How to Have Your Friends Over For Dinner

You'll have to get used to giving everything away: your food, your wine, your time, and your love. Your friends will come over. They'll mill around. They'll bring wine, maybe. They'll stand there waiting. They'll feel anxious. You'll feel anxious. Put out some strawberry avocado salsa.

Give your friends small tasks to perform.

Say to your friends: Fold this napkin exactly like this; pinch this string bean exactly like this; good, now pinch every string bean exactly like that.

Don't be so anal-retentive.

Never, for example, use the word "exactly".

Your friends will get nervous. String beans are a casual affair, after all, and so is your little get-together. On the other hand, positively do not let your friend fuck up your string beans. Choose the right friend for this task. The best is your Mom. If she's not around, try Henry.

Let your other friends perform small tasks. Sure, Cogan's terrible at string beans, but he's a master conversationalist. He's an epic wine-drinker too. Put him on the couch. Set a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of him. He'll fill the first glass. Soon Someone Else will come along. Surely Someone Else will sit down and fill the second glass. The two will get along marvelously, Cogan and this Someone Else. Someday, maybe, they'll get married, and have a beautiful baby girl. They'll always remember that one time, your little get-together, when they met on the couch, over a bottle of wine. To thank you for this memory they'll name the baby girl after you.

They'll say: I'd like you to meet our new baby girl, Seth.

By the way, if you expect this sort of honor, you're going at it all wrong. This night is not about you and your weird, fanatical obsession with having your friends name their babies after you. This night is about your friends. So when you sit down to eat, and everyone's still a little anxious, and that initial great, quiet hum of people eating joyfully is finally interrupted by Jackson, who, it just so happens, loves the string beans, you'll know exactly what to say.

Oh, you'll say, Henry made the string beans.

And everyone will applaud.

But what if the string beans, actually, suck?

Oh, you'll say, My bad.

Next time, you'll do better.

And then give Henry a wink. Make it so the wink says: Good job, man. They'll never know we actually wanted the string beans to suck.

But what if you really didn't want the string beans to suck? What if you really fucked them up, just like you fucked up the chicken that one time, and everyone moaned and complained: This chicken is raw.

Remember: Wine helps.

Say: Fuck, this food sucks! But life is short. Let's toast life!

Order take-out. Promise you'll do better next time. Luckily, happily, there will always be a next time. You'll discover that it's the only way to stay afloat. You must have your friends over. You must continue to give everything. You'll discover that, weirdly, the more you give the more you receive. Sure, you spent three laborious hours in the kitchen, but notice how the next day you wake at 10:00 am only to discover it's 7:00 am. The day spreads out before you like an enormous canvas! Paint it blue, with your hang-over.

Also, random checks will appear in your mailbox. The government will send you an official letter.

Sorry, we forgot, the letter will say, but we owe you $10,000.

If you expect this, though, you're going at it all wrong. This night is not about giving and receiving. It's about your friends. And besides, that massive account-book of give and take between you and your friends will always remain balanced, because Karen was there for you when you almost died, and because Brad tried to fight that entire house of people because they called you that bad name, and because Pyle made you laugh so hard you remembered that you actually did like being alive, and because Charlie offered to help you pick up that log in the middle of that terrible rainstorm, and because Henry always pinches the string-beans just right, and because JJ loves you so much you always feel adored, and because Cogan is some sort of mythical idea of a perfect friend, except for his girlfriends, and because Princey, although he doesn't come over much anymore, would jump off a roof to save your life.

So, really, what's a chicken?

And anyway, soon enough you'll become a Magician at this sort of thing. Your friends will continue to come over and mill around anxiously. But notice how the strawberry avocado salsa calms them. Then, notice, how, at the table, magically, the anxious feeling dissolves. Suddenly, everyone is cozy, the wine bottles are overflowing with air, and the conversation has become one long riff on possibility--the possible excursions you'll share, the possible trips you might take together, the long days at the beach, the possibility of summer cookouts, and the strong, vibrantly drunk possibility that everything will be getting better and better from this moment onward.

Possibility

And it will get better, actually. This meal will heal you, a little. It will bring you closer to the people you love the most in the world, and since those people actually live in your heart, your heart will grow, a little.

Soon, things will start to change for you.

Cleaning-up, you'll realize, is incredibly fun.

You'll put your I-Pod on shuffle. You'll enlist one of the drunker friends to help. You'll get down on your hands and knees and scrub the floor. And while you're down there, you'll thank life for this opportunity you didn't squander, the time you could have spent alone, wallowing in what you've been able to hold onto, but instead you spent with your friends, the time you let everything go: your food, your wine, your time, and your love. And what is all that stuff even good for, if it can't be given away?

Strawberry Avocado Salsa

I've already published this recipe on-line, elsewhere. That recipe is good, but I'm changing it a bit, below, in an attempt to "reclaim" the recipe for FoodVibe. Consider this recipe below the definitive Strawberry Avocado Salsa recipe, straight from the source. This recipe is about gentle, exquisite preparation. I suggest taking your time, following the recipe precisely...

1 pound strawberries (local, of course, is best)
1 jalapeño pepper, minced
1/4 cup scallion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons cilantro, finely chopped
1 lime, quartered
1/4 teaspoon sugar, optional
sea salt
2 firm-ripe avocados

Remove the green stems from the strawberries. Gently chop the strawberries, using clean, swift knife strokes so that each chopped piece is only touched briefly by the knife. (If you do not have the patience to cleanly chop the strawberries please do not make the recipe.)

In small bowl, gently, very gently, toss the strawberries with the jalapeño, scallion, and cilantro. Squeeze a quarter of lime onto the strawberry salsa and season with sugar, if desired, and sea salt.

Half the avocados, remove the pit and the skin. Finely, and very smoothly and carefully, dice the avocados and place into a small bowl. Squeeze two quarters lime juice onto the avocado and gently toss.

Pour strawberry salsa in the bowl with the avocados. Gently toss. Season with additional salt and lime juice, if desired. Serve...

The History of FoodVibe Part 2: How to Have Seth Over For Dinner

First, you cannot make that—that thing you wanted to make.Second, you cannot make anything that was once canned, frozen, or processed. No wheat. No dairy. And definitely no seafood.

One time, I had to call 911. He tried a grilled scallop at a backyard barbeque. His face looked like a red balloon. It was about to float away.

So you call him, invite him for dinner.

He says: “Really?”

You say: “Yes, really.”

“Ok. Um,” he says. “Wait. What are you making?”

“It’s a surprise,” you say. “Just wait and see.”

Then silence. Uncomfortable seconds pass without a word, tens of seconds. You can’t take it anymore. You fold, tell him everything. You include information about the type of salt you’ll use for the chicken brine. You divulge where the capers for the rice come from. You promise olives, some smoke.

"We'll even call Cogan," you say.

He pauses. He sighs deeply. “OK,” he says.

“Don't worry, I won't make anything that will kill you,” you say. “Or put you into a diabetic coma.”

You know full well that he doesn't believe you.

You also know he prefers when you agree to prepare, cook, and serve the food at his house. You know he likes his meals on his own turf. He’s weird about eating over at other peoples’ houses. It’s a certain type of agoraphobia, linked only to the kitchen: the slight anxiety of not being in total control of the meal. You know this. You plan ways to exploit this idiosyncrasy. This will give you joy and pleasure.

You like to fuck with him, lightly of course.

As you skin the chicken you think about that time in the car when he threw the gear shift into reverse while you were doing 60 on the highway. You remember how Cogan then covered your eyes with his hands from the back seat, screaming, "Yay, Stevie!"

You remember how you freaked.

You remember the times he dared you to eat strange, dangerous things at the mall food court.

