Lighting Candles in the Snow (2 page)

Asparagus Risotto

(May you have better luck with this than I did. Maybe some day I’ll try it.)

1 pound asparagus

3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon butter

½ cup chopped shallots

1 cup Arborio rice

½ cup dry white wine

3 cups chicken broth

½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

Prepare the asparagus by breaking off and discarding the tough ends (about the last inch of the spear). Cut into 1- to 1½-inch pieces (tips longer, base shorter). If your asparagus are especially large, cut into even smaller (bite-size) pieces. Bring a saucepan with a quart of water to a boil. Blanch the asparagus pieces for two minutes. At the end of two minutes, use a slotted spoon to remove the asparagus pieces to an ice water bath to shock the asparagus into a vibrant green color and to stop the cooking. Drain from the ice water bath and set aside.

In a 3 or 4 quart saucepan, heat 3 Tbsp butter on medium heat. Add the shallots and cook for a few minutes until translucent. Add the rice and cook for 2 minutes more, stirring until nicely coated.

While the shallots are cooking, bring the chicken broth to a simmer in a saucepan.

Add the wine. Slowly stir, allowing the rice to absorb the wine. Once the wine is almost completely absorbed, add ½ cup of chicken broth to the rice. Continue to stir until the liquid is almost completely absorbed, adding more broth in ½ cup increments. Stir often to prevent the rice from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Continue cooking and stirring rice, adding a little bit of broth at a time, cooking and stirring until it is absorbed, until the rice is tender, but still firm to the bite, about 15–20 minutes. (If you need more broth, use water, or the cooking water from the asparagus.) Remove from heat.

Gently stir in the Parmesan cheese, the remaining 1 teaspoon butter, and the asparagus. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

Serves
4.

Chapter Two

T
hey were the blackest of hours. Wavering between fury, sorrow, confusion and depression, I chose anger.

At ten minutes past two, I heard the sound of a key in the lock. The front door opened then clicked shut, followed by the familiar thump as Jeremy dropped his backpack by the hall closet. There was the scuffling sound of his shoes.

Heading to the kitchen first, I supposed. He’d want to assess things before coming to the bedroom. Certainly the dried-out bread, the gummy mushrooms and the over-cooked steak would send a clear message.

Finally he entered the bedroom, acting surprised to see me sitting up in bed with the reading lamp on. “Oh, hi, Karoline. You still up?”

He paused at the door and again as he entered the room, haltingly, as though unsure of himself. Jeremy never lacked confidence or lost control. I could tell by his rare hesitancy that he was shaken to find me waiting. Typically when he came home during the wee hours, I was asleep. I liked to get up early, not stay up late. Perhaps it was our opposite sleeping patterns that had first created the wedge between us.

He sat on the corner chair to untie his running shoes. Not that he had been running. Jeremy never worked out. He was slim but sedentary, sometimes going for days with nothing but black coffee.

“What did you expect?” I replied in what I hoped would come across as a chilling, offhand tone. Instead, my voice came out shaky like a little girl about to cry.

Sudden revelations like the kind I had tonight are emotionally exhausting. In the course of a few hours I had gone from excited and hopeful to concerned, to disappointed then devastated, to anger and on to complete understanding of what my husband was and what I must do about it.

Jeremy took off a shoe and examined it. “Hey, I
am
sorry about tonight. It was the craziest thing. I was at the library until it closed at nine, you know, completely caught up in my edits. It was a great session, I was on a roll. There was no way I could stop at that point. I decided to go on to the coffee shop to finish up. Guess I lost track of time.”

Of course. No big deal. It’s only Karoline, the trusting, long-suffering wife, busy with her own career and without a clue. I blinked away the tears. I would not cry!

“It’s our anniversary. . . .” I began, unable to continue past the pain.

After years of deceiving oneself, it hurts like hell to finally come face to face with reality. Maybe the actual Hell is made up of people like Jeremy forced at last to confront the truth about themselves and everyone they’ve hurt while selfishly, thoughtlessly, cruelly gliding through life.

He untied his other shoe. “I know, Karoline, I know, and I’m sorry. Only I was on such a roll. I was in the zone! Wait until you read this copy; it’s my best work ever.”

I gaped at him, unable to absorb the callousness. “I won’t read it, Jeremy. Or any of your work, ever again.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I thought you liked to read my pages. You’re my beta reader. I write for you.”

“Am I your biggest fan, Jeremy? Am I your Number One Fan?”

The anger returned stronger than ever, and I was ready to chop off appendages. If only I were a crazed psychopath like Annie Wilkes, instead of a law-abiding loan officer with an English degree who was more inclined to tears than anger, more passive than aggressive. Oh, if only!

The
Misery
quotes sailed right over his head. “What? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know, Karoline,
are
you my biggest fan? Lately you don’t seem to like me or my work much at all.”

Jeremy tossed his shoe aside and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples, like I was giving him a massive headache.

When he first came into the bedroom, a part of me had hoped for apologies and a bouquet of roses, for a kiss accompanied by begging for forgiveness and fervent promises to do better. He should be climbing into bed with a guilty laugh, telling me how the hours had slipped away, how many thousands of words he’d written, and now here he was, better late than never, swearing to make it up to me.

I searched his face for some sign of remorse, finding none and wondering when he had turned so distant. I was normally asleep when he came in, and he the same when I left for work every morning. How can any marriage survive such a schedule?

There would be no apologies this time, I realized, and my last hope evaporated like a puff of breath outside on a frosty day. A dark despair crept through me. I pushed it aside in my attempt to rekindle the rage. I couldn’t remain passive. I had to stay angry, to make a move. To act.

Jeremy stopped massaging his forehead and returned my gaze. “Dude, what are you staring at me like that for? You’re giving me the creeps.”

If only he had spoken with kindness, showed a particle of remorse, it might have been different. I would have forgiven him everything in that instant. But calling me
dude
like that and saying I gave him the creeps?

If Jeremy no longer loved me, what was the point?

I threw back the covers and crossed the room to face him. Wearing flannel pants and a tank top wasn’t the best outfit for taking a stand, but I was done playing the victim.

“Get out, Jeremy.”

“Get out? Why? What are you saying?” He made a move to rise from the chair.

One quick sprint forward and I shoved him, hard. The chair tipped backward before righting itself.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head. “I hit my head on the damn wall. What’s got into you? I said I was sorry, Karoline, what’s the big deal?”

I thrust my face into his. I could smell aftershave blended with the scent of an unfamiliar perfume. I had been blind, foolish. I clenched my fists, wishing I were powerful enough to hit him, hurt him, to tear him to pieces.

He seemed taken aback by my reaction. I rarely got angry, leaning more toward passive- aggressive pleaser. He must have thought this would be another late night like any other, with me asleep and him coming in quietly trying not to wake me. Instead he finds this furious woman with sparks shooting out of her eyes like fireworks. Feeling the blood rush to my cheeks, I pictured myself with red face, laser-like pupils and steam pulsing from my ears like a cartoon character.

“The big deal,
Jeremy
, is that it was our anniversary. We had a date. Remember?”

Jeremy had large brown eyes with long black lashes and the most exquisite eyebrows; truly bedroom eyes, that I used to love. It was the eyes that sucked women in first. Next was his voice, low and soft like a caress.

I had lost myself many times in those fabulous eyes. Jeremy glanced around the room, at anything but me.

“Shifty-eyed bastard, look at me why don’t you,” I blurted. “At me! Your wife! Not that the word means anything to you, you cheating slime ball.”

Jeremy’s eyes moved back to rest on mine. His expression hardened. “Go to hell.”

That firmed my resolve. I swallowed and pressed on. “Okay, whatever. Now listen to me, dickhead. I want you out. Now. Go. Do you understand? I don’t want to see your face.”

I would not cry. I would keep the rage. In the game of emotional checks and balances, anger trumps tears. Lose the anger, the tears would come.

