[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

When my friend died I got his copy of Coyote Café, a cookbook by Mark Miller. There was a memorial gathering at a bar on the riverfront in Savannah, Georgia thrown together by few of his ex-girlfriends. Some of his stuff – cds, books, a bike helmet, etc. – was laid out on tables for people to pick up and take home as mementos.

He, my wife, and I were practically roommates for a spell. At the cusp of the century swap, we had the upper left apartment of a fourplex and he had the upper right. We still courtesy knocked, but if my wife was studying and Jeffrey, the friend, was out somewhere I’d still go over to his place if I wanted to watch TV (television) or listen to music. The best part of this communal arrangement was that Jeffery was a chef. We ate well. Very well. And he didn’t just feed us. He taught us all manner of things about food stuffs and ways to make them hot.

I don’t think he taught us anything out of Coyote Café. I picked it because the spine was sun-bleached; it was something that he’d had for a while. The Coyote Café restaurant is in New Mexico and I figured he picked the book up when he was running a kitchen in Arizona. It felt like something that made moves with him. Looking at it now, I don’t think he used it much. He was a sloppy cook at home. He was the opposite when working, but at home things got splashed around and dripped on. The pages are pristine. More than likely, the book didn’t get left.