"Aromance" drabbles by Neville Hunt
Free time
Aromance #9
I look at him, this man who’s put heart, soul and an attractive, and I imagine highly-tuned, nose into this creation for me. The care he’s taken, just for me, has taken him in my mind way beyond any other man I’ve met. Who knows what the result of his creativity will be, but the anticipation of it will be exquisite. One more hour of time I give him freely... and more.
He has sensitised my soul, he has wooed me with heady aromas and he has succeeded. No matter what transpires, right now I’m just a raguey mess!
Trapped
Aromance #8
The combination of pungent, herby aromas in these final ingredients is mind-altering, and fills the room. He tosses them into the pot, trapping all evidence with a cast iron lid. However, my last aromatic memory of his creation is that crucial twinning of herbs, herbs that will elevate a mere kitchen concoction to, he hopes, a culinary masterpiece. As an olfactory memory, it should help pass the time.
He pops it in the oven. “We’ve got about an hour to wait. Is that OK?” he asks.
The herbal duet still lingering on the air, how could I say no?
Rough treatment
Aromance #7
The neck of the wine bottle goes immediately up to his nose. He’s checking for quality, but I can’t help wishing I was enjoying that first-popped complex combination of sour cherries and Mother Earth. But then the moment is lost as half of the bottle is emptied into the cooking pot, closely followed by the shredded carrots.
The finale to the preparation he executes with panache. He grasps a bunch of basil from the worksurface and roughly tears leaves from it, followed by what I imagine is oregano, the leaves of which he strips confidently back down their stalks.
Party in the pan
Aromance #6
But this is only the preparation stage. Now starts the cooking. Ingredient by ingredient, starting with the onion, followed by the garlic and meat, he gently fries them in olive oil. He even sniffs that oil to ensure that his creation will pass the ultimate test, that of his guest, me that is. The combination of aromas is quite nostril-tickling, which then changes as the small pieces of tomato join in the fun. Then he produces something new, a bottle of Valpolicella he has been hiding away. Slowly he withdraws the cork, which delights with a pleasing small ‘pop’.
Uncontrollable tears
Aromance #5
As he crushes the garlic, the mood in the air instantly turns Continental as the nose-wrinkling output from the flesh of the clove takes over. He puts it to one side, having considerately left the unforgiving fumes from the onions until last. This is an attempt to limit the time that our eyes react to whatever it is that's released from those aromatic layers of onion flesh. My eyes wince a little, but his take the full effect of the hopeless battle that the onions wage in order to save themselves from oblivion.
His onion tears are quite touching.
Something in the air
Aromance #4
In spite of the fact that many illustrious chefs these days recommend a tinned substitute for cooking, he de-seeds each tomato completely, carefully dicing the flesh as it gives up its distinctiveness to the air around him, which he steals with a small nod. Where I’m sitting, I get the essence a little later, when he has already moved on to shredding a few carrots, which release their earthy, sweet smell into the same atmosphere that is still carrying the tomato. He moves on to peel and crush a big clove of garlic under the handle of his knife.
Whoosh!
Aromance #3
But this is tantalising. I find myself wanting to share the dry metallic scent of the beef he’s getting as he checks it for freshness. And now he pares, separates and discards the fibrous outer layer of a celery stick, and in so doing he releases that distinctive earthy cross between fennel and I don’t know what. Unlike that of the meat, the smell catches my nose briefly, slightly, sensuously. As he chops it finely, it releases a whoosh of what’s to come. It’s highly distinctive and promises a depth of flavour. Covering it, he moves on to the tomatoes…
Symphonic
Aromance #2
Who’d have thought that after two rather tentative dates, involving two rather nondescript meals out, he would suggest, no, insist that he cooks for me tonight.
But what he’s doing isn’t cooking, it’s not even showing off. What he’s up to is more akin to orchestration, where he’s playing all the instruments, with precision, with passion, with perfection. Watch him. Watch him closely. Watch his nostrils flare, almost imperceptibly, sniffing his ingredients, while flicking an eye over to me, sitting quietly sipping my wine. I feel he’s getting as much pleasure from his ingredients as he is from seeing me.
Knowing his place
Aromance #1
I like a man in the kitchen. It’s nothing about finding his feminine side or anything like that. In fact, it’s probably more about his masculine side… you know, men and food, they seem to be so much more dependent upon each other than we are, even though our traditional role might have been as unpaid cook and bottle-washer.
Most times I can take or leave food; it’s no big deal for me to skip a meal. But look at him over there… what a surprise he is. This man, whom I hardly know, is cooking just for me.
