It was five years ago. I stood sipping my wine at my book club, enjoying a reprieve from my new life with a toddler and nursing infant. I was surrounded by neighborhood women I adore, and who, I was beginning to notice, all happen to be stellar cooks.
Then it happened. As Liz was urging me to “Sip the wine, THEN take a bite of goat cheese WITH the fig,” Diana’s voice lilted over the others. She was explaining to someone that she’s in a dinner co-op: “We take turns cooking and delivering dinner during the week. We’ve been cooking this way for years.”
My mouth still humming from the amazing flavor combination, I froze. My eyes locked with Sarah, who lived in a cute Queen Anne three blocks north. And Liz, the bad influence with the goat cheese, lived two doors down, a laughable distance. With two of us nursing and one about to give birth, we were ravenous. And in our delicate states, too exhausted to cook to the level at which we prefer to eat.
After some breathless questions about group-owned containers and a food-preferences form, we had a deal. Did we ever talk about the book club book that night? I don’t think so. We had other things on our minds.
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A father’s legacy
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