A Tale of Timpano
For the sake of anonymity names have been changed in this story
You can also read Part 1 of how I met Jim, here
I'm not writing about this meal because I expect you to cook it. I mean, if you want to, please, go ahead. I placed the recipe all the way at the bottom. But this is really a tale of how I broke my own heart. About how I allowed myself to believe that a man would change his mind about me. Sad, I know, but pretty common - I think. And after we spent the weekend cooking, I lied to myself again and again. Three more times, in fact. But after that I was done, at least with the cooking part. To this day, I have never cooked with or for another man.
Here is our story. The story of how I lied to my heart, believed, cooked and burned myself. But my God, was the food we made together delicious. There was more than this timpano and, little by little, I’ll write those food stories too.
Jim invited me back to his home. This would be my second return, but my first time cooking with him. Banter about food and films during our last platonic sleepover must’ve gotten him thinking because he was full of energy and ideas. I’d actually never seen him so enthusiastic. “You want to come spend the weekend here and make a Timpano?!”
“A timpano, like the one they made in Big Night?”
“Yeah, we can watch Big Night and make a timpano. We can make a weekend of it.”
I thought I was in a dream. A movie and cooking together with a man? Sharing something I loved to do with someone else? Someone who didn’t commit to text responses and who, essentially, called when it worked for him. Risky I thought, but “Sure, I’d love to.”
If you have not seen Big Night, please watch it. It is by far late 90’s cinematic genius starring Tony Shalub and Stanley Tucci. The two play Italian immigrant brothers, Primo and Segundo, who own a restaurant on the Jersey Shore. The restaurant is financially suffering, but the guys are on the brink of getting a big break with a visit from special guest, Louis Prima. Or, so they think. No spoilers as to what happens. But Primo decides they will make Il Timpano, a famed and coveted dish from their hometown in Italy. Although Segundo does not agree with Primo’s strategy, given time constraints, the effort, and the delicate nature of preparing the timpano - he’s given no choice but to participate. Somehow, in the end, in my own story, I felt like Segundo - enthusiastically resigned to some level of defeat - but one step at a time.
In essence, the timpano is the definition of love. A labor of work, family and heritage. In Italian dialect, timpano means drum. Do you know what beats like a drum? The heart. The heart when it is anxious, scared, fearful, happy, joyful - in love. My heart beat, like a drum. I took the invite. I took it seriously. Not like the times Carrie told Mr. Big she would cook for him and made terrible fondue; or when they made sauce and argued over red wine sitting in his fancy Manhattan apartment. This timpano would show Jim my talents, my heart, my worth, my dedication to my craft and my health. A long standing and transformed relationship with food. I would say nothing, he would see it, finally. Or, so I told myself.
After work and a 75 minute MetroNorth train ride, I arrived at Jim's home on a Friday night with a homemade Italian citrus cake and my assigned timpano ingredients in hand. A brown paper bag from the best salumeria on my side of Queens. The oil stained bag was chock full of Genoa salami, imported provolone, fresh mozzarella, pecorino romano, good pasta and the ingredients to make marinara sauce. We decided we would buy pasta, although Primo and Segundo made their own in the film. Jim also made the executive decision that he would purchase meatballs from a very reliable Italian restaurant. He wanted to “You know, save some time.” We mutually agreed that we would make the dough for the timpano because it could not be worked around. And although I didn’t agree with the meatball purchase, I conceded. “Save some time” and cutting corners was another red flag of Jim’s as was his frequent use of the word selfish - in reference to himself. I ignored it all and forgave it, meatballs, cutting corners and texts with no response.
But before that day, we already had plans to make pasta together. Little did I know that our mini meatball tiff would be the least of what I lost in the duration of our knowing one another.
We planned to make the timpano on Saturday evening for dinner. Friday Jim planned to make cocktails and didn’t think about food. We drank too much, or at least I did. Well prepared Negroni’s and bar snacks. I made and brought. Friday evening, once again resulted in sleeping alone in his bedroom. I slept in his perfectly made bed, with all white sheets and a white down comforter. A bed he shared with his ex-wife who he was not yet divorced from. White walls with artwork resting on the floors and leaning against the walls and baseboard. Once again, we didn’t kiss. This time I slept because I was prepared with wipes and a running water strategy if I had to poop first thing in the morning. I packed a mini-aerosol of dry shampoo and I had my own toothbrush and satin pajamas that fit me well. My own cozy socks and a scarf. There would be no reasons to borrow from him as I had the last time. I would cook. I would impress. I would share.
