Pesto (Dozens of Books, The Remix)

“Did you get the Chester Himes book I left for you at the front desk, Trace?”

Trace grumbled into the receiver. “Why do you always drop them off at the hotel desk? Another missed opportunity for us to hook up. We don’t see each other often enough as it is, Amy.”

“I was in a hurry, Trace. Jenny had a ballet recital this afternoon and Josh is in trouble at school again. Look, I’ve got to go, honey. Evan and the kids’re going to be home at six and I still haven’t put dinner in the oven. I just wanted to make sure you got the book.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Amy hung up and dropped the cell phone into her apron pocket. She had student compositions to grade and another chapter to write for her new novel — two weeks behind on deadline as usual — but Evan told her over breakfast that he had been craving her leg of lamb stuffed with basil pesto and she hadn’t done anything nice for her husband in awhile (except for that impromptu blowjob last Sunday afternoon while the kids were visting her mom — she still couldn’t believe how pissed off Trace got when she told him about that over lunch at The Castaway).

She retrieved the Cuisinart food processor from the cabinet above the kitchen sink and placed it on the tiled counter. Amy deposited the pesto sauce ingredients into the processor’s feed tube with great care: fresh, tender basil leaves, generous chunks of garlic, the best pine nuts and parmesan cheese from Trader Joe’s, olive oil, sea salt and peppercorns. She secured the lid on the Cuisinart and punched the button for puree.

Pesto, Amy knew, came from the Italian word pestare, which means to pound or bruise. Trace had lately been accusing her of pounding him — that’s the exact word he used — pounding him with her problems. It was true that he was a good listener and she didn’t want to be a burden on him but he always started it. Trace was the one inquiring as to her state of mind so she couldn’t help it if he didn’t like the reply. Amy was nothing but painfully honest.

She turned off the Cusinart before the pesto became too soupy and retrieved the leg of lamb from the fridge. Amy made a mental note to remind Evan that they needed to buy a new refrigerator before the warranty on the Kenmore expired at the end of next year.

She reached for the sharp Ginsu knife on the cutting board and began de-boning and trimming the excess fat from the lamb. In a way, she envied Trace. Living in a residential hotel seemed exciting, an adventure that he was constantly asking her to share with him. But the accompanying lifestyle would prove unbearable: no kitchen to speak of (he had a microwave and a bar fridge and that was it), no privacy in which to write and to grade her papers, and, of course, there was Trace’s romance with the bottle. She couldn’t figure out if he always drank that heavily or only when he was in her presence.

She spread the pesto sauce all over the inside of the leg of lamb and tied it with butcher string. She recalled the last time she had paid Trace a visit at his hotel. There were so many books in the room that she had either bought him or loaned him.

“It’s as if I already live here,” she had said with an amused smile. She liked the way his eyes lit up when she tossed off that remark. Poor fool. He was never going to see the truth. For a writer he sure could be a blinded idiot sometimes.

Amy settled the lamb into the Swiss Diamond roasting pan. It had to stand for one hour before cooking. She set the GE Cafe range to preheat to 350 and poured herself a glass of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio.

Sipping her wine, Amy meditated on the palm fronds swaying in the wind outside the kitchen window. As hard as she tried, Amy couldn’t grasp the grand importance of love or lust. The poets couldn’t explain it to her, the great novelists failed to unravel its mysteries. It was, she thought, just an odious burden that got in the way of everything else that’s important in life.

Related Reading: Dozen of Books