as Vicky and Chris are busy — involved in the community, devoted to their families, and they love to travel. I barely knew Vicky and hadn’t spent much time with Chris in the last 35 years. Plus I was kind of a sad and displaced person. I don’t think I would have been lining up to have dinner with someone in my mind frame.
An invitation for dinner, the continuation of an old friendship, and the start of a new one
Within a week Vicky had in fact invited me for dinner. I argued that I didn’t want her to have to cook for me. No problem — Chris does the cooking, she’s on cleanup duty.
And so we enjoyed a home-cooked meal in their house, and started a wonderful pattern where they cook for me and pour me good wines, and I feel like I’m home. It is often just the three of us, but sometimes they include others. The food is always outstanding. Sometimes we eat on the patio. Occasionally the dining room table is set. One time we ate potato soup on the couch. We’ve had pot roast, roasted spatchcocked chicken, paella, and bolognese with risotto. (I should do a posts of some of Chris’ food!). We laugh and gossip. Vicky is patient when Chris and I share old stories of growing up together, and I get to see the full and productive life they have made in our little home town.
The food rocks, and the wine is terrific. But the experience — the generosity, the community, and the kindness — is like a hug. I come to their house worn out and discouraged, and I leave nourished and refreshed. This is the measure of friendship.
For more in the series “The Measure of Friendship,” please see:
The Measure of Friendship: Kalisa
The Measure of Friendship: A Special Birthday Celebration
