KitchenAid

I found a KitchenAid mixer waiting patiently at my doorstep when I came home from class yesterday, the doormat draped over its white nose like dog ears. Well, just what are we going to do with you? I thought, picking up the thirty-pound lug and bringing it inside. My bachelor friend, Jack, had made this offering to my bachelorette kitchen, saying it had held down his fridge long enough and would have better use on mine now. I put it on the dining room table and began to clean the enamel machine made in Ohio in the 1970's

I called Jack to thank him and tell him he would be the recipient of the first good thing made by the machine. "I'm thinking of making dinner sometime this week, you around?" I asked, trying the switch. "We're in Italy now at the studio, so the main course will be a pasta with meat sauce or something like that" I lured, knowing he had just posted a gross picture of a piece of meat he had grilled on Facebook. It was aptly named the 'Bacon Explosion'.

The gleaming white mixer easily took its place at the center of my dining room table and practically begged me to take it for a spin. I relented, grabbing the keys and headed for the market, arrogantly thinking I could make two Pan de Genoa quickly, one for a birthday party a few hours later and the other for Jack.

Two hours later there was only one Pan de Genoa in the oven, due to a miscalculation at the store and I had a dilemma: Who gets the cake? In gratitude to Jack I had promised first dibs from the machina, but I had mentioned dinner later in the week. I also wanted to make a nice offering for the birthday. I couldn't do both, though. It was getting late and I reasoned that the birthday party was probably well under way, beers sloshing and tongues being made numb from wine. Would they be able to feel the texture of this cake made from ground almonds leavened by egg and taste it's delicate orange flower water perfume? Who would most appreciate this cake at this time?

Some things are sacred. The gift of the mixer had been given, sparking inspiration. Now a labour was to be returned in kind, a labour of gratitude to appease the gods. This is what people did before usury, before market economies: They gifted one another a few bushels from their harvest in return. As I pulled the fragrant cake from the oven, I knew again my life was to be about this kind of natural harmony. It is like music, which is like making love, which is like cooking. It is all about preparing the container. Time and timing. Staying present. Abandoning oneself to awe. Essential humility.

The decision had already been made. Jack? You won't believe it! I've already made something with the mixer. A beautiful cake. Come try it!

We sat at the table with the mixer as a centerpiece eating slices of cake and drinking coffee. I regaled him with tales from the studio, including the one about the vinegar chicken that made me cry: I had taken a bite of this extraordinary chicken and saw a countryside scene for a moment and then felt a sudden sadness and great sense of gratitude at the same time as the tears flowed. Once they subsided, Robert told us that the chef who devised the masterpiece we were eating had committed suicide. The story was intrinsic to the recipe. We made a toast to Bernard who figured out how to make cream sauce without cream, then gave his life for it.

Jack's eyes were wet. He had a story too. An old family friend, Wally, had called him the day before. He had recently turned 100, they hadn't spoken for years. They talked for maybe twenty minutes, reminisced and said goodbye. Wally passed away minutes later.

He recalled taking Wally's Sunfish out as a teenager and crushing the boat's daggerboard on the reef and the good-natured man waving it off saying he'd done it himself a million times; the image of the old Navy admiral's six foot two frame, bent over with age and squinting at his well-worked pointilism painting, making tiny dots and looking up to pause and wave at Jack with his brush.

Just painting, Jack! he called, Just painting!