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Archives

Saturday, May 20, 2006
Pot Roast With Steve (a dinner series) :: Keith :: 0

Under Steve’s navigation, my driving, and the sound of Steve’s wife rocking back and forth in the recliner, the van begins to ever so slowly make progress on leaving Boston behind.  To think that until just the other night I’d never even been east of the Mississippi River, who would have been able to guess that I would suddenly find myself pulling away from one of the countries most historically rich cities with two nearly complete strangers, my hands gripped tightly to the oversized steering wheel of a used Snap-on delivery van, in search of America’s pot roast?  Certainly not me, and now with the morning glow slowly beginning to brighten in the rearview mirror and the idea of what it was we were all headed towards, the entire morning was feeling dreamlike and surreal.  Like watching dark, rich gravy as it pours over a mountain of potatoes, I thought.  Just before the first bite and it becomes reality.

“Shame to be leaving Boston so soon,” I say.  “I would have liked to have seen it in the light.”

“We’ll be back,” Steve says.  “There’s good pot roast in Boston, and I mean really good pot roast, so we’ll make it the final stop.  The grand finale of the Pot Roast with Steve Dinner Series.  Instead of letting Boston set the standard, she’ll have the final say.  Boston will be the tour’s coup d’état, if you will, the other stops the path that leads home.”

“By then they’ll know we’re coming,” I say.  “Word will get out.”  Steve motions for me to merge left and I feel that the van has turned south, which makes me rethink the mental map of the east coast in my head.  I’ve driven back and forth across the midwest a thousand times, but I am in unexplored territory now.  New York must be south, I realize, not east.

“One if by land, two if by sea,” Steve says, and while my history is nearly as weak as my geography, I do know what this means.  The good people of Boston will hear of our approach.  They’ll know we are coming and slow cookers will begin to click on throughout the city to welcome us home.  The idea sounds funny to me.  Home.  Odd that a place I’ve never seen in the light of day will suddenly serve as the idea of home for me for the next few months, maybe even longer, but then, everything about the morning is new and odd.

“This is going to be fun,” I say.  “A true adventure.”

“A road trip.”

“A road trip like none other,” I say.

“With books,” Steve adds, nodding back towards the van’s tool shelves, which instead of being loaded down with tools, are now overflowing with all of the books we’d agreed were essential for an extended road trip like this one.

“With books,” I say, and we both smile.  A road trip with books with frequent stops for pot roast.  Has there ever been a better idea?  I think not.

“And a wife,” I add.

“Oh yeah.  And a wife,” Steve says.

“Thank you,” comes a voice from the growing light in the back.

“Morning, honey,” Steve says.  “Want some coffee?”

I’d thought Steve’s wife might have been asleep, since she’d been so quiet as we pulled out of Boston, but then realized what a crazy idea that was.  With all the excitement of the trip ahead, who in their right mind could sleep?  I flexed my fingers on the wheel and tried to imagine the city that never sleeps.  New York City.  You can bet even now someone somewhere is busy in that city, seasoning up a fine pot roast for tonight.  I pushed down on the gas, edging the van south.


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