Women Beyond a Certain Age (2025)

28/06/2025

Richard Simmons—Split Pea Soup
1996

Prelude:

I loved him. I knew Richard for twenty-five years and worked with him for twenty. Our timeline doesn’t match up because we took a break from each other after he fired me the second time. He swore he didn’t, but he did. Well, maybe I did quit that second time. No matter. I loved him. Always will. As I wrote this story, I realized I could write a book just about all my times with Richard.

Split Pea Soup

Theresa washed the old celery and passed to me. Slightly limp, but fine for soup. I dice the whole head but eat the tiny tender inside stalks. I love the flavor of the leaves.

Richard Simmons was on tippy toes looking over my shoulder… he’s telling me that “celery is practically a free food. Denisey, by the time you chew and swallow, the calories are gone. Parsley is another free food. We can use as much as we like.”

I don’t measure the olive oil. A generous pour, probably 2 tablespoons, to cover the heavy bottom of my favorite soup pot. The outside of the copper pot desperately needs to be cleaned. I grabbed it in a hurry from my studio.

“Ugh,” I thought to myself, “don’t look at the outside. He’ll notice.”

A moment later Richard said, “Denisey, you need to polish that soup pot.” I knew it was coming. He never missed a beat.

“Yes,” I murmur to myself. Really thinking, “let’s just get through this tasting.”

Richard was not an easy client, but without a doubt the most generous I had ever worked with.

And damn if he wasn’t entertaining.

____________
I interrupt this story with this tidbit, to prove my point.

On a different Saturday morning, I arrived for coffee at Richard’s. He had just seen the movie Evita, starring Madonna. He was a human electrical outlet, practically throwing sparks, from remembering the music. He preceded to act out his favorite scenes. Me, sitting at his kitchen table, Richard acting in front of his big Wolf stove. He needed a bigger kitchen.

I saw the only performance of Richard impersonating Madonna playing Evita.

Had I known this performance was happening that morning, I would have dressed up or at least worn a string of pearls!

Honestly, I think Richard was better than Madonna. And without costumes, only his sweatpants and a simple white T- shirt. He could sing and dance and still make me his New Orleans coffee.

I caught up with him after the dark chicory brew laced with condensed milk hit my bloodstream. Hot jolt of energy. The coffee bitter and sweet like his performance.

A rare moment in history, and me the only witness.
____________

Back to my story. We were tasting new recipes; Richard was high energy. Like a speed boat at full throttle. Bouncing off the walls of his kitchen. Sometimes his excitement turned to agitation; never good for any of us. He needed a job, so I gave him the printed recipes and a sharp pencil.

“Make notes Richard,” I offer. He’s an artist, he’ll doodle. I remained calm.

His assistant, M, had joined us to take pictures. She was a beacon of steadiness. I often wondered if she took Va**um. How often? Hourly? And how much? And which doctor prescribed it? There was envy in those questions.

Richard often remarked how calm I was… “Denisey are you a Buddhist?”

“No, Richard, I’m a lapsed Catholic who can hardly wait for our tasting to be done so I can drink my glass of wine out of your blender top! But one of us has to remain calm! And today it’s me.”

It was always me. I got paid to stay calm.

He laughed and moved on to the pitchers of water. “Don’t drink water too cold, your body cells hate cold water…”

I liked cold water. I tossed out the ice cubes. Never mind.

I added one large, chopped onion to my soup pot with the diced celery. The sizzle of the oil and the vegetables. Coated them with a thorough stir.

Richard, “You didn’t need that much oil! Next time, use the spray.”

I don’t want to use that nasty spray. I pretend I don’t hear him.

The pot smells like every kitchen I have ever worked in: onions browning in hot oil. That’s the reward for chopping. That’s the pleasure I got from my stove.

Added the colander of rinsed split green peas. Eight ounces; the small bag.

Let the peas toast with the vegetables for five minutes. Low, low heat so the peas don’t stick as they release their sugar. I used to soak the peas in water overnight, now just rinse and sauté them. It’s quicker cooking.

