One Plate

We haven’t shared a home-cooked meal in a very long time, so yesterday, when he made us steak with cheese on top, added freshly pickled veggies, and threw on some warm rolls, it was such a treat.

But it was so much more than simply enjoying the food together. I enjoyed watching him cook and talking to him while he stirred butter over the meat. I leaned against the counter, drinking a beer, laughed when he dropped the jar of pickles, and kissed his face when he came close enough to touch.

There is something so lovely about the kitchen dance. But this meal represented so much more.

He and I have always shared a plate. It started on our first date, a plate of pad Thai, and has continued over the past nine years. One plate. One fork. One knife. Maybe one spoon. We even share a napkin or a hand towel between bites.

It is one of my favorite things about us.

There is something so intimate in this synchronized sharing. I take a bite while he patiently waits, talking, maybe eating something else with his fingers. Seeing me patiently waiting for the food, he hands me the fork and knife, or maybe cuts two pieces, eats one, and leaves the other for me. I pass him the spoon and sit back, savoring the taste of food in my mouth and watching him enjoy his meal. It’s a sensual experience.

There is a beautiful slowness about eating this way, paying attention to what you eat and what the other person needs. Grabbing the spoon at the same time, laughing, and deciding who goes next happen easily; there is no competition. There is enough for everyone.

There is always enough in this space, in this relationship.

For years, this flat was his primary residence, and when I came to visit, usually on Thursday evenings, we’d eat together to start our evening. I’d find him in the kitchen, making steak (his repertoire is limited, LOL) on his tiny pre-war gas stove that doesn’t even have a pilot light. He'd top it with cheese, wilt some spinach, lay it all on a large piece of brioche bread, spoon the juices over the top, and voila.

The first time he presented me with this glorious meal on one plate, with one fork and one knife, I was surprised. But I am a go-with-the-flow kind of girl, so I didn’t ask questions. I felt into the moment and went with it. After that, it became a beloved ritual.

My favorite Thai place became our favorite Thai place when I brought take-out to the flat and we shared a Khao Soi with one spoon and chopsticks. A döner durum kebab passed between us, or taking bites out of the opposite sides of a fresh bagel with cream cheese.

We don’t talk about it. It just is. I have never brought it up, afraid to break the spell. He is pragmatic. If I bring it up, he will have some completely logical explanation about fewer dirty dishes or something equally banal. I want to cherish the intimacy and trust this ritual has fostered in our relationship.

There were years when we didn’t have the flat to meet in. Someone else was renting it temporarily. We met at my Airbnb or a hotel. In those days, we shared some pastries or sandwiches from the Bäckerei. A quick bite, eaten on the edge of the bed while talking; shared but not quite the same.

Now that I am the primary occupant of the flat and my fridge doesn’t work, there are shared take-out meals, but nothing home-cooked—nothing as domestic and personal as a meal one of us made to nourish the other.

Until yesterday.

While he was cooking, I hoped, I wondered. Would he plate it up for us to share? Would our ritual change? Or would he find a reason to give me my own plate? I should know better by now than to underestimate him. He came through. He presented the beautiful plate of food you see in the photo above for us to share.

As we ate our dinner, I felt the intimacy of our relationship deepen. I was in his home this time, and he danced in the kitchen just for me. We shared our meal, our ritual. Nine years and one more meal to remind me of the depth of our bond.

One plate. One fork. One knife. One deep connection.