“You can’t throw me out.” He lifted his chin in defiance.

“Yes. I can. It was my apartment before I met you. The lease is in my name. I can do whatever I want with my house. Now get out.”

I stepped back from the chair where Jeremy remained like a statue. Like if he sat there long enough I’d turn back into easy-going agreeable Karoline who never learned her lesson.

I took courage in my new tenacity. No more apologies, no more forgiveness. I would never forgive him, ever. “Go, Jeremy, I mean it. Just go. Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Jeremy gave a forced laugh. “Aren’t you the drama queen? Just like your sister. You’ll do something like what? Divorce me?”

I sensed my mood veering toward grief-stricken sobbing but fought against it. I had to stay outraged and fuming, not devastated.

“Get out!” I yelled.

A flicker of relief crossed his face. “What took you so long, Karoline, is what I wonder. I expected this a long time ago.” He picked up his shoes, one at a time, fiddling with them.

I had threatened to kick him out once before, three years ago, after the Incident. He had promised to get help, to never do it again, vowed that he loved me and only me, that he’d do anything to save our marriage. Somehow we had muddled through and stayed together.

Jeremy tied his shoes slowly like he had just recently learned how to maneuver laces. It didn’t fool me. He stalled in hopes I’d change my mind, perhaps to further irritate me, a power play. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his elbows on his thigh, giving the impression of a man who planned on staying put. He leaned forward and flashed a fake grin. “What else have you got?”

I tossed back my hair. I was no longer furious, but determined. I wanted him out. Determination was good, I just couldn’t allow sad. Not yet. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Gouging out your pretty eye-balls maybe?”

Jeremy sat like that for a long moment, holding his so-called smile in the apparent attempt to appear defiant, in control and unbothered. I stood over him, hands on hips, trying for an authoritarian stance.

Finally, he let out his breath with a “puh” and shook his head. “Fine. Have it your way.” He headed toward the front door, with me striding after him in preparation for the fight that never came. “Okay, sure, Karoline. Hey, it’s been real. I am outta here. Thanks for everything.”

He grabbed his jacket and the precious backpack he took everywhere. It would have his laptop in its case, the latest hard copy of his manuscript and probably keys to some woman’s apartment, where he would now go.

What a sap I had been. Really, what
had
taken me this long? I should have kicked him out three years ago, after the Incident. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. This time I’d stay strong. I’d stay angry.

At the front door, Jeremy turned back. “Don’t touch any of my stuff. I’ll come back later to get it.”

I slammed the door after him. It was over. After six years to the day—plus one—our marriage had ended. I would waste no more time loving Jeremy London.

After he left, the adrenaline coursed through me. Here I had been in fighting mode and instead of a fight Jeremy had given me chilly acquiescence which hurt even more. There was no way I could go back to bed. I stumbled into the living room and paced the floor. Finally, I stretched out on the couch, pulling the afghan up to my chin. I stared at the window where the moonlight softly whispered around the edges of the curtains.

The words of Robert Frost’s poem
Fire and Ice
echoed in my mind. “
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.”

I didn’t cry. I lay there and slowly turned to ice, feeling like my world had ended. “
But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.”

I must have slept, because I don’t remember the moonlight giving way to the morning sun rays until they shined in my face and woke me with their promise of a new day.

Cottage Cheese and Celery for One

1 cup cottage cheese (fat-free if you need to lose a few pounds)

4 stalks celery, washed and trimmed

6 slices melba toast

Measure cottage cheese and place on a fancy plate, (although preferably not your wedding china if you are recently divorced). Cut celery into thirds. Arrange celery and melba toast alternately surrounding the mound of cottage cheese.

Using celery like a spoon, scoop cottage cheese onto melba toast. Eat the cottage-cheese topped melba toast with a celery chaser. Repeat until cottage cheese is gone. Try to make the cottage cheese, celery and melba toast finish at exactly the same time. (These kinds of games will help distract you from the loneliness.)