Zimmer: Pierogi & a Park

8

Although Amelia had sent the professor home with the bulk of the leftovers – for that seemed like the right thing to do for the widower – she still had her fair share of the pipérade sauce left for breakfast.

As Bellamy’s recipe instructed for Eggs and Chorizo Shakshouka (or Shakshuka) Style, she first crisped the slices of chorizo in the pan before adding the sauce, with the addition of another half a teaspoon of chilli flakes for added heat. And finally the eggs were cracked into the pan and covered with a lid until sunny side up and ready to tuck in, straight out of the pan, with a side of oven toasted sourdough.

Amelia thought in this moment, how far she had come from the black coffee and segmented grapefruit half barely a week ago.

It was a cold morning, a light rain rushing by with the icy wind in sheets against the muted tones outside, glum and gloomy. As she nestled into the sofa with breakfast, she was grateful for the warmth of the meal. Ailuros was still fast asleep on the bed, barely having stirred in hours. Amelia however, felt a restlessness in herself. She had showered that morning, before breakfast, but all in her cupboard had seemed so very dull. Little colour. Little flair.

She thought again on all her nana’s silk stockings, how bright, how luxurious.

When she was in the kitchen, she had begun to sense an emboldened version of herself creeping in, slowly but surely, whether chopping herbs with her mezzaluna or preparing a freshly ground espresso with her new stovetop maker. But in all other aspects, she came undone with her aspirations. She was just the plain old freelance editor she’d always been, leaving little to chance in her life as in her work. Simply dotting i’s and crossing t’s.

A full stop here and a full stop there. Few exclamation points, and nothing in the way of promising ellipses. It wasn’t quite that she didn’t like who she was. She just wanted to be a smidgeon more in life, if she only tried a little harder. Just a smidgeon. That didn’t seem too much to ask.

The flavoursome chorizo shakshouka having braced her for the outdoors, she gave the dozing feline a stroking.

“See ya later, sleepy,” she whispered, before grabbing her cotton carry bag and heading for the door. Amelia was off for a second date with her former fairy godmother, for when in doubt, she always believed, consult an expert. And in this case, if Renate couldn’t help her, no one could.

She drove to Buschle’s Boutique in her grandfather’s old fiat, usually preferring to walk but limited by the inclement weather. The door was closed but the sign said ‘Open.’ From the cold of the outside to the warm golden light of the chandelier inside, it was even more enchanting than before.

“Hello again,” a familiar voice greeted her. “What will it be this time, dahling?”

“To be honest, Renate, I’m going to require a bit more assistance today. Everything in my wardrobe feels so drab... So... Plain. It serves me well enough, I guess. But maybe just a little colour or uh, pizzazz, here and there might help.” Amelia considered even her attire for the day, an old and faded orange polar neck jersey, black leggings and her white gumboots; hardly inspiring. And she didn’t even like orange.

“Well, if I may be frank, you have an understated, uh, demure prettiness about you, and your petite size and height need not necessarily be an impediment with the right choices. So let me see what we can find for you. Three pieces will do for now, for I do not wish to, uh, how do you say, overwhelm you so soon.” Renate smiled at the hint of a joke on her part. Amelia in turn, smiled a welcome smile of gratitude.

“First things first, that jersey washes you out, if you don’t mind me saying. I have something that came in earlier today in just your size.” She motioned to one of the racks and removed a cashmere cardigan from its hanger. It was a cream knit with a high collar and small red roses embroidered at the join alongside the red buttons and button holes and again around the sleeves. To accentuate the embroidery, a red trim traced its outline. Soft to the touch, Amelia adored it immediately.

“This is German vintage wear at its finest. No better quality,” Renate enthused. “You like?”

“Oh very much!” One item down and Amelia was already feeling cheerier since she had left the house.

“Next a suitable pair of leg wear for one so short but I have just the cure.” Renate produced from yet another hanger a pair of high-waisted, straight leg denims. “You see, being short and slight, one has to think a little like, uh, an illusionist, and these are the perfect pants to create height for your frame, but best to try on, as pants can be tricky.”

Relegated to the changing room, Amelia was pleased to find the denims a perfect fit. Renate certainly had an eye for size.

“Be a dahling and try this on with the jeans while you are in there,” Renate suddenly chimed in, passing a blouse over the fitting curtain. It was an 80’s inspired, cream fitted crop blouse of silk, satin lined tulle with floral detail in touches of pink and blue and green and gold. Beyond this, the blouse had the bewitching addition of scores of multicoloured sequins with ruching along the bust and voluminous sleeves. Her midriff peeking only a little, it was an ideal pairing with the high-waisted denims.

