Cheddar and Port, Cookies and Milk and a Long Gone Romance
Posted: Friday, November 18, 2011
by Christofer French
Rain Dancer Associates, LLC
“We fought that night when we had dark red Port and almost orange sharp cheddar.
You made me feel bad when you said that wonderful taste you get in your mouth would always be colored by our harsh feelings.
That was 20 years ago, and here I sit in an Italian Restaurant down by the docks. We actually used to come here. But now, I chew the cheddar and let the blood red sweet wine pour over my teeth and down my throat.
Does that mean that you and I could talk again?
What a silly thing to think and say. You know how silly I am. You said you loved it when I was silly because I didn’t look like a silly guy.
But truth is. My head’s not quite right. 20 years ago I was happier and sillier.
You always said they went together in me.
I just ordered my Port. I think I might as well order a whole bottle, but I would have a funny look on my face when the waitress looked at me…like Mr. whoeveryouare --- “You’ve got to be kidding, most people can’t stand more than two glasses of Port. What are you a wino?”
Of course, she didn’t say that, because I didn’t order another bottle. I just ordered another glass.
Silly Cookies and Milk
Remember what you used to say? That Port and Cheddar were the adult versions of Chocolate Chip Cookies and Milk. I laughed. We both agreed.
The next day, you know, after our unforgettable fight, I am the one who delivered you that cold milk and Chips Ahoy. I paid a kid ten bucks to leave it. I was a block away, I saw the whole thing. You opened the door. After the delivery boy left, you took the gift in. And that was it. That was the end of us. I still can’t believe it.
You know, I should have left a note. I should have apologized. At least that way a note would be meaningful and poignant, and then every year, maybe, just maybe you would read it, and maybe you would get it into your beautiful head to call the crazy guy.
But no. What do I do? I leave cookies and milk. All for the sake of your analogy. Weak. Or as the kids say: “Lame”.
Aren’t people hard to figure? We stay mad forever over a fight. And yet, a fool like me doesn’t understand that you probably were happy that I caused this stupid fight because you wanted to get rid of me anyway. You just have to get over Love, don’t you? I guess that’s just what it is.
Am I stuck to the memory of you because of our weird ending? Did I love you so deeply that the roots went down so deep that I didn’t understand that our little flower just had this incredible root system?
Or, is it just that I didn’t realize how much I loved you, and how little you loved me?
Wow.
I just drank the whole second glass. I chomped on way too much cheddar. You always said. I will never forget. You said it as you were laughing and eating, so your voice sounded like two birds cackling: “You stupid, you ate so much cheddar there, you’re going to need a whole mouthful of Port. Here.”
Then you kept the Port coming as if all that Cheddar would kill me.
It didn’t. I am still here.
Fog Horns and Misty Lights
Here I am. That old style grocer is still in business across the street. You can hear the fog horns and see the misty lights all around, as a front comes in. Old Anthony, he is still working that late shift. His kids are all gone and moved out of the neighborhood. Local teenagers work for him. Look, there’s a late night shopper. She crossed the street to go to the Grocer. And now she is coming back. Nice gams.
I always used to joke the only reason I liked you was because of your perfect calves.
I know, I joked too much. I didn’t revere you on the outside like I was on the inside. I tried to do different styles with my last wife, and the three friends in between you and all of them.
I really did try to do things differently, but always, it was a correction of my style for you.
That shows you. I have never gotten over you. It’s nights like these that tip me over and drop me like a rotten sack of potatoes.
The memory of you and your love, and the loss of you and your love…….have kicked my butt.
No. I am not suicidal. Writing this long long long letter to you….is me making up for that stupid gift of cookies and milk.
So, this letter, this one I write once a year, down here at the harbor. After 10 years I realized that anybody with brains would have written to you and apologized like a bawling baby. 10 years is still late, I know that.
But I thought those 10 years of writing these letters from these red and white plastic table cloths on these ancient wooden tables. I thought that all that would do something to you, even if all it meant was that you would write me a letter, or call me and tell me to shut the hell up.
Well, I still love you with an ardent heart. I know I never used the word “ardent”, but writing these letters for the last 10 years has made me build up my vocabulary.
Smoothing Your Hair Back…
I still long for those times when I would push my hand on your forehead and smooth your hair back. I still long for those times when I would hunt for that elf in your head, that sported a merry smile, and a quizzical look, and was so elusive. You were always so elusive. But then, damn, there were those times when I really knew you loved me.
I hated that fight that knocked us out. And I hate whatever it is in me that was not able to restore us, or at least find a way to make us look at each other again. The fault is definitely mine!
So, I still love you, but this is going to be my last letter.
Even older younger women, you know – “older younger women” – they call me Mister, and Sir and smile at me with politeness. Guys know what all that means. It means you are just old – damned old.
And frankly, I try to not look in the mirror, but sometimes two mirrors catch you, and you can’t stop. You look at yourself and say. “Why do you even try?”
Especially, why do you keep writing those silly letters once a year, in the Old Italian restaurant in the harbor, and then mail them to your house.
Even this behavior, you bizarre SOB, should make you quit. When you are this sick in love, you are just sick.
This is my last letter honey.”
A cold breeze pushed its way to the back of the restaurant as a woman in a long leather coat came in carrying a brown grocery sack up in front of her face. I couldn’t see her face, but she had great calves.
She walked right up to my table and dropped the sack.
“Stop writing those love sick poems.” She reached into the sack and placed a cold quart of milk on the table, and a bag of Italian chocolate chip cookies next to it.
“Mister, some old woman gave me ten bucks to deliver these to you. Are you the sorry dude who can’t stop writing love letters?”
“Yes. I am the sorry dude --The sorry dude with a smile on his face”.
Then, we kissed for a very long time.
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Top-level comments on this article: (5 total)This story should be a book covering the whole relationship, it might be a best seller. It kept me interested and wanting to know more, and I don't even read romance novels...Elle, you sound like my wife. Things are cogitating. Thanks for your vote.
I agreed with Elle, you could write for romance magazines!I never saw myself that way until it came out of my after joining Wryte Stuff.
I so love your writing, Christofer. It's just beautiful.I was in a mood, and out came this. Thanks for your kindness.
You did it again you old smoothy you!Thanks for your notice.
Nicely done Christopher!
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