My mother always warned me about tiny rocks in with the peas, sifting her fingers through the peas. I wish she had warned me about s*x, men, co***ne and booze. I’ve been safe from the peas.

I covered the pot and to let the vegetables sweat. There is a French word for sweat but I’ve forgotten it. Put on the cover. Voila; sweat.

Poured the 2-quart boxes of stock into the pot. Always better if you have homemade stock but Richard’s target market, his followers, needed simple. Most were learning how to cook and eat healthier. Richard answered over a thousand emails a day. Many from the morbidly obese.

“I’m changing their habits for success Denisey.”

He preached about the selfcare in cooking. He tried to teach them how to balance their fats and calories.

Cooking was the contrast to drive-thru food and being handed a bag of high calories. Love yourself when you plan your meals.

Let the vegetables, peas and stock meld and become soup. Low heat. Peas done in an hour.

I diced up a small slice of ham and swung it in a separate hot pan. The thin fat cap melted itself. I watched black specs appear on the pink bits. I knew this was a change to Richard’s cooking.

Richard peered at the ham… “Is that low-fat ham?”

“Yes,” I answer, “the pig was on a diet when he passed.”

“We’ll need the calorie count Denisey. “

“I know, Richard. This is a tiny amount of ham compared with the amount of peas and broth. Nutritious and delicious. You’ll be surprised how low-fat this soup is!” I said as I added the ham to the soup pot. “And with the ham, we don’t have to use any salt. Just black pepper, Richard.”

We discussed the ham addition weeks ago in a pre-pro meeting. If he pulled the ham, we’d be back to the boring mush in his last cookbook. I did not write those recipes. I bit my tongue.

I started prepping recipe two.

Richard liked the soup. I knew the ham would stay when he tasted it.

Richard had hired me to style his cookbooks, recipe cards, TV appearances and giveaways, but he’d always used a nutritionist to write his recipes. Unfortunately, the last batch of recipe cards did not get good reviews. I had tried to warn him. The recipes were nonfat and low sugar junk mixed together. So many chemicals. My kitchen staff called them ‘chemical ponds’ and our diagnosis was the recipes had been slapped together but not tested. They needed work.

But not before I sent a FAX to the nutritionist telling her she could lick my ass and her recipes would have tasted better.

I know, I was wrong. I should have said butt.

That was the first time I was fired.

But, when the recipes got bad reviews via Richard’s website, I was back on the team.

I insisted we cook with real food. “Richard, real food.”

Today we were testing the new recipes. Ten recipes, tested, written, shopped for. The pea soup approved. One down, nine to go.

I check the refrigerator to make sure Theresa has chilled the wine.

24/05/2025

NapaStyle
2003

Michael Chiarello and I bonded over the crostini I made for his Cioppino segment. It was a few days into the production. I liked him but we hadn’t found our groove yet. I knew we needed to bond to make the 39 shows the best they could be.

It helps if the culinary producer and the talent like each other. It doesn’t have to be love but, working 14-hour days for 40 days straight, liking each other at least makes for the probability of fun.

Cindie and I had added the crostini, it wasn’t in the segment brief. To me, it was a necessary prop to sit next to his fish soup.

Growing up in the city of sourdough, I learned many ways to make crostini. It boils down to perfectly toasted pieces of stale bread with a swipe of olive oil. Traditional crostini from a baguette. Slice them thin on an angle. The bread doesn’t have to be stale but why toast fresh bread?

Michael saw the finished basket next to his hero pot of soup.

“What’s this?” He asked as he grabbed one and bit into it.

“Crostini. You gotta have some bread,” I answered. “My mom’s recipe.”

I had mixed a tiny bit of aioli with grated Parmesan cheese and minced fresh oregano. Spread on the bread and toasted until it bubbled. Sometimes my mom would swirl pesto into to the aioli for a bit of green. Delicious.