“Now let us have a look-see,” the voice from the other side of the curtain spoke. Amelia followed her instruction and came out and performed a second twirl for her advisory. “Yes, yes, just as I envisaged, dahling. The picture of demure perfection. This will do you for now. My husband used to like to joke... Have you heard that one? How do you eat an elephant? With one bite at a time! And if I may, I think we have taken a few, uh, chomps today.”

At the counter, with her three items for the day, Amelia couldn’t help but notice Renate’s elegant watch. “I like your watch,” she commented. Her grandfather had always told her that a watch reveals the make of a person, even in the absence of a watch, fascinated as he was with horology.

“Oh,” Renate cast her gaze downwards. “It was a gift from my children. They have since relocated back to Switzerland. My husband was Swiss you see, of German descent but Swiss, and this watch is modelled in the fashion of the time pieces that adorn the walls in Swiss train stations.” Suddenly Renate’s eyes moistened, a little teary, and Amelia, though concerned, waited for her to continue. “They engraved it, my children, to remind me that the pain of the loss would eventually pass, as time does, but never the memories.”

“It must be so very special,” Amelia offered. She was suddenly overcome with an almost maternal care for this woman who had before seemed like such a calm and poised stalwart. You never really knew unless you scratched a bit beneath the surface, did you? Before she could even think twice, the words left her mouth. “Would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow evening?” What was she thinking? Fearing rejection, Amelia turned a little ashen, waiting with bated breath, too terrified to utter another word.

“Um, I suppose I could hardly say no,” Renate managed a small smile in spite of her tears, as if comforted. Right then and there, as she exhaled, it suddenly dawned on Amelia that perhaps she was not the only one in need of a friend.

Of human contact, and conversation and affection.

Perhaps her widowed acquaintances needed it too, having known loss just as she had.

Once bitten, twice shy. But time to be brave again for wasn’t it like Renate had said, that time moves on, the pain a little easier, until only fond memories remain.

And yet, one must embark yet again in the pursuit of blossoming relationships. Chomp by chomp. How do you eat an elephant? She liked that. And something in her too was ever growing fonder of Renate.

Leaving Renate with her details for the following evening, Amelia returned home to consult Bellamy yet again for something she could pull out of the bag for a second act. She would phone the professor too, for although it was said that three is a crowd, she desperately prayed he might join their party should it lag at all in entertainment. If there was anyone you could count on for dazzling conversation, Jack Walsh certainly fit the bill.

***

First things first, she called on the professor and as luck would have it, he was only too happy to oblige as her additional dinner guest. Immediately she breathed a sigh of relief. Next was to decide on a fitting menu. Amelia consulted the weather for the following day. Dreary indeed. Perhaps she could move her patio table indoors for the evening. More importantly, what would she be serving up, for surely that was the main attraction of any good dinner party. And three, she supposed, did a dinner party modestly make. Finally she settled on a dish that could be prepared well in advance, aside from the few last minute garnishings.

Homemade Pierogi (or Vareniki)

The Russians, it must be said, love a good dumpling! But then again, who doesn’t? From pelemeni which are moreish little parcels usually filled with meat or fish to pierogi and vareniki which are essentially the same thing, common throughout Central and Eastern Europe and most of the old Eastern Bloc.

While vareniki is the more commonly used term in Russia, pierogi are the national dish of Poland. A dear Polish friend of mine first turned me on to these pierogi, usually filled with potato, sauerkraut, cheese, mushrooms or cabbage, and served up with sour cream, caramelised onion and crispy bacon bits. She faithfully served hers with the addition of fresh parsley, which always brightened the dish, and somehow, even at my very lowest, these delights have never failed to soothe my uneasy soul and set my mind (and belly!) at peace.

Perfect for a chilly evening to soothe any weary souls that may be in search of comfort, as humble and simple as this dish may sound, it is unwavering in its solace. As an additional benefit the dumplings can be prepared in advance, so your friends and family will not have to do without your company as you sweat away in the kitchen.

As such, I urge you, celebrate it on only your finest of china with a bottle or two of sparkling Blanc de Blanc and save it for those you hold dear.

For the dough, Amelia would need two cups of all-purpose flour, half a teaspoon of salt, one large egg, half a cup of sour cream and four tablespoons of butter. For the filling, only a cup of warm, mashed potato and a cup of sharp cheddar cheese, shredded. Finally, to finish, four tablespoons of butter in which to crisp the bacon and caramelise two large shallots, with a sprinkling of fresh parsley and a side of more sour cream. Aside from the sour cream, which she could simply pick up at the corner bodega up the road, Amelia had all she needed at hand, which made the recipe even more inviting for her upcoming dinner party. She found, too, and pleasantly so, that she was not racked with nerves as she had been before.

Wellies on and an umbrella for good measure, Amelia made the trip to Bennie’s Bodega, for the sour cream. Having returned home, she placed the book open to the necessary pages on a nifty wooden bookstand she had found recently in a thrift shop.