Three Cinnabons in three minutes. Two McDonald's Happy Meal's in five minutes.

"I only want the toy," he told you.

You feel yourself getting excited, revved up. The meal will be a masterpiece.

***

So, he shows up with Karen. She is radiant, ebullient. She hugs you as she walks in. Her embrace says, “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

You trust her. He comes in after her. Two identical bottles of wine protrude from the deep pockets of his hooded sweatshirt. He is smiling. His jeans are too tight. He asks if the wine is kosher. It is. You compliment his choice and let him in. He walks directly into the kitchen. You forcefully redirect him to the living room, where Karen and Merri are catching up.

He says, “When are we eating?”

Later he says, “Where's Cogan?”

He looks at your books while you cook. He finds your current notebook, filled with poetry. You speak to yourself loudly in the kitchen, knowing he can overhear you. You say: “Where's the can opener?”

He sprints into the kitchen. Eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.

“HA!” you say.

He retreats back the living room, smiling as he goes.

You can hear him telling Merri about the way you were in high school. He knows that you met her in college, and that she loves to hear these stories, now delegated to the realm of myth and hyperbole. When he speaks he flails his hands. In his stories, he uses definitive words like "always", "biggest ever", and "greatest".

"I'm glad I never knew him in high school," Merri says.

"So am I," he says.

Now the olive oil is frying in the pan. You add fresh garlic, taking in the cloud of steam and smoke that erupts. You feel hot pin pricks of oil spattering the soft underside of your wrist as you stir in the onions.

You think, “Who wouldn’t want to eat this?”

***

Before you cook, he'll insist on inspecting the ingredients. He’ll reject half of them. He might want you to drive back to Whole Foods for some small, obscure item that you overlooked. While cooking, he might stand over your shoulder. You must not let him do this. He’ll want to cook something. He’ll say he has to do this, that you must let him. It is important, he’ll say. Things depend on it.

“What things,” you ask.

“Things,” he says.

You must refuse him.

You must ask him to leave the kitchen.

In the other room, you hear Cogan enter. He glides into the kitchen.

He asks, "What's cookin'?" He calls you buddy. He smells clean, like shampoo.

***

Before everyone eats, he has to shoot his insulin. He does this while seated at the table. But you hate needles. They make you nervous. You look away. He dares you to stick your thumb into his little machine that pricks the finger for blood testing.

"No way," you say.

"Pussy," he replies.

Ten years ago, this would have immediately worked.

"Let me have some wine first," you say. You are older and wiser now.

The meal is about to begin. The evening is set, poised. The air is pregnant. This is the part you have been waiting for all week. Anything is possible. The four bottles of wine add a tinge of danger to the air. This is what you live for--instances like these, where food, friends, and space blend together to transform a moment in time into an event.

Seth senses the arrival of such a moment and is transformed himself. The denim of his tight jeans melts away and turns into brown fur. His legs shrink, wither, and taper at the end until his boots morph into small, cloven hooves. His facial features shift and sharpen. His smile broadens, exposing a mischievous, toothy grin. You can smell the faintest hint of trees, of running water. The table cloth spreads out to become the forest floor all around. You are now sitting at a sylvan gathering with Shakespeare's Puck, also known as Robin Goodfellow, that mad, merry prankster of the woodland. Strange, mystical creatures appear out of nowhere. A frog jumps into your lap. Puck rises. He dances on the table. He throws his voice. He grabs the potatoes and juggles them. Your guests are mystified. From somewhere, you hear music. Everyone starts to dance. Clothing falls to the floor. You look down and your wine is gone.

But now it's just Seth. When he's not looking, you fill his empty glass to the brim with wine. You put another, ridiculously large piece of chicken on his plate. He notices the chicken and laughs as he eats it, bones and all. He washes it down with the extra wine you’ve poured him and dares you to drink another glass with him. You're full. Your face is flushed red. Your ears are burning. You are lightheaded, stoned on your guests.

