I feel conspicuous, a woman with red hair and a leopard print coat, alone, eating a hot pepper and steak sandwich at 10 a.m. The enormous market is bulging with customers, many from the nearby Marriot Hotel where President Clinton will speak in a few hours. They snake slowly through the crowded aisles, bumping into customers waiting for cappuccinos, smoothies, sticky buns, and bagels with flavored cream cheese. Counters are lined with lusty eaters tucking into blueberry pancakes and apple dumplings. I am alone in Rick’s.
The sound of the crowd is an indecipherable din, but as a man with long brown hair passes by, his voice rises above the racket. He looks to be in his mid-40s, wears a tattered flannel shirt, and holds the hand of a 3-year-old boy.
Because I can!
“You know what I’m going to have for breakfast?” he says to the toddler. I cannot hear the child’s response but I see by the way he cocks his head upward that he is listening.
“Macaroni and cheese,” the man continues, “and you know why?”
The man pauses as if to give the toddler time to think of the correct response. I can see his struggle to suppress a smile, and understand that he is pausing for effect. It is a pregnant pause, and I wait expectantly.
“Because I can!” he shouts heavenward, his head tilted back with irrepressible glee.
He sounds triumphant, his voice lifting with a delighted smugness, as if he had just won an invisible battle, an internal war with the food police, a wife who scrutinizes his diet, a doctor who told him to reduce his cholesterol. In my mind’s eye, I see him turning handsprings through the market, pulling up in front of one of the many Pennsylvania Dutch concessions here that offer the sinful casserole. My mouth waters and I take another bite of my sandwich.
The boy is too young, of course, and won’t understand until years from now, when he might, if he is blessed with a good memory, recall this moment as he boils pasta, grates cheeses, breaks fresh eggs, and pours cream into a big mixing bowl. I imagine him a grown man with tears in his eyes, remembering his father and savoring the voluptuous mixture.
I feel vindicated and somehow less conspicuous, and finish my sandwich with undistracted pleasure.