Cioppino is from San Francisco, don’t let anyone tell you differently. It’s fish soup. Not as fancy as bouillabaisse, with such exacting or exotic fish. The recipe came right off the docks of Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s fish that was left at the end of the day, not sold, just pieces thrown into the pot. The original Scoma’s on the Wharf made the best.

I met Michael after he had lost his famous restaurant, Tra Vigne, in his divorce. His ex-wife was now running the place…Michael was hurt, he was bitter, he was angry. I had been warned by the executive producer that he might not be in the best of shape,

“Denise, he’s a handful and can be a diva.”

“That’s okay, Steve. I know divas!” I smiled brightly. Unnecessarily brightly. My inside thought was, “Have you seen my resume? Watch TVFN! Bi***es, divas, imposters, what was the difference?”

I flew from LA to SFO to interview for the job. Rented a car, drove to Napa and found his office. I’d arrived twenty minutes early and waited outside on a wooden bench. He was an hour late. He was grumpy, swearing at his hangover, and was seriously smelly. That smell when booze is fleeing your body.

Lord, did I really want this job?!

“Yes,” I answered myself.

It would end up being over 70 days of work. And there was a gorgeous buffet with lattes every morning at our inn. Cindie and I ate in all the best restaurants in the valley. Treated well when we mentioned Michael’s name. It was an adventure.

And we had worked in worse places.

Going into this production, I had fears. Sometimes a restaurant chef was the worse talent. They could cook but they were used to being the ONLY boss, and suggestions from “a girl” often fell on deaf ears.

Michael’s last show “helper” was a man that had worked in his restaurant…great guy but did not know segment timing, camera angles, stop-downs, heros or re-sets. No propping experience. Couldn’t come up with filler recipes. His last production fell behind schedule. That’s means wasted money.

I was called at the beginning of this show because I had a decade of producing credits. I worked for the production company not the network. Networks are notoriously cheap.

Working in TV, I had learned to balance and walk the hierarchy tightrope. On most shows Cindie and I were the only women on the set. And they called us home ecs. Leftover jargon from the 1950’s. It was a boys’ town.

It would be a decade before I would work with a woman director or a woman cameraman. Or a woman executive. Change is slow.

But, after the first day of working with Michael, my fears vanished. He became my Italian baby brother. On his needier days, I was his Mama. He called me that when I saw him each morning.

“How’s my Mama!?”

I did not mind at all.

And he had loved his mama. Cooked and cared for her when she was dying. He called caring for his mother the greatest privilege of his life. Hard not to want to protect him, his food and the show. People have no idea of how hard it is being talent. Daily tapes were sent nightly to the Network. Critiques, possible adjustments, and notes about him were a daily occurrence.

As a producer that was part of my job, to deliver the “news.” I often thought, “I‘ll need a whip and a chair this morning.”

Nothing in production is as easy as it looks. The magic of editing.

We grew to understand each other. Let’s face it, two D***S, with last names full of vowels and always mispronounced, and sharing our love of being Italians with each other. We talked about our families. A lot. We loved cooking our family’s food. We’d ask each other questions.

“Hey, you got an uncle that makes a hat out of his napkin when he sits outside? Or “How thick is your aunt’s mustache?”

When the network green-lite this production the show treatment was only a two-page synopsis.

Michael was the selling factor. We invented the episodes and worked with his recipes. He was TV savvy. Had already starred on a traditional show on PBS. With this show he wanted to expand his brand. No chef jacket. He’d wear linen shirts with fitted blue jeans. Half chic, half farm-look. He would define his new business idea as “NapaStyle.”

Part of my job was to fluff his recipes and the original ideas. Each show had a theme. Reach out to guests, arrange for them to be comfortable. Tell them what we wanted. What to wear. What to bring, what they would do. Scout local viable locations, food tours that would add interest, wineries and the local culinary institute. Not just stay in the studio.

And use as many of Michael’s “NapaStyle” products as we could. Salad bowls, wine racks, copper polenta pots and salt cellars. It was pretty stuff perfect for entertaining.

