Sausage, And Oranges: A Real-Life Recipe For Love

What started as random ingredients, ended in a kiss and the first of many dinners together.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Walking down the long street from the subway to my (finger’s crossed) new boyfriend’s house.

I was wearing a pair of boots I’d never worn before, brown faux snakeskin with ridiculously high heels. What the hell was I thinking?

When he told me his house was one block from the subway station, I thought one regular block — a home-town type street. The type your mom lets you ride your bike up and down when you’re 10, one you can walk in less than 5 minutes.

That’s the kind of block I envisioned when I chose to wear those stupid boots on that hot September day 16 years ago.

Instead, I got a block in the length of a football field, and by the time I exited the subway, I knew those shoes were a mistake.

I also had to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t have a cell phone. They were too expensive and high tech for me back then.

All I had was a piece of paper with an address and phone number.

Heading down that street, teetering on my heels, all I had was that piece of paper, a bag with six beers and a bottle of wine, those stupid shoes, and ten toes screaming with regret.

Why couldn’t I have just been myself?

I hate heels. Those boots had been sitting in my closet for two years, and today is the day I decide to wear them. Stupid, stupid me!

I realize when I get out of the subway, his house is far down the street, and I didn’t even bring the backup pair of flats I was contemplating. So very stupid.

I finally get to the address, and the house looks weird.

The front door doesn’t look like a working front door. It seems like the kind of door that should have a “use back door” sign.

I get freaked out because the house looks semi-abandoned, so I keep walking. I’m convinced I’ve written the address down wrong because that’s something I do.

Usually, the first time I go anywhere, I get lost.

It all started on my first day of high school. I walked into and sat down in the wrong homeroom. From that day on, it’s been a weird recurring theme in my life.

So naturally, I assumed it was my karma at play.

Since I had no cell phone, I had to go looking for a payphone.

Times were different back then. You had to have phone numbers written down and a quarter in your purse if you wanted to make sure you could get ahold of someone when you were out.

Thank Christ I had everything with me.

I made the call and discovered I’d been at the right house, and so I made my way back.

When he opened the door I was relieved, no more walking, I’d finally arrived.

The man who would eventually become my husband ushered me in, and I took off my shoes.

Sweet relief.

I’d offered to cook dinner, but I arrive without groceries.

I was running late, and after walking to the subway in those ridiculous shoes, I knew I wouldn’t be popping into the market for supplies.

I could barely muster the will to hobble my way down the direct route. There was no way in hell I was adding one extra minute of torment onto my journey.

I’d offered during our 7-hour first date as we were discussing my job as a personal chef.

I made the offer sober on a Sunday in comfortable shoes. I should have known better than to think it could translate to a Friday, in heels when all I’d want to do was have a drink.

So I went to the liquor store I was fortunate enough to live beside, and I did what I do best, I bought booze.

I figured the alcohol would be a preemptive peace offering. Then, I’d just make something from whatever he had on hand and wow him with my skills.

But some things are better not left to chance and when I opened up the fridge, my heart sank.

I opened that door and confronted the consequences of impractical footwear.

There was nothing there. Well, nothing that made sense.

I should have known better than to think a bachelor -an English bachelor no less- would have any food worth eating in his fridge.

Upon inspection, I saw a bottle of vodka, then wine and six beers, so immediately I felt better. I knew we had something in common. I coyly slid my offerings in with his, where they mingled like old friends.

But I’d offered a home-cooked meal, and for the love of Christ, that’s what we would have.

As I looked beyond the bottles, the stark reality of the situation became clear.

What I saw was: 1 package of sausages, three oranges, one onion, and four carrots. Really? What the hell did this guy eat?

He was in good shape. He didn’t look like someone who lived on junk food, but then again, he was a landscaper who did about 10 hours of hard labor a day. He was ripped, so maybe he was turning cheeseburgers into muscle.

I tried not to judge.

He also had a box of instant rice in the cupboard. Yuck. My mind raced as I worked to put it all together.

Now it was personal. It was me v. groceries in an epic battle for the soul of this supper.

I felt like my whole career had been leading to this moment.

So I took out the onion, chopped it, and got it frying. My (hopefully) new man opened the wine and cracked himself a beer.

I was feeling a bit more like myself with those god-damned shoes off and a glass of wine in my hand.

The smell of fried onion filled the apartment, and things got instantly more comfortable. I can do this! I added a little wine from my glass into the pan casual yet sophisticated, that’s me alright.

We chatted as I peeled and chopped the carrots and put them in with the onions, this was shaping up to be okay!

After a few minutes of conversation, we were both feeling more comfortable. I could tell he liked me as much as I liked him. But I noticed he couldn’t envision the meal yet. I told him to have faith.

I got the rice started, and we carried on.

After the carrots softened up, I salted the mixture to sweat out a bit of the liquid. Then I took it out of the pan. I put it in a bowl and got to work on the sausages.

I took them out of the casing and cooked the meat in the pan, chopping it into nice rustic chunks. I added some beer this time and sipped my wine as we talked.

I really liked this guy. He was sweet and fun and funny. But I knew I’d never really know if I liked him until we kissed. I looked at him and told him as much.

He’d been such a gentleman on our first date. When I leaned in to kiss him, he gave me the cheek. It was the right thing to do, but I still needed a real kiss to see if this would pan out.

You can’t be with someone who doesn’t kiss you right, and I knew better than to let it go any further without testing the water.

My sister had wasted three months online with someone she’d really liked and then had no chemistry with when they finally got together. I wasn’t about to do that.

So I told him we’d need to kiss for me to know if I liked him and right on cue, in a Hugh Grant moment, he said: “right, of course.” Then after a double-take said, “you mean now?” I said, yes.

He took my hand from the pan and leaned in and changed the course of my life. In front of that pan of searing sausage, I fell in love. I fell fast, I fell hard, I fell instantly, and I’ve never looked back.

But I still had a job to do.

After the sausage cooked, I added the carrots and onions back into the pan.

Then I made a bold move.

I juiced one of the oranges into the mixture and cut up another one to add to the pan.

My new man (I knew I had him when we kissed) was a bit trepidatious, oranges and sausage?!

But I convinced him to trust me. He’d had orange chicken, right? Sweet and salty. It just works.

So with confidence and sass, I threw that orange into the pan and tossed that sucker up.

I served it all up on a bed of instant rice, and you know what? It was delicious! It worked; it all worked together just like I knew it would. I topped it all with a little salt and pepper, and we were good to go.

I’d taken a bunch of disconnected ingredients and created a beautiful, well-balanced meal.

What started as two single people and some random ingredients, ended in a couple sharing their first of many dinners.

I did what I’d gone there to do, I showed him who I was, and it wasn’t just about the cooking.

I showed him I could handle anything. I could take nothing and make something. I was someone who could look on the bright side of any situation and make it work. I showed him that I was smart and cunning, that I could make something beautiful out of very little.

It was an homage to my life as a survivor.

That meal was as much a love letter to me as it was a promise to him and became a metaphor for our relationship.

Without words, in that pan, I made a promise.

I promised to make the best of any situation, that we’d always be able to make due, and I’d always have his back no matter where we were in life. I promised we’d live well no matter what was in our cupboard.

Our married life has been very much like that meal.

It hasn’t mattered how much or how little we’ve had along the way, we’ve always managed to live well because no matter what we have, we make it into something special.

In case anyone was wondering: My husband paid for me to take a cab home that night, and when I got home, I threw those shoes directly into the garbage.

I’ve never bought another pair of heels.

Thanks for reading!

If you’d like to read more articles that uplift and enlighten, join us here on ILLUMINATION. Here are some more excellent writers to check out: George J. Ziogas, Madoc Maduka, Jessica Cote, Charles Roast, Chris Hedges, Roxanna Azimy, Bill Abbate, Tonya S. Ware, Nchewi Edu, Trista Ainsworth, Michele Thill. Why not write for us? Bring your talent, courage, and insight, share your story, and let’s do something great!

If you’d like to read some more stories by me, feel free to check these out: