The Food of Love
by Cait Johnson

Shakespeare famously theorized that music was the food of love and, back in the day, maybe it was. But one thing is for sure: when I was younger, "food" certainly wasn't the food of love. In fact, when it came to romance, food was totally beside the point.

Remember those sweaty adolescent dinner dates when you could hardly choke down a bite because you were so nervous? Not to mention how terrified you were that you might get a piece of spinach caught in your teeth. Then, once we really hit our romantic stride, the true appetizers for most restaurant meals were playing footsy under the table and shooting glances sizzling with ardor across it. In fact, you could always tell the couples who had fallen out of love (which, by the way, statistics say most people do within two years) because they were the ones who were actually eating — you know, real food. Unlike the couples who were more intent upon gazing into each other's eyes and playing the aforesaid footsy under the table. Check back with them two years down the pike and they'll be wolfing down the risotto with prawns and the key lime crème brulée with the best of them.

Still, many of my Most Important Moments happened over food. Stroll with me down Memory Lane for a moment and picture this scene: I am much younger, in England, having gone there to fulfill a lifelong dream. I have been doing everything I can think of in a vain attempt to forget the American guy I left behind, who has come to visit me and is now sitting across the table of this Indian restaurant, a restaurant in an almost unbearably twee area of Kent: Tunbridge Wells, known for its restorative waters. I am dry in the soul and needing restoration. As he, with his typical Irish blarney, outlines his plan for success to me, I suddenly realize that the reason I have been less than successful in forgetting him is that we are fundamentally alike. Over bites of curried whatever-it-is, I realize that, like me, he is both overly responsible and willing to do Whatever It Takes to make something work. Eventually, I leave England (which I had never expected I would do) and go back to him. And we have a son, who is quite simply the Tarte Tatin of my eye. But looking back, the central defining moment was that one that happened with his father over the curry.

Fast forward many years, years that include a hideously painful separation and a lengthy sojourn with a man who likes to cook but who is more a friend than a partner, to a night just a few months ago. My best friend is setting me up with a man she met that she thinks is perfect for me. She has invited us both to her house for dinner before his performance (he is a performance poet). She has given me his book to read the night before. It's good. In fact, it's really good. When we set eyes on each other, there is a weird kind of instant recognition. We sit on the sofa together. We consume massive quantities of wine. (We both like dark red wine.) We also both, it turns out, like single malt scotch. And Guinness. And food. He passes me the cheese knife — we are both enamored of brie — and sparks jump from hand to hand. It is an auspicious beginning. Now, months later, one of the things we most enjoy talking about (we talk on the phone a lot since he lives over three hours away) is food. What we had for dinner. What we bought at the market. What we'll make with it tomorrow.

So perhaps it's not just falling out of love that engenders real interest in food when you're coupled in middle age. Maybe one measuring stick for mature partnered love is that all the senses and pleasures can assert themselves in the playing field of love and demand equal satisfaction. Translation: a sublimely tasty meal can rate right up there with what one ordinarily thinks of doing when one talks about love. Thus, even if we go the way of all those out-of-love couples . . . there is always the kitchen. If apples fail to comfort, you can always whip up a nice plate of scallop stacks with polenta and portobello mushrooms. To paraphrase one of my favorite authors, the food-loving Colette, it's so delicious it would comfort a widow newly-made (Not that we want to push it.)

Scallop Stacks with Portobello Mushrooms and Polenta

1. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, sauté one sliced leek, white and pale green parts only, in a little butter until translucent and soft. Remove and set aside.


2. Add a little extra-virgin olive oil to the pan. Coat several 1/2-inch thick slices of already-cooked polenta (available in a tube at Hannaford) in cornmeal and fry until golden and crisp on the outside, about 5 or 6 minutes on each side. Remove and set aside.


3. Sauté one or two large sea scallops per person in the pan with a little more butter, adding a bit of white wine at the end. Err on the side of undercooking: the scallops should be barely firm and opaque but still tender.


4. Place one or two portobello caps per person in an oiled baking pan. Cover them with the cooked leeks. Place a polenta round on top of that, then a large scallop. Sprinkle with sea salt and freshly-ground pepper to taste, and top with finely chopped parsley. Bake in a preheated 350°F degree oven until the mushrooms release their juices, about 15 minutes. Serve warm with a nice crisp salad.