We were shooting in a large photography studio in St Helena. Beautiful space. Big enough for 2 cameras and a boom. The long-necked boom camera gives you perfect overheads. There are many people involved in every show. Writers, a production manager, a director, a DP, cameramen, set designers, prop people, stylists, kitchen prep and executive producers with checkbooks. It costs a lot to do a quality show. Everyone wants high production value. Or you can’t use it in your portfolio. You try not to put your name on crap.

The network named me the culinary producer. Same job I’d been doing for years as a food stylist but now I had a fancier title. I created content, now was getting credit for it. I had a much larger budget than I had worked with before.

I had seen his first series on PBS. Michael was knowledgeable, looked good and could cook. He loved to talk about wine. Well, hell, we were in the Napa Valley. He had started producing a small label from a vineyard of his own.

I did meet Eileen, his fiancé, in the studio during the month we shot. She was smart, they seemed happy. Later, they would marry and have a son. I think that was one of the happiest times in his life. He sent me quick emails. It had been a while.

“I have a son, Mama, blonde curls, looks like an angel. He belongs painted on a ceiling in the Vatican.” He was so proud.

Michael had three daughters before his son. He called them “his moon and two stars.” I met one of them when she came to the set as we were rehearsing. I don’t know if I ever knew her name. I remember she was beautiful. Years later in emails he would tell me what they were all up to. He was proud of them.

I kept promising I would come see his new place. Food, wine, and theatre. He was the maestro! I was ashamed I never made it.

I was in Rome when I read that Michael Chiarello died. He was only 61. I felt gutted. And so filled with regret that I had let so much time pass and not been in better touch with him. Stupid. I should have sent more texts. I should have thanked him. Being the culinary producer for his Fine Living TV show changed my career for the better. I was able to move into celebrity cookbooks, travel more, and make more money. Many referrals came from that crew working in Napa. Millions watched his show.

The few times we worked together in those years were quick, down and dirty. Bravo would call when Michael did some Top Chef appearances in LA, but I was always booked. And Bravo was cheaper than TVFN, if that was possible.

I have regrets that I wasn’t a better friend. Our lives got busy. I admired what he accomplished.

When I read his obituary, I could only think about when we were laughing. I know his life got messy. Whose doesn’t? But I choose to remember how he and I loved to laugh out loud.

When things got tense on the set, he’d ask me for one of my family’s dinner stories. His favorite tale was about my father. He had hands like baseball mitts. And if you were flip or rude to my mother that huge hand moved lightning fast and would cuff my sisters or me on the cheek. It was more surprise than pain. But, of course, we would all wail and my mother would come out of the kitchen yelling, “Johnnie, don’t hit ‘em in the face!”

Maybe you have to be Italian to get that.

Maybe I should make Cioppino tonight.

28/04/2025

Tiny Dancers
From 1959-2023

Laurie, when you read this, I want you to know that I’m writing on my phone, at the train station in Paris. Excuse any typos. I need to tell you my remembrances and send this note before your retirement party.

I think we met the very first year Mrs. Norman produced The Nutcracker in 1959. All students at Leona Norman’s School of Ballet would perform. Mrs. Norman had bought an old brick house on 4th Street—the upstairs attic made into a proper ballet studio. Levels of concrete and wooden staircases lead from the street. The old house shrouded by huge trees we would play and hide in after class.

Black and white photographs from Mrs. Norman’s days of dancing with the Ballet Rouse lined the entry way. An office and sitting area with antique gold-gilded French chairs lead to the main studio. Nothing but floor to ceiling mirrors and yards of polished wooden barres.

I was 8 years old when we met.

You were dancing the part of Fritz. Me; a child party guest in the first act. I wore a green flowery taffeta dress with satin ribbons that my mother made. Actually, my mother didn’t sew. I clearly remember her nodding her head yes to Mrs. Norman and, later in the car, telling me, “I’ll hire Darlene.” Darlene, our neighbor who sewed beautifully and took in jobs. She had five kids.

