Pass the arugula, please.

A good friend recently invited me over for a celebratory dinner in her home. I wasn’t sure what the celebration was all about, and my friend didn’t offer an explanation. I do know that it was the first time in a long while that I have heard her laugh. She told me that the celebration was a surprise and that all would be revealed in good time. As this friend and I were both born on the same day, we share a lot in common, including a rather “sideways” sense of humor.
This invitation and my friend’s welcome laughter took me by surprise. You see, she recently separated from her husband, and is in the process of going through a painful divorce. I suppose the word painful is redundant, but I say it anyway — to make a point. The point being that this friend has been going through a rough time. She was married for 14-years, has a young daughter, and is living on her own for the first time in years. I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of her infectious laugh. So I marked my calendar and told my husband that he was on his own that night.

I arrived at my friend’s home on the appointed evening promptly at 6:30. I brought two bottles of wine — a chardonnay and a pinot. I wasn’t sure what was on the menu for the evening and I never thought to ask. This wasn’t an issue for me, as my friend is a wonderful cook. Moreover, I have always thought this question rather rude. As if you would say no — or yes — depending upon the fare your host(s) planned to serve.
As I took off my coat, I was dizzy from sensory overload. Savory aromas drifted in from the kitchen and commingled with the scent of fresh-cut flowers and lavender from my friend’s garden. We settled in the living room. As we opened the chardonnay and filled our glasses, a chime went off in the kitchen. My friend jumped up to get what she called the “starter.” She returned with a small prosciutto and arugula pizza. It smelled heavenly. She proudly informed me that the arugula was from her garden. As we raised our glasses for the first toast, she said “To arugula.” So, I toasted arugula. Then we started on the pizza, which was definitely out of this world.
We polished off the pizza and poured another glass of chardonnay. Another buzzer went off in the kitchen and my friend asked that I meet her in the dining room. I settled in at the table and tried to imagine what was coming next. I also thought fleetingly of the celebration she mentioned. These thoughts vaporized when soon enough my friend joined me in the dining room holding two bowls of hot green soup. If you guessed pea soup, you are half right. It was pea and arugula soup garnished with mint and feta cheese. It was delicious. As we finished off the chardonnay, my friend raised her glass and said, “To arugula.” So, I toasted arugula once again.
As another chime went off, my friend gathered the empty soup bowls and headed for the kitchen. She asked me to stay put and open the other bottle of wine. Soon she returned with a platter filled with delicious looking chicken parmesan and what looked to be an arugula salad. Hmmm? I begin to wonder about the arugula at this point, but I say nothing as I fill our glasses with the pinot. My friend raised her glass for another toast. She said “To arugula.” And yes, one more time, I toasted arugula.
Trying to be polite, but definitely growing weary of arugula, I started with the salad. Then I noticed my friend chewing — and chewing and chewing and chewing. She skipped right over the arugula salad and went straight for the chicken — and from the look of it, the chicken wasn’t cooperating. She caught my eye, picked up her glass of wine, and before she took a sip, she croaked out “Pass the arugula, please.” I looked at her more closely...at her eyes. They were tearing up. I thought at first she was choking, and then I thought she was crying. I was wrong on both counts. She was laughing. She was laughing so hard that she was crying. I didn’t know what to do, or to say, so I passed her the arugula salad. She held it up over her head and said “To arugula...and overdone chicken!” Then she started to laugh so hard that I swear I saw bits of arugula flair out of her nostrils. I would like to say that I toasted the arugula once again, and the overdone chicken. I couldn’t, because now I was laughing too hard. I didn’t even know what was so funny. All I knew was that my friend was finally laughing again. She made it through that long dark tunnel and was out into the bright light of day once more. I also knew that whatever she was laughing at (or about) would reveal itself eventually. For the moment, I was just content to see her get outside the box for the first time in months. Laughter truly is the best medicine. Especially for the heart.
When we settled down, I finally (and cautiously) bit into my chicken. I chewed and I chewed and I chewed. Needless to say, we both burst into fits of laughter once again as I finally gave up and deposited the un-chewable chicken in my napkin. I don’t know how my wonderful cook of a friend managed it, but all-things arugula were excellent, but the parmesan chicken had more in common with beef jerky.
As we pushed aside our plates, I started to ask what exactly was going on. Before I could finish my sentence, another chime went off in the kitchen and my friend jumped up once again, calling “Dessert anyone.” I took this time to push my chicken around on my plate, wondering how anything that smelled so darn good, and looked so wonderful, could be so inedible.

As my friend returned with a platter of little desert cakes and coffee, I thought I smelled something familiar. It was my turn to jump up. I said, “I can’t believe you put arugula in the dessert!” Yes, her mini bleu cheesecakes with port reduction sat on a bed of — you guessed it — fresh arugula from her garden. Now, I love Arugula. Honestly, I do. But, enough is enough. As my friend started to laugh once more, she unceremoniously dumped the cheesecakes next to the “Jerky” chicken, I finally said “Okay, what gives? What’s with all the arugula...and why did you purposely ruin the chicken?”
It was then that she shared with me the reason for this very special and private celebration. I was there primarily as a witness, and to call 911 in case she choked on the chicken. She said that she finally felt free, safe, and secure. She finally felt like herself again...for the first time in years. She said that she had the arugula to thank for her newfound freedom from the past. You see, she planted her arugula garden, cultivated it, and then harvested it — specifically for this dinner. She overdid the bird on purpose, as well. She was making a statement, which in her case was a dish best served with a lot of arugula, overdone chicken and a couple bottles of wine.
She said that when she first separated from her husband that she got so very tired of everyone telling her that she would be okay in time — that time heals all wounds — just give it some time, and of course, only time will tell. All she heard was time, time, time. But how much time? Ahhhh. This they could never tell her. So, being the “sideways” chica that she is, she decided to plant an arugula garden. Furthermore, she concluded that when the arugula was ready to eat, then that was “how much time” she needed to be okay. To be herself again. Why arugula? Simple. Her soon-to-be ex-husband hates arugula. Why overdone chicken? Simple, again. Her soon-to-be ex-husband likes his chicken just a little underdone. She said she didn’t care if the chicken was so dry that she choked on it; at least she was eating what she wanted to eat. She was doing it her way. No more giving up herself — or her identity — for someone else, or to someone else. She did admit that she got carried away with the chicken, but she wouldn’t budge on the arugula. It was just as she planned: No more and no less.
As for “time,” my friend shared that once she planted her garden the time passed quickly. In fact, she said, it flew by. Every day she checked her garden. As the arugula flourished, so did she. When she nurtured her garden, she nurtured her wounded (and lost) soul. Then as the “time” drew nearer for her celebratory dinner, she grew excited. With a kind of excitement that she hadn’t felt in years — an excitement that she had forgotten that she could feel. She was alive...and she was going to be okay. Actually, better than okay.
So, far all of you out there just “passing” time, waiting for old wounds to heal, and wondering how much time is necessary, I tell you this story. My “sideways” friend found that the best way to pass the time was in her arugula garden. For you it may be something else entirely. In fact, I’m sure it is. However, I think there is something valuable to learn from my friend’s journey. I believe that it is within each of us — on our own — to answer the questions, “How can I cultivate my soul...how can I heal?” As you answer these questions, a bit of advice. Don’t concentrate on the “time,” or the passing thereof too much. Concentrate on passing the time meaningfully. Do something that has special significance to you — however symbolic it may be. Until then, I have a favor to ask. Could you please pass the arugula?

Postscript: Time may fly when we’re having fun...but it also passes no matter what. It’s the “no matter what” that counts the most.
Dedicated to my fellow “sideways” friend. I love the sound of your rediscovered laughter. Also, thank you Kacey for providing a rather fitting adjective for my musings. Sideways indeed!
© 2006 Teresa G. Franta