Suddenly he produces a small plastic bag of roast potatoes from somewhere on his body. He tries to switch them with the ones that are already on his plate--the ones you made. You were anticipating this little stunt, and make no reaction when you see it happening.

“What the hell,” you ask nonchalantly “is that?”

“Nothing,” he says curtly. “Don’t ask questions.”

But the time for fuckery is over. Now it is just time to laugh.

You demand an explanation for the contraband. He mumbles an answer that sounds fishy to you. You look at Karen. She rolls her eyes. Cogan giggles (he's been drunk since Tuesday). Merri just shakes her head.

You inspect the smuggled potatoes. You smell them. They smell like wine and insulin. You laugh and try to pour yourself more wine, but the bottle is empty. You tip your head back and hold the bottle several inches over your mouth, catching the last few drops on your tongue. They are gritty, acrid, full of sediment, just like this moment.

Now the meal is almost over. You uncork another bottle as he is licking his plate. You lean back in your chair to survey the scene. You lift up your glass to make a toast. You know exactly what to say.

Smuggler Boiled Potatoes with Raw Butter and Herbs

Weirdly, although Seth refuses to eat cow's milk dairy, he'll eat butter, especially if it's raw. These potatoes are the type he might smuggle into your house if you invite him for dinner. Smuggled potatoes must be made this way, according to Seth, or they'll lack "a sense of humor".

1 1/2 pounds fingerling potatoes
1 1/2 tablespoons unsalted raw butter
1/2 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1/2 teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper

Place potatoes in a medium saucepan. Cover with cold water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer gently until potatoes are just tender when pierced with a knife, 15 to 20 minutes. Drain well.

While potatoes are simmering, heat the butter and olive oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat. When butter is melted, add the thyme, basil and parsley. Warm until herbs are fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes. Add drained potatoes to skillet and toss with salt. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding additional salt and pepper if needed.

Drink Wine: Make Friends, Destroy Yourself

One time, in Barcelona, I drink about five bottles of $1 red wine. Here's what happens:

Karen and I are looking for a place to live. I see an ad at the university.

I still have a copy so I'll quote verbatim:

For Rent!
Luxury rooms in share flat.
Free breakfasts and dinners.
Vinos and champagne.
Game room. Dancing room.
TV’s, telephones, heatings.
Maid server very morning.
English, Catalan, Spanish speaking.
Much Respect. 20.000 PTAS!!!
Call Javier.

20.000 pesetas is shockingly cheap. Is this guy Javier fucking with me? Of course, he's fucking with me. But Karen and I have already spent a month looking for a flat. We're living in a room in a pensión. It's cold, our funds are disastrously low, and we're starting to hate each other.

So I call Javier.

That night, he shows up on the street outside the pensión. He’s standing perfectly still in the rain, smoking a cigarette, and staring at the pensión door. Smoke curls up, hovers over his face. The look is suggestive of menace. But clear the smoke, he’s no menace. In fact, he seems downright giddy, his eyes glued to the pensión door as if he were awaiting the emergence of The Utterly Fantastic.

Which, judging by what happens next, would be Karen.

We go down and meet him.

"Please," he says. "Please. I am very sorry."

He bows and breaks into a shrill giggle. It’s disturbing, highly infectious. I try not to laugh, but the giggle is so addictive. I bite my lip, take a good look at him. He’s Peruvian; no, he’s Moroccan; no, maybe, Egyptian. The giggling is obscene, but beyond this, there’s a certain inappropriateness in his gestures. The best I can say, he’s incredibly foreign. I imagine him wandering the streets, peddling Kleenex.

So I shake his hand.

Then he takes a look at Karen. The giggle hits a crescendo. It’s absurd. He puts his hand on his heart. He swoons.

I burst into laughter.

So now we’re both hysterical, Javier and I. We’re standing in the rain, looking at Karen, and giggling.