Act 1. The famous Victorian party scene where Fritz breaks his sister’s new nutcracker, a mysterious gift given to Clara by Herr Drosselmeyer. Part friend, part magician, Drosselmeyer was a mysterious guest bearing gifts but, as a child, he was creepy to me. Besides, my mother had warned me about gifts from strangers. It didn’t matter if we were on stage, he scared me.

I was fascinated by the lights, the props and the growing “staged” Christmas tree. The drama, the tension, the excitement—we were all learning the ballet.

After my costume was fitted, my mother added a hand-crocheted collar. I can see her attaching the collar as we watched television. She attached it with snaps, telling me to remember to unsnap the collar and bring it back after the last performance. Her dear, dead Nana had crocheted it.

During rehearsals my part grew. I became the little girl that you—Fritz—pushed down and, magic of the theatre, I would pretend to cry. Silently, but with as much fanfare as I could muster.

I learned early, if you aren’t a lead, you better dance and emote like a mad hatter to get a better part next year.

Mrs. Norman said I was expressive. I practiced crying. Silently. With my hands rubbing my eyes. A small part but integral, Mrs. Norman would preach. I wanted to believe her.

The next year, you were Fritz, again. You were tiny and perfect in the role. A black velvet boy’s suit with a flouncy, burgundy neck bow. And your mother curled your short hair into a perfect “page boy” as boys wore their hair then.

On performance days different mothers took turns putting on our makeup. Our young features painted, the eyes and lips must stand out. Dark blue creme shadow and deep red lips, we looked like clowns in real life, but we were told it was necessary for the stage.

“Remember ladies, you are playing to the back of the room. Remember the last row of the theatre. The cheap seats! Give them a performance to remember!” Mrs. Norman was an inspiring and graceful general.

The second year I reprised my same role, more polished, even better at crying on cue. Silently, but with great depth. Not everyone could have hung onto that role! LOL.

The third year I was Clara, and you had moved up to the Toy Soldier who becomes the Mouse King, introducing Act 2.

And I had a costume change. I was moving up. Getting undressed in the wings, a stage manager pulled my fancy pink party dress off and, with my arms up, slid my lacy white night gown on. My mother told me it was actually a peignoir set.

You had a cardboard sword, but it looked real to the audience. It was the year I understood being on the stage and watching from the audience were two different things. Lighting, backgrounds, costumes, props, everything the audience sees is illusion. Standing next to each other, we dancers would see years of armpit stains on our silk bodice, torn and mended tutus on decades-old costumes bought from a costume houses, and (often) tightly bandaged ankles. But, with changing lights, the orchestra, and movement, it was pure grace.

I learned what it meant to be a performer and, no matter how much my toes bled, or feet ached, I had to smile. Make it look effortless. Mrs. Norman telling us, “Dancing is 5 percent talent and 95 percent sweat.”

A life lesson I never have forgotten.

But whatever part you danced, Laurie, you were terrific, and I admired you. And I worked hard to dance as well as you. You were always technically correct and dashed across the stage like a firefly. A scene stealer. The audience followed you in scenes.

Some details have gotten lost, but the time we spent together in the pale green, very crowded dressing room at Mrs. Norman’s, the pink tiled bathroom, dipping our point shoes in the resin box, our smelly ballet bags after class, the snacks we shared waiting for our mothers to pick us up, it’s all amazingly intact.

If I close my eyes, I can smell Mrs. Norman when she hugged us—Chesterfield cigarette smoke, Ivory soap and the baby powder between her breasts.

The last time we were all together (I was 14) Mrs. Norman took us to the San Francisco Opera House to see Margot Fonteyn and Rudolph Nureyev. We sat in the orchestra seats, and it was arranged we would meet the two principals after the performance. The afternoon was meant to inspire us.

Margot Fonteyn was the legendary prime ballerina of the day. By then, she was in her 40s. She was majestic and showed no signs of slowing down. But even the best can’t out dance time. Fonteyn and Nureyev performed the Pas de Deux of Swan Lake. The choreography includes 42 Fouetté turns. That’s like a pirouette but even harder, the ballerina extends one leg while standing on point on the other. Sitting close to the stage, I felt Fonteyn’s sweat spray me. It shocked and scared me.

