THE LITTLE COWBOY FROM KEMAH In the Arms of the Angels Part One I think of her every time I make it. She loved it. Most people do. She especially did. I remember I made a huge pot for her 40th birthday. I had a house full of people and the smell of garlic and onion permeated the kitchen. Everybody loved the flavor of my sauce, the taste of the red wine and soothing sounds of Dean Martin. It was a wonderful evening and probably the last time she had my spaghetti. She had piercing green eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a smile that was bright and warm enough to melt a man’s heart. I know it did mine. Her name was Cat. There was an inner peace behind that smile as well. She was quite comfortable with who she was and where she came from. She was open, honest and generous. I never saw her get mad. She seemed to be in such harmony with life. I believe that’s what drew me to her the most. I had recently been divorced and had to pick up the pieces of my life and glue myself back together again. When I met her I think the glue was still a little wet and she recognized that. She had such an appreciation for the little things in life. She routinely came to my house after her long commute from work and would disappear into my bedroom. She would reappear wearing only one of my big denim shirts and a pair of white sweat socks. There was no pretense with her. What you saw is what you got and I liked what I saw. She was real and not some pretend persona like some people I have known. She was a breath of fresh air to say the least. She loved it when I cooked for her. She loved watch me in the kitchen with the little white towel I had tucked in the front of my jeans for an apron. She called it my “loin cloth.” Women like a man who cooks. I believe it is a true act of intimacy to prepare a meal for a woman. She would ask me, “What can I do to help?” I would tell her, “Just sit there and smile.” She did.
Posted on: Thu, 09 Oct 2014 02:21:00 +0000
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