24. Cherish
La Cipolla. Its moist layers are rich with an unmistakable flavor, un inconfondibile sapore, essential in cooking.
There’s no need to waste words to say how precious the bulbs of this lily are, writes Ada. Bulbs of this lily? Do onion bulbs produce flowers? Yes, according to Garden Betty (gardenbetty.com). If the onion is not harvested at the end of its first year in the ground, new leaves will sprout the following spring and send up flower stalks to produce seeds. The blossoms can be exquisite.
Ada offers a recipe for boiled onions. The instructions couldn’t be more basic. These onions simply have to be. Anything but bland, Ada writes, they go well with boiled meat but are also perfectly complete on their own. I remember my mother adding a large, quartered onion to the stock pot with the chicken, carrots, and celery. When the meat began falling from the bones, she’d carefully remove it along with the “boiled” onion, place them together on a plate, and season with salt. It was a meal she relished.
Cipolle Lessate
Togliete le prime bucce alle cipolle e fatele cuocere in abbondante acqua, per mezz’ora o più, fino a che saranno ben cotte. Scolatele, tagliatele in due, disponetele in un piatto e conditele con un pochino di prezzemolo trito o di oregano, sale, pepe u po’ d’olio.
Remove (discard) the outer peels then cook the onions in plenty of water for half and hour or more, until they are well cooked. [I’m assuming… tender] Drain, cut into two, place them on a plate and season with a bit of chopped parsley or oregano, salt, pepper, and a drizzle of oil.
Moist and flavor-rich with beautifully translucent layers, the onion need only be exactly what it is: a truly delectable bulb.
WHEN I OPENED THE SCREEN DOOR, Lyn was sitting at her Baldwin grand working on the score to one of her last orchestral works, her blond curls combed to a froth, the sleeves of her red flannel shirt folded back. I’d called earlier and could do little more than sigh. “Come by,” she’d said.
She slid her pencil behind her ear. “Shoes off, bag down.” A mug of mint tea found its way into my hands and she disappeared for a time. I sipped the tea, breathing in the comfort of her artistic space. The minutes slipped away.
When she returned, she led me to her bathroom, a room not much larger than a closet and with two doors so that it served as a walk-through at the back of the cottage. The dull yellow floor tiles gleamed. A fresh towel was draped over the edge of the old cast iron tub filling with water. She tossed in a handful of Epsom salts and rose petals which she must have plucked from the shrubs out back (an extravagance, I imagined, she rarely allowed herself). A small painted cabinet with a mirror hung above a miniature white pedestal sink framed in blush and black tiles. Built into the wall was a heater, an authentic, circa 1930’s unit, silently pulsing warmth into the room.
The historic cottage was a treasure—one of an original cluster of small homes in Laguna, lifted years ago and transported to a new location north of town. At the rear of the property stood an enormous avocado tree; a 20-foot Meyer lemon tree flourished in the front . A kitchen bay window looked out onto a walkway embraced by tall, wayward banana palms. The kitchen itself was fitted with its original, built-in wooden cabinetry, a yellow antique range, and a large ceramic sink surrounded with the same bathroom black tile. Retro, classic, authentic. It could have been truly spectacular if Lyn had had an interest in renovating, in beautifying the old. But she didn’t have an interest, or the finances, or time for the past. Her focus was her music, and she kept a straight on, direct arrow connection to it at all times.
The heater raged. Steam condensed on the mirror. White candles balancing on the sink’s lip illuminated the room. With each item of clothing I shed, a layer of angst fell away. By the time I sank into the warm water, life had begun to settle again. Lyn was back at the piano, trying out chord sequences, improvising a ballad.
After some time she knocked, entered, and sat on the edge of the tub, her back against the tiled wall. She closed her eyes. In the thickness of the sultry warmth, time was suspended. When I rose from the bath, droplets of water beaded on my flushed skin. She wrapped me in a towel, and when she finally spoke, her voice was grave but tender, her words in that moment as cherished as the memory of her love. “Lis,” she said, “just be yourself. It’ll make life a whole lot easier.”