I got home and told my mother that I was thinking I might quit ballet. Either I’d make a huge commitment now, entering high school, and plan a professional career, or I wouldn’t.

My mother said it was my decision. I didn’t know it then, but this would be my guiding inside compass. I was born with it. Always looking forward. Knowing when to leave. Or in this case, when to get off the stage.

We spent a lot of time together, you and me. Happy times filled with joy, youthful energy and dreams. How lucky we were.

It was easy for me when I quit dancing. I loved it but knew it was never gonna be my life. I knew it would be yours. I did not have your dedication, talent, or determination.

What a career you made for yourself. I know whatever heavenly stage Mrs. Norman is directing, she’s proud of you.

Over the past decades I’ve had Marin friends tell me about you teaching their children, their grandchildren, and keeping The Marin Ballet alive and thriving.

I’m so proud of you. I am so grateful for our 60-plus years.

You deserve golden toe shoes, Madame.

Brava. Brava, Laurie.

13/04/2025

Father Quinn
1984

In the beginning years of the California Culinary Academy, the registrar insisted all students have some restaurant or hospitality experience, but that rule went by the wayside when the Academy’s popularity took off and it was swimming in applicants…suddenly students with no food experience were being accepted. The Academy wanted their tuition!

I worked in my dad’s grocery stores for decades, I devoured Julia Child’s cookbooks, I gave many parties, but I was never paid to cook. Luckily, ignorance is bliss. I applied and was accepted. I knew nothing about working in commercial kitchens or restaurants. It was all new to me. And so exciting.

There were only a handful of women enrolled when I went there. We ate lunch together and we supported each other. Privately, we would bitch about the chefs, or our fears of not getting hired in any restaurants, or reported to each other which creep had pinched us when we bent over. It was always a student from the classes ahead of you. Occasionally, it was a chef instructor. This was before HR Departments, and the unspoken rule to women was to put up or shut up. If you complained, you’d get it worse.

At lunch, Lorna, a student ahead of me and nearing graduation, asked if I wanted her after school job. She cooked at a local rectory. “Really!? Like priests?!” I was wide-eyed. Lorna chuckled, “Well, they aren’t Buddhists! They eat meat!” I was interested.

“Denise, it’s a great job, dinner five nights, no food budget, and it’s usually just two or three priests!”

It sounded good to me. I had been waitressing in the dining room at school, but it was very sporadic and, hard as I tried, I was lousy. Truly, I spilled a lot—red wine stains! I was a challenge for any dry cleaner! Anyway, I wanted to make the food, not schlep the dishes.

The next week I went with Lorna to meet Father Quinn, see the kitchen, and find out if I could handle the job. I was nervous when we sat down in Father Quinn’s office, but there was no need. He had soft blue eyes that twinkled, pink cheeks, and a kind smile. I knew immediately he loved to laugh. So much Irish charm.

My nervousness was about my religion, not cooking or shopping. Would he ask me if I was Catholic? At this job, he had every right. We had a bit of small talk and then, grinning, he looked right at me and asked, “Okay, when was the last time you went to confession?” I had to tell the truth…I couldn’t lie to a priest…oh, this would sound so bad…

“You see Father, I was born Catholic, and then, when I was 9, my mother got angry at the Pope and marched my sisters and me to the neighborhood Presbyterian church and had us rebaptized. The Presbyterian minister did give us a beautiful 8x10 glossy print of Jesus that we had to hide whenever my grandparents came for supper. Sliding Him into the top drawer, then out when they left. Poor Jesus!”

“Well, which did you prefer?!” asks Father Quinn with a grin.

“Catholic, Father, absolutely, Catholic.” It wasn’t a lie. I liked the gold crosses, the costumes, the incense, the candles, the wafers! And kneeling while making the cross. I loved the pageantry.

“Right answer,” Father Quinn smiled. I got the job.

I shopped once a week, hung a weekly dinner menu on the bulletin board, and had their kitchen knives sharpened.

