The best Bolognese I’ve had was at an Italian restaurant facing River Road near Trenton, NJ. I think it’s still there but maybe under new management. It’s a stand-alone building next to an auto repair shop. It is dark inside the way Italian restaurants can be dark inside. The bar is black and shiny, the chairs at the bar are tall. There’s a large mirror lining one of the walls. It had a late 80s vibe. The tables and high-tops were always covered in white linens and the waitstaff wore all black. In the nice weather, they would set a few bistro tables out on the front patio facing the river and the early evening sun.
I was introduced to the restaurant (and the Bolognese) by a woman I was dating. She lived around the corner from the restaurant. This was her place. She’d go there once or twice a week for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. Then for a while, she and I would go there once a week for a glass of wine and bite to eat. After we broke up, I avoided going, but the Bolognese was like a siren call. I think once I went and when I saw her car in the parking lot, I left. A different time, I saw her car and decided I had as much a right to the restaurant (and the Bolognese as she did). Eventually, I started going regardless of whether she was there or not. We only crossed paths two or three times. We never said hello. When I visit the area now, I’ll sometimes meet up with a friend there for dinner – though it’s been a while. I always get the Bolognese. The girlfriend moved to Ohio.
I’ve tried to replicate their recipe – or at least get the thickness of the sauce and the robust tomato flavor correct. I think my ex-wife made Bolognese once or twice. This was when I was still married, before I had discovered the restaurant. Hers was good, but her vodka rigatoni was better. Once she felt that she had perfected the vodka rigatoni, she stopped making it. She wanted to go out on a high note. Sometimes, I would help her with the cooking, but often, she seemed to prefer having the kitchen to herself. Now, when I cook Bolognese, I’ve gotten a better understanding of the satisfaction she might have felt in cooking and prepping and having the space to herself. Cooking, for her, was a release. The kitchen was a refuge.
When I make Bolognese (or smoke a pork shoulder), it’s a small practice in personal decadence – a practice that has become a kind of sacred space and time. In doing so, I commit to an entire day of cooking. I’ll plan to have several drinks over the course of the day and thoroughly enjoy the process. Because it takes up most of the day, I only do this on weekends, and I only do it a few times a year. And because this is a somewhat sacred practice, I’m very selective about sharing this time and space with others.
I tend to think of myself as being generous of spirit and heart, but when I think about those things I hold most dear, I recognize that I have not let many people in. There are a handful of experiences, practices, places, and spaces that I might consider sacred or joy inducing. My week at the shore with my family was such a space. The Penn State football experience (though very much de-emphasized in my life) is a special experience. Thanksgiving with my family is something I look forward to every year… along with the quiet of Christmas morning. Travel of any sort is near and dear to me. Live music is another source of joy – though I tend to share that more freely. Music, in general, plays an important part in my life (I prefer it to TV). Very few people are invited to (or can tolerate) a listening session where we do nothing but chill and listen to music. My quiet mornings are also precious to me. Long hikes are only offered to the best company, as are the lazy days of chilling and cooking.
What these things seem to have in common is a dedication of time and focus. For me, these are all times when life seems to slow down a bit. These are the times when I tend to relax and be more present in the world and in the moment. Over the course of my entire life, I can think of only three or four people who have experienced (or been invited to experience) each of these things with me.
I plan on making Bolognese tonight (I’m writing this on a Sunday afternoon). As I think about it, I’m acutely aware of the sacred spaces we hold within our lives. And as I’m thinking about who I’ve let in, I’m also thinking about the ways they might have let me in. I’m grateful for the times other people have shared their spaces with me. I’m reminded of the people who have allowed me to meet their families or pets. The people who have shared their hopes and fears. The people who chose to share moments that could have just as easily been spent alone or with others: travel, concerts, hikes, coffee and breakfast, or cutting carrots on a lazy Sunday making Bolognese.