Saturday morning we woke up early. Both early risers, a plus in our getting to know one another. We had our standard cappuccinos at home, with the standard banter Jim enjoyed engaging in about milk temperature and getting the perfect ratio of foam, crema and espresso. We cut into my Italian citrus cake, and got used to being served and nestling myself on his couch with a blanket and coffee. The pillows surrounding and covering me, my phone automatically picking up the WiFi, his ex-wifes first name. Don’t worry, I ignored that too. And, I’ve never made that cake Italian citrus cake again, either, come to think of it.
We talked away the morning and got ready to go thrifting at a local church where Jim bargained on everything to see how little he could pay for it. “It’s a fun game.” The donations were going to families in need. Another flag, but I made an extra donation on my items and kept going. I wanted to keep the mood light and that was me, light and always aiming to agree. We were going to make lunch and planned to start cooking the timpano later. I was a little concerned about starting on the later side but there I was, agreeing, again.
We went to the grocery store to get items for a salad. Jim would prepare salmon with a teriyaki marinade he and his family loved from a little artisanal store in the Hamptons. He brought it back to share it with me and I wondered what all the rage could be about teriyaki marinade. He asked me to make a salad to go with lunch, a pop quiz I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t know what salad to make and I was, and have been, for 20 years, the Queen of salads. I was nervous and stumped, over a salad.
“Pick out anything you want for the salad and we’ll make it.”
“But I don’t know. I don’t know the store and I don’t know what to make.”
“I’m going to leave you here and let you have your moment. This is clearly something from your past.”
He left me alone in the salad aisle with my past. He was right. If I didn’t know what to put in the perfect salad for him, how would he change his mind? How would I impress him? You know, I don’t even remember the salad that I made. I only just now recalled the simplicity when I went to find a photo to place here. I only remember the fear that it wouldn’t be good enough because I wasn’t prepared. I remember a sweet and tangy honey dijon dressing that was light and wouldn’t compete with the teriyaki. To be honest, the marinade wasn’t that memorable either, I couldn’t tell you now what it tasted like. I could only tell you how I felt, which was worried. So preoccupied with how I would appear to him that I couldn’t even recall the meal in its totality.
After lunch we had more cake and I could tell you that it was delicious, fresh, citrus on the nose but not in the least bit overwhelming. It tasted of love on the Amalfi Coast; and if you don’t know what that is, then maybe you need to go and have a one night stand with a Sorrentine man? It tasted like passion covered in powdered sugar. A passion and lust I would never again feel with Jim. But we both did enjoy eating and seemed to do that and drinking, well, together.
As soon as we finished lunch, Jim cleaned up, something I also enjoyed. While he cleaned I started the sauce for the timpano. The air quickly began to smell like butter and onions. A half a stick of butter and a whole onion to be exact. When the sauce was cooking, the eggs were boiling. I insisted on this little bit of preparation so the sauce had time to rest and the eggs time to cool and be peeled.
After the effort of eating lunch, cake and light preparation, we took a nap on the couch. We napped head to toe, and it was the closest we’d been since that night in his car. My heart raced because we were close. I wondered if he felt the same, but I wouldn’t dare ask. A daytime nap on the couch is closer than sex, more intimate and way more sober than I’d ever been with him. I drifted to sleep and could feel our legs grazing one another. It was already 5pm and we’d woken up to get ready and run out to get meatballs. A fool's errand because it was late. His car was in the shop, so we walked both ways in the dark. I remained calm; although my kitchen control strategy and mental math were a ticking time bomb. What time would the timpano even get in the oven? I wondered.
We arrived home from the restaurant, cold and with meatballs in hand, to begin our journey. A chance for me to share and show the heart of my knowledge and the one thing I treasured because it was so deeply a part of my story. Cooking. Not just the perfect salad. But my sauce and the art of making something together. To me cooking was always love, something to share and dedicate my heart to, but I often gave meals away to men I hardly knew. I felt better about Jim. I held that thing called hope and it was delicate.
We began the process by splitting responsibilities. I would cut and dice the salami and cheeses, while he cut and diced the hardboiled eggs and meatballs. As we set up the space, I watched his hands move as he cut and diced, hands that once touched me but hadn’t in a long time. Not a word ever said again. Nothing, not about any of it. The weight of words unspoken sank into my chest as I moved to his dining room table and began preparing the dough. I combined, I mixed, I tried not to overwork it, I rolled. I rolled alone while Jim cleaned the kitchen, the sound of his dustbuster humming in the background and then under my feet while I sprinkled flour, and hoped I might look attractive as I cooked. As the dustbuster hummed, the pasta boiled and I continued to roll. I rolled two large sheets of dough, one for the base of the timpano and one to cover the top.
Jim brought his large, sable green Le Creuset over to the table. It was perfectly coated in butter, as our recipe called for. Together we gently picked up and anchored the first large swath of dough into the cast iron enamel pot. Together, as a team, we worked to do this with little to no words, focused and - swoop - into the pot the sheet of dough went like a curtain clinging to a window held by a breeze. Jim brought the pot into the kitchen, he had strained the pasta, and wanted to start assembling.
I mixed the pasta with sauce and grated pecorino, placing the first giant spoonful in the pot. Jim followed this by layering the salami, cheeses, eggs, meatballs and, finally, more sauce. The next layer of pasta was added along with its accoutrements, and the next, until the pot was filled to the top - bursting with what looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. You know, if a heart attack were to be a meal. Together, silent and focused, we carried the pot back to the dining room table to add the top layer of dough. Once again, we carefully picked up the dough and placed it atop of the heart attack heap, gently pressing it down so no air bubbles would form. The timpano was to be sealed tightly so no leaking or breaking of the dough or seams would happen while it was to bake in the oven. Together, silent and focused, we carried the pot back to the kitchen, brushing the dough with a mixture of oil and butter.
In to the pre-heated oven the timpano went. It was 9:30pm. I wondered if I would fall asleep or if we would even end up eating it once it was done. It would need approximately 3.5 hours to bake given its massive size, the pot heavy with the burden of emotions, pasta, meats, cheeses and sauces. But I wanted to do this with him. We watched the rest of Big Night on the couch, Jim moving from the couch, to a chair across the room and back to the couch and to the kitchen. He switched positions every so often after he’d refill our wine glasses.
We waited.
I waited.
I waited.
Nothing.
The timer went off.
At 12:30am we opened the oven door and the timpano was golden and ready. But, now she had to rest. After 40 minutes we carefully turned the timpano onto a wooden board. Removing the pot from the timpano would be the most delicate part of the process. I knocked on the pot to loosen its base and shimmied it from side to side. I danced with the pot, a sway so subtle I smiled because my own hips felt pleasure. The pot moved with ease, and I was confident that when I removed the pot, our drum would be intact.
Golden, like the moon, with shallow holes and miniature craters, she was gorgeous. The kitchen was dim and she was a beacon of glowing light at 1:17am. Jim lit candles at the dining room table, returned to the kitchen and made the first cut. Then the second. At 1:30am we sat down with our wine and our masterpiece.
Heavy, labored with love, the passing of time and kisses that would never be, I let each bite sit in my mouth while Jim devoured his quickly and feverishly going for seconds and analyzing each bit. I took my time. For me this was a longing, a dream to make. For Jim, I don’t know. Maybe just some fun? A story to tell his friends. I had no idea. I never had any idea. I knew I was breaking my own heart, red flags aside, on our third date he said “I’m not ready to date anybody.” The line replayed in my mind as I cleared my plate and met Jim in the kitchen. It’s not that he wasn’t ready to date, but I’d later find out that he didn’t want to date me.
Sleepy and full, I went to his bedroom to sleep by myself. I changed into my satin pajamas, smooth and cool. I pulled down the covers, slinking into bed with feelings as mixed and upside down as the ingredients in that timpano. I wanted to knock on the wall as I slid into the bed and pulled the covers up to my face. I watched the lights from the railroad blink between the blinds and cast a shadow into the room. If I knocked on the wall, would he knock back? I let the flashing lights lull me to sleep. I sent a text to my friends, “It happened again. No kiss and we’re in separate rooms.”
I woke up the next morning and we repeated our tradition of cake and cappuccinos. We talked and, again, I snuggly fit myself in to a corner of his couch. He had never been upstairs to my place. I’d made an invite but it as declined. Whenever I made an offer for a plan, it was declined. Sundays were always my favorite day of the week. I read on the couch while he cleaned up breakfast and packed a container of leftovers for me. The timpano looked even more beautiful in the daylight.
It was snowing and he walked me to the train with my bags and leftovers. A kiss on the lips, soft and uncertain “Let me know when you get home.” I got on the train and knew he’d invite me back. I knew I go back again. I knew we’d cook. I knew I’d snuggly tuck myself into his couch and read, that I would shimmy into his bed, alone, and that this could go on. And it did. And I let it.
Jim researched a recipe for the timpano and, while it was good, once we stopped talking, I deleted all of his messages. I don’t have a trace of our recipe. For the sake of adventure ,and a cooks dream to bake this Italian undertaking, I’m sharing the recipe link to timpano from the NY Times - should you dare to mix emotions and make this master piece.