Although Amelia’s daily workload involved the more mundane aspects of the English language, the corrections as it were, tightly wound and regulated, she had always been something of a bibliophile and had to admit that all these new words were weaving their magic on her.

Words like bouquet garni. Or chanterelle. And now, with pierogi, vareniki and pelemeni. Even crouton. Or sprig. Words so springy to the touch on the tongue. Utterly, exquisitely darling. Words like the Italian for tarragon: dragoncello!

Words she kept discovering like a treasure hunter on Bellamy’s pages, so passionate, so full of life and exuberance, they made her blood run a little warmer under her cardigan.

But now, she resolved, back to the business of dumplings at hand.

Mixing the flour and salt she added the egg to combine. The recipe assured her that it would still feel quite clumpy and not to be alarmed. After this came the sour cream and soft butter until it all came together as a slightly rough, slightly sticky ball.

Using just her fingers, as Bellamy instructed, she kneaded and folded the dough until the dough was less sticky but still moist.

She wrapped it up in plastic wrap and left it in the refrigerator for the hour ahead. For the filling she combined the warm mashed potato she had prepared and grated cheddar cheese, stirring until the cheese was melted but the filling cool to the touch.

Finally she rolled out the dough and using a water glass rim, cut circles out of the dough, saving the scraps to be added to the boiling pot for additional snacks the following eve. Placing one and a half teaspoons of filling on each round of the dough, she carefully folded the dough over, forming the quintessential pocket around the filling and pinching the edges of the pierogi to seal them, then seal them again with the tines of a fork.

Setting aside the small pierogi on a serving platter, she covered them with a dry tea towel where they could be left to chill, ready to boil when needed. She was ever grateful for the apron the professor had given her, covered as it was now in flour and sticky bits of dough, her new cashmere cardigan without insult.

She turned again to her editing work, kitchen duties accomplished. But there was that restlessness again. Though the weather was formidable, she knew that there would still be the old faithfuls taking their hounds to the nearby park after work. She often liked to get out of the house and sit on the park bench imagining a different life for herself. One with family. One with a picket fence and petunias and a pooch.

Sometimes the dog walkers were generous enough to let her pet their animals, indulging her in some small talk and something of a break in her otherwise mundane day. So off she would go today, raincoat and gumboots and umbrella, to feel a part of something bigger than herself at the park. Once there she would, she was sure, finally find herself able to steady her restlessness and enjoy the fresh coolness and the wagging tail of a dog or two, who like her, were only too happy for the small allowance of outdoor freedom and the scent of pine needles in the rain-soaked air.

She could almost smell them already.

The cat, Amelia marvelled, was still sleeping on the bed, hardly moved.

She gave her a peck on the forehead, ever so delicately so as not to disturb her dreams too much, before heading for the door.

Seated at her usual bench, for she couldn’t deny being a creature of habit, under the cover of a magnificent wild fig, Amelia sat for some time admiring the dogs in solitude. But soon enough, a young man asked if he might share her bench. She noticed on his feet he bore no shoes. For all that he was somewhat unshaven he seemed otherwise presentable, aside from the lack of footwear, in a pair of jeans and a faded, long sleeve cotton shirt that was probably once a great deal brighter a shade of pink for Breast Cancer Awareness. Oblivious to the weather.

“I’m Ciaran,” he spoke again, rather unexpectedly, lost as Amelia had been in her own silence. “But my friends call me Tal.” Amelia detected the remnants of an Irish lilt to his accent.

“Um, Amelia,” she answered almost instinctively, suddenly second-guessing herself that it was perhaps a little unwise to reveal her identity to a complete stranger.

But she had been caught off guard by the thick dark mop of hair, a little scruffy, that so accentuated his unusually green eyes, so green to the point of disconcerting one a little at first. But kind enough, she supposed. Although she still wondered after his bare feet. Small feet. But then he was not much taller than her, and slight, almost sinewy. They were well groomed feet. She had always liked feet for some reason. While her grandfather loved watches, she was as equally fascinated by feet and footwear. Easy to contemplate without an obviously blank stare, but rather with downcast eyes.

Tal, did he say? An unlikely name for an unlikely character on a rainy day.

They sat together in silence before he spoke again.

“I have been many things in this life, Amelia, but for today I was a poet. It’s time now for foraging. You look like you could use a poem. Here. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” With that, he handed Amelia a rolled up scrap of school stationery lined paper and walked off into the distance across the park and beyond her sight.

Amelia opened up the scrap of paper. There was a poem in cursive. Cursive. In and of itself, that seemed peculiar too. But a poem from a stranger?

I am the bird

I am the uncorked wine

I am the bubbling brook,

And you,

My lily

I am the bird.

She wondered if she might ever see her barefooted stranger again. Somehow, she hoped so.

Sun Vista Dog Park, Encinitas, California by Juan Flores