And Karen?

Well, clearly, she's freaked.

Still, we go to Javier's flat.

There's no dancing room, no game room.

I ask, "Where's the dancing room?"

He says, "All the beautiful people!"

So I walk down the hallway, poke my head in the kitchen. They're two people, sitting at a table. I'm astonished. There's Aimee. She's from Long Beach, she's ridiculously cool, and she actually lives in Javier's flat. And there's Pablo. He's from Buenos Aires, he's probably my doppelgänger, and he too lives in Javier's flat.

So we sit down. Javier puts wine on the table. It’s called Vinya Del Fadrí. I’ve seen it before in the supermarket, Champion, for 150 pesetas (one US dollar, more or less.)

I recall having said to Karen, “Let’s buy ten bottles.”

And now I think of this moment with disbelief, because Javier has done just that: he has bought ten bottles, perhaps more, and on top of each unopened bottle he is placing a tall, burning candle. He lights a candle, melts the other end, and affixes it on a bottle. He repeats this gesture with five or six more bottles.

Then he puts tumblers on the table, opens a bottle, and pours each glass to the brim. One more drop, the glass overflows. I put my head down, slurp from the top. No sooner do I sip than Javier refills the glass. I bend to sip, he pours more. I sip again, he pours more.

This happens three or four times.

Finally, I put my hand over the glass.

Javier waits until I remove it and pours more.

"Please drink," Javier says. "In my flat, is normal."

So I sip. And Javier pours more wine. I sip because I want to drink. And Javier pours more because, well, I assume he wants me to drink.

Another thirty minutes, I’m drunk.

Meanwhile, Javier makes food. He makes a huge, composed salad. He makes pasta with a spicy red sauce. He serves it in large bowls, with a fried egg on top. It’s odd, addictive. I devour mine. I finish Karen's. I lick Pablo and Aimee's plates clean.

What am I doing?

I don’t care. I've hit that red-wine plateau when the evening is full of possibility, when everything promises benevolence and hope. I’m fabulously happy. I go to the bathroom. On my way, I drop to the floor, do fifty push-ups.

Alone, in the bathroom, I amuse myself with visions of large numbers.

“One billion,” I say. “One trillion!”

I come back and there's Pablo, sipping from a full glass of wine, there's Aimee, clearly amused, and there's Karen, talking to Javier, still clearly freaked.

And there's Javier making more food.

Next comes the fish, a huge sizzling platter of fried onion and flesh.

I eat so much I need to drink wine. I drink so much I need to quote several lines from the Chinese poets.

“Everywhere I go I owe money for wine,” I say.

“Everyday I am drunk all day long,” I say.

Pablo observes this spectacle with a certain look of pleasure. I can tell, he finds me petulant and rowdy. I already like him. In fact, from the moment I see him, I sense my life is about to become more interesting, in the sense that Pablo seems like the kind of guy who I can sit down and share a few bottles of wine with and later part with a handshake, a few good laughs, and a jab in the ribs.

So I look at him, give him a triumphant arm-raising gesture.

In this way, quoting the Chinese poets, pumping my arm into the air, and happily eating, I drink five bottles of $1 wine.

And in this way, over the course of six or seven ridiculous hours, I cement a few life-long friendships.

***

We all have similar experiences. We share a fabulous occasion with someone and we become fabulous friends. Some might say it's the occasion that inspires friendship. Some might say, obviously, that people inspire friendship. Of course, I agree.

But when I look back to the birth of my greatest friendships, I also see a lot of wine. I see that moment when the evening is full of possibility, when everything promises benevolence and hope, and I look at my new friend and think: I fuckin' love this person!

I edited Steve's last post on beer. Foolishly, I inserted one of my most treasured lines: "There's nothing quite as unifying as sharing horrid beer." I'm taking that line back and restoring its proper meaning. That line should read: "There's nothing quite as unifying as sharing wine."

Beer, of course, creates unity. But beer is for the frat-boy, the guy who needs to create elaborate rituals and games (beer bong, circle of death, etc...) to induce "brotherhood" and friendship. These games strike me as weirdly competitive: Like frat boys, they're full of anger and shouts. I never made a friend over beer pong, although I certainly made a few enemies.

I've never really played a wine game. What's the point? I don't drink wine to get drunk. I drink wine to talk. The only wine "game" I know is this one: Let's see how much we can fall in love by the end of this bottle of wine.

***

In Greek mythology there's this guy Dionysus. You know he's kick-ass because he's the son of Zeus--The King of Gods. Here's what happens:

Zeus makes love to Persophone, The Queen of the Underworld. She gives birth to Dionysus. Zeus' wife, Hera, discovers the baby. Of course, she's full of jealous rage. So she sends the goddamn Titans (of all people!) to eat the baby.

The Titans are mushroom cloud-laying motherfuckers. They don't mess around.

Here's what they do:

They give Dionysus a mirror. He's mesmerized. He's so mesmerized, in fact, that he totally misses the bum rush. The Titans sneak up on him, tear him up, boil him in a cauldron, and eat him.

Only thing, Rhea, the mother of Zeus, saves Dionysus' heart. She gives it to Zeus.

Imagine this: Your Mom gives you the beating heart of your child. Somebody's devoured the rest of him. The heart is all that's left.

So you're Zeus, what do you do?

You hide the heart in your thigh.Sometime later, your son bursts out, reborn. Then, to shelter the newly re-born Dionysus from the recriminations of the Titans, you leave him in the care of a band of nymphs. The nymphs hide him in a cave, feed him honey, and raise him with tigers.

Soon, though, that jealous nut Hera finds Dionysus. Showing no mercy, she twists his brain, leaving him outrageous. So Dionysus suddenly rejects the gentle nymphs and instead chooses as his companions the satyrs (see below) and the maenads, wild women with wicked, gleaming eyes.

A bald, bearded, horse-tailed satyr balances a winecup on his erect penis. In Greek mythology Satyrs are often associated with sex and vase-painters often portray them with uncontrollable erections.

He travels abroad. He fights battles. He subdues entire continents. Here and there, he plants vines. He discovers wine. He invents the wild party.

Upon his return to Greece, Rhea drives the madness from his brain, but it's too late. Though calmed, Dionysus never gives up his former life. He's too attached to his companions and the common bond they shared: their love of revelry and wine.

This is the early life of Dionysus, the God of Wine.

Kick-ass.

***

In his book Iron John Robert Bly writes:

Dionysus is the Greek god most connected with wounds and woundedness...Some of the other Greek gods, Apollo and Zeus, for example, stand for wholeness, radiance, and sun-like integrity; but Dionysus stands for the ecstasy that can come from tearing and being torn apart.

Dionysus is the clump of grapes that hands tore apart in the Greek villages and threw into the wine vat. When the men and women were trampling on those grapes, it is known that they would sing: 'O Dionysus, I did not know, I did not know.' When cattle culture came to Greece, the village people ritually killed a bull in the spring, and as they ate the raw flesh, spoke the name 'Dionysus' over and over.

We tend to think of wine as a sophisticated drink, but when we do we neglect its wild origins. Other drinks might represent wholeness and purity (distilled vodka, for example) but wine represents the ecstasy of tearing and being torn apart. Wine is the drink of the wounded god Dionysus and his wild community, where self-obliteration is a way of life.

Self-obliteration?

Follow the metaphor of the grape: Sooner or later, youthful sweetness is trampled, torn apart. And then we make wine. Wine improves with age. Wine gets richer, fuller. Imagine, you're Dionysus. Or maybe you're young and living in Barcelona. You're still one big nerve with a mouth at one end and a wing at the other. But your heart will get bigger. A glass of wine, really, might just be the perfect metaphor for what you might become: mature, bold, intoxicating.

So you got out, seeking obliteration. This is not nearly the same as getting drunk. In fact, it's the thing most opposite of getting drunk. When you get drunk, you destroy unintentionally: you foolishly break things, you haphazardly fuck things.

When you self-obliterate, though, you break with intention: You destroy in order to create.

You're Picasso (an avid wine-drinker) painting the Les Demoiselles d'Avignon; you're Rimbaud (an avid wine drinker) fucking around Paris, writing ridiculous lines:

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

One evening I took Beauty in my arms--and I thought her bitter--and I insulted her.

Possibly, though, you're just You, drinking wine. You're pumping your fist, getting into strange encounters, loving, and, yes, getting drunk. But when you wake up the next day, after five $1 bottles of wine, don't you feel a little bit re-vivified? Sure, you wake up, your head hurts, and you feel a little sick, but your heart--Oh, your heart feels fantastic!

You're light, giddy.

Sometimes you want to feel like this--utterly destroyed, each part of you throbbing with pain, but your heart.

To my wife, who hates it when I drink all of the wine

I'm sorry honey. I drank the rest of the wine that you were saving for yourself on the refrigerator door.

I know this angers you and that you think it is inconsiderate. I know you don't like beer or hard alcohol. I know that you sometimes like to have a glass at night when you paint. I know all of these things.

Yet still, I drank the wine. I drank it on the porch while I smoked a cigarette. It was late. You were asleep.

Before Shabbos last Friday afternoon you sent me out to the liquor store. You told me to get only two bottles because we were having company on Friday and Saturday. Instead, I bought three bottles that were on sale. I also bought a bottle of 14-year old single malt scotch. It too was on sale.

You never understand my zest to drink a bottle at the table on Friday nights. You call it gluttony. I tell you that a bottle of wine usually yields three or four decent-sized glasses. I tell you that, in the grand scheme of things, three glasses of wine is not that much. You don't agree. We debate this endlessly.

I tell you that Kiddush on Friday nights uses one large cup. Then, after singing and blessing the children, we have chicken soup. I like to sip another glass during soup. I also like to dip my challah in wine, then the soup. This makes it even more delicious.

Before the main course, we sing. I tell you that I love to sing zemirot and pound my fist on the table in time. I like to see the beats of the music make ripples in my cup. I like to see the breadcrumbs fly off the table when I pound my fist. When we have guests, their children and ours like to jump and dance together on the couch as we sing. This delights me. I look at the food on the table. I look to see if you are looking, then pour more wine.

By the time the soup is away, the chicken, kugel, salad, roast garlic, and steamed vegetables have arrived. You pour yourself a glass. The bottle is now almost gone, and we begin our conversation about how I drink all of the wine. I am always defensive, placating. You are always annoyed. You shake your head. I eye your wine, greedily.

As we end the meal I like to speak words of Torah, or of some pearl gleaned from the week. Often I tie the ideas into what is happening outside at this time of year, or in our lives. You love these the best. I am always pleased when you say this, because I have been preparing these words all week for tonight. They are just for you. When we have guests, sometimes the women leave the table to go talk privately somewhere, leaving the men to sing and talk more. I pour more wine.

We put out desert--a plum tort you made this week, some fresh fruit, hot water for tea and coffee. You grab the bottle from the table. You tell me you are saving the rest for yourself, that I am banned from touching it. You hide it on the door of the fridge, behind the tall stack of cheese slices and horseradish. I always know where you put it.

But then as we clear the meal, I notice the half-glass you have left on the table. Unfinished. It is almost time to bentch. You have forgotten about your glass. You always do. This also happens every week.

You are at the sink when I sit down at the table again. Fiddling with a final piece of cake, I flick the crumbs from my tie. I make a grab for your wine, but tonight I stop and hold myself back.

A small victory, sometimes. Soon, bed.

***

Now it is Saturday night. You have finished painting and are sleeping on the couch in your clothes. Your music is still playing, your oils are spread out on the table. The piece you are working on dries on the easel. It is a painting of our daughter. I slowly put your remaining paints back into the jars. I clean out your blades and brushes in the sink. I put away your easel and hang the painting up in the extra bedroom, where the oil fumes can air out. I look at you on the couch.

I arrive at this moment every Saturday night. Shabbos is over. I stand poised at the beginning of a week of work. It is late. You are asleep. There is one glass of wine left in the bottle somewhere in the fridge. I grab it. There is too little left to worrying about using a glass. I take a cigarette and walk out to the porch. The Bronx is so still.

I drink slowly. The wine at the bottle's bottom is mixing with the sediment and tastes sharper, more potent. I take my time smoking, exhaling though my nose. When there is no wind, I love how it sits in the air not knowing where to go, gently folding in upon itself.

I find myself here often, smoking the dregs of the week.

I think about what I'm going to tell you when you find out that I've done it once again. That the wine is gone.

How will I explain myself this time?

What will you say?

Goji Juice & Wine

It's Friday afternoon in Ambler. I've felt brilliant lately but this morning I woke up and immediately wanted to take a nap. Happily I only drank a few glasses of wine last night. Happily I'm not hung-over. But still.

Lately I've been drinking Goji juice.

Let me say, I've been reading about Goji for years and I've been suspicious. I never doubted, for example, that Goji was a tiny berry native to the Himalayan regions, that it had a long historical use in Traditional Chinese Medicine, but I was doubtful of the claim that Goji juice could cure toenail fungus (toenail fungus being one of the hardest things to cure) and cancer.

It took me about five years of study before my curiosity overcame my skepticism. I was willing to try Goji. Then, finally, a few weeks ago I found a product that met my personal, idiosyncratic standards and I brought a bottle home.

I take one ounce in the morning on an empty stomach.

The Goji is my new drug. I obsess over it. I think about it when I go out for a run. I think about doubling my dosage, taking an extra ounce in the afternoon, and I actually have this debate with myself, the sort of debate an addict might have: Should I?

I really want to.

But I shouldn't!

I need to.

No!

Why do I debate? Well, I've promised to limit my intake. One ounce a day is sufficient (if the afternoon poses a dire need then I'm open for an additional shot.) The thing is, Goji is super-expensive: $17.99 for a 16 ounce bottle. That's about $1 a day. Goji, seemingly, is a better habit then say, coffee or cigarettes, but I didn't have a coffee or cigarette habit to begin with. The worst habits I've had recently are a NYTimes habit and, of course, my insufferable wine habit.

Now I have a Goji habit and my wife is telling me that we need to cut down on our wine expenses.

She asks: How else do we fund the Goji?

I say: Panhandle.

The Goji has me all ecstatic. I envision a beautiful summer day, standing on the corner, cordially asking people for money to support my Goji habit. It actually sounds like fun.

I also say: Steal.

The Goji has me out of my mind.

Here's what complicates matters: The time I brought home the Goji I also brought home a bottle of Açaí home for my wife.

She's hooked. She does double up, without dilemma. She prances around the place, happily cleaning. She's glowing. It's weird.

In fact, I took a shot of Açaí the other day, just to see. I was feeling sluggish, very bored. Well, I took the shot and I immediately felt like hugging someone. It didn't take a few minutes to work; it didn't take a few seconds: It was instantaneous. I was full of energy, verve, and happiness. I was due to go to my brother's house to see my sister, fresh off her flight from California. I happily drove into traffic! I happily waited in traffic for an hour!

So, we'll make some concessions. It appears, for now, that the tonics are working too well. I suppose my wine intake must be curtailed. I've had at least one or two glasses every night since returning home from Asheville, mid-July. Actually, who am I kidding? I've basically had at least one or two glasses every night since July 2005.

Wine being another tonic that I can not live without.