Dispatch Twenty Seven

au gratin potatoes, nightcaps, polaroids

Welcome to Dispatches—a blog of near-daily narratives. Since you’re kind enough to read
my dispatches, I’d love to read yours in return. Feel free to share a dispatch at dispatchprojectwrite@gmail.com to be included in a future post.
I’d be honored to celebrate it with you.

Friday

carbs, styling, and photo by Matt Ryan

As Matt slices potatoes, one of his cats rubs against his ankle, while the other curls into my jacket at the end of the couch. My husband transitions the playlist from afternoon to evening, and I reach past Matt’s stacks of cookbooks, many of which bear his byline, to heave the deepest skillet imaginable onto his prep station—nudging aside coffee mugs and sticky whiskey glasses.

I ask my best friend how it feels to reach another milestone in creating his cookbook, one that required making, styling, and photographing hundreds of recipes in his fifth-floor walkup. His hands answer first, slicing leeks with such unconscious precision that his eyes drift upward in consideration.

“I’m tired,” he chuckles, “But it’s worth the memories of shooting with my parents and friends.”

I lean beside his elbow, snapping disposable shots of parmesan and potatoes as he layers their story in the skillet. Thirty minutes later, as Matt positions my husband’s fork over a plate of beef tenderloin and snaps away, a timer rings and I sidestep the flash to reach the oven. Now free from the foil, the au gratin potatoes bubble and burst, as alive as we are.

When two more friends arrive, Matt hoists the cast-iron onto the counter to a chorus of hungry exclamations. Amid conversations about carbs and college friends, I watch Matt flatten a placemat, adjust his tripod, and position a brass candlestick into the overhead shot.

In one swift motion, he beckons me over and places the potatoes beneath the hovering camera. Then the room narrows to the three of us—me, the potatoes, him—all inhaling its steam. Matt lightly instructs my spoon, and we hold our collective breath as I scoop, the potatoes gleam, and he clicks.

Also Friday

A nightcap defines the beginning of the end. I reserve this type of toast for nights that earn a final rush of revival, and this one scored in spades.

Justin and I bellied up to the bar at The Rockwell Place, a dim-lit cocktail haunt in an industrial corner of Fort Greene. After ordering a round of something strong, he beelined for the bathroom while I flipped through the Bible-thick menu.

Behind the whiskey options was a list of fictional colors (hooloovoo, octarine, squant), hardcore punk subgenres (deathcore, skacore, thrashcore), and an essay titled “Understand who or what you’re hiding from.” This is the ideal accompaniment to a blue cheese olive martini.

Justin brought a fit of giggles back to the bar. Apparently the debate in the bathroom line was whether to stand by Micheal Che after he supported Eminem’s mom. Justin was a proponent, but the two intoxicated thirtysomethings weren’t convinced.

Suddenly, a familiar twang came over the loudspeakers, telling us this ain’t no disco and it ain’t no country club either. Justin and I wiggled in our stools to the delight of the bartender, who rushed over to sing the chorus of “All I Wanna Do.” Then, with a solemnity reserved for people who can list more than five types of gin, she warned us not to attempt this song at karaoke.

“The spoken-word sections lose people,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve tried.”

When only my olive was left, we waved goodbye to her and found our feet. I bit into the briny reward on the walk back to our friends’ apartment, letting the taste linger.

Saturday

“You’ve said before that I’m a redhead,” Seth said, striding beside me on the sidewalk. “It’s just not true.”

The four of us stop to examine his hair from every angle as marketgoers stream around us. I relent, we laugh, the pilgrimage to coffee continues.

In line for Petit Paulette, Justin reenacts the Michael Che debate, with a falsetto and wild hand gestures. The pitch of our concerted laughter rings in my memory, and suddenly we’re a decade younger, huddled outside our college graduation, exhaling our anxieties about the future into the wind.

We circle around cappuccinos while Justin and Rebekah swap work sagas. The light catches behind her hair, and now they’re sitting on a ragged couch outside our senior-year apartment, advising each other on capstone projects and job applications.

We drift through the market in a familiar cycle of losing and finding one another, eager to discover what will anchor us together again. This time, it’s convincing Seth to buy a ring holder shaped like a long-nosed bird.

At the end of the block, Rebekah spots a Polaroid photographer capturing the midday bustle. The four of us bunch together before his flash-bulb camera—the same pose we’ve struck for graduation, birthdays, and weddings. The image slowly surfaces in Rebekah’s palm, and we wait to see how we’ll remember this morning.