The compound was from the 1950’s. It included the rectory, a school (with classes up to 8th grade), and housing for the sisters that taught classes. The sisters did not have a cook—they fended for themselves. When I asked Father Quinn why his reply was firm, “Denise, the sisters teach, but they get to retire, we priest work until we drop.” Oh. I understood management perks.

The rectory kitchen had a big refrigerator with a turquoise interior, built-in ovens with a broiler, an old dishwasher that rumbled when I turned it on, and a scuffed linoleum floor with green speckled tiles. I’ll never forget it; it looked exactly like my grandmother’s kitchen. It felt like home.

I also felt in charge when I sat at the kitchen table and wrote out my menus. Often, I practiced dishes from the school dining room I was learning. It was quiet, safe and cool—the opposite of school’s hot, crowded, chaotic kitchens where I spent seven hours a day. The undercurrent of stress in the school kitchen was the unreported barrage of harassment, of sneering nastiness, and male disapproval. Most of the chefs didn’t want us there and were vocal about it. It wasn’t easy to fight day in and day out. But I wasn’t quitting; it just made me tougher.

The rectory dining room was beige, gold and fancy. I set the table for dinner every night with silver flatware, cloth napkins, old china, and sparkling crystal. Every piece came from a huge glass and mahogany hutch. The key for the lock was attached to a thick gold tassel.

Father Quinn only drank water and coffee. He’d stop drinking booze early on, he’d said with a laugh. “But you should certainly buy wine when we have guests,” he added.

There were often guests on Friday nights. Priests passing through San Francisco on the way to their new parishes. Or priests that had left the Vatican and were waiting for their next placement.

I served dinner at 7 PM and always set the table for four. Sometimes the girls in the office knew if there were guests; sometimes not. I cooked four portions every night. It was fine if there were leftovers. Father would always tell me, “Denise, if you’re hungry, eat.” Like many cooks, I picked but seldom ate.

Once I asked him, “Father Quinn, what do you eat on Sunday night?”

“Denise, think about it, that’s why God invented McDonald’s.”

When Father Kevin was living with us and preparing for his studies at the Vatican, I asked him if he could he get me a job there. I imagined cooking with all that beautiful art. Having coffee under the Sistine Chapel. Making pasta under the gaze of the great masters. But Father Kevin simply replied, “Denise, there are NO women near the Pope! Ever!”

“Oh.” Um? I asked no more questions.

My time at the Rectory was ending after four months. I was required to work in the school restaurant for the dinner shift. I would miss this peaceful place.

I was cooking burgers that last week with handmade fries, Father Quinn’s favorite. It was the kind of burger you ate when you watched football and Joe Montana. Father Quinn lived for the 49ers. Ground sirloin with blue cheese crumbles on top and more blue cheese stuffed in the middle. When Father rang the dining room bell that night and I appeared, he simply said, “Eat with me tonight.”

We talked about my future. He had a lot of questions. Where would I cook? What was I hoping for? He had already written me a recommendation. I thanked him.

I told him my dream: I wanted to cook all around the world. If I could cook, I could travel and always get a job. That may have been the first time I told anyone my plan. Like a confession. It was just the beginning.

The last night I cooked at St. Veronica’s was, coincidentally, my birthday. I got to the kitchen and cooked spaghetti and meatballs. When I went to set the table, there was Father Quinn and Father Kevin and, lining the walls, all the ladies from the parish office. It was a smiling crowd with balloons, a big chocolate cake, and a beautifully wrapped package. The ladies poured champagne. I’ll admit, I was overwhelmed.

“Open your present, Denise,” said the ladies.

I couldn’t have been more surprised if it was a bomb. Under the tissue paper was a s*xy, lacy black teddy! “Really?!” I thought. I looked at Father Quinn. I have no idea how I looked, but I know I was confused.

Father Quinn said, “It had to be a special gift, Denise you’re turning 33, it’s such a special age! That’s the year Jesus died on the cross.” I guess I should have known that.

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