I loved Martin for his heart and his mind, sure, but a close third was his omelet recipe. For omelets or for worse, I say, and listen, it is just not every day a guy enters the kitchen to make an eight egg omelet and then cleans up after himself. Who is this man? Where did he even come from?
It goes like this. I come home from the late shift at work to the scent of diced tomatoes, four pounds of garlic, three pints of chopped peppers, two onions.
Omelet? I ask, and the ask is more of a beg, more of a quiet, seeping desperation for a dinner that tastes like my mother’s kitchen and day trips to Portland with my grandmother – to the ice rink! to bike riding! to Lloyd Center if we’ve got a coupon!
He smiles, and agrees, and then reminds me that I’ve brought home some snow, and when you’re back in the mudroom to take off your boots could you grab the mail?
And so Divy and I put our hands to the sink and head to the table for the delightful dish.
By the time the ingredients are devoured, it’s dark. Divy and Martin brush their teeth, read about Eine Kleine Mann, switch to warmer socks, turn out the lights. And when we wake up the next morning, the kitchen is gleaming and there’s a 4 serving Tupperware of ready-made omelet in the fridge.
It’s love, that’s my only word for it. Love, love, love.
Martin’s recipe is a secret to all of us, but I have it on good authority that his secret recipe is love. Just in case you want to bless your girlfriend, bless your neighbor, bless your teenager, bless your mother – there is no one that does not love this omelet.
And in his house, there is no one that does not love-love-love its maker.
