Quiche

I always suspected Maggie was a witch. Even when she said she’d been in the novitiate – Franciscans, perhaps? – my belief persisted. There was awareness in her touch. The objects of daily life seemed more significant: a ceramic bowl revealed its earthen origin, a knotted ribbon was a talisman, a spoon became a wand. Maggie moved through her space with a deliberate grace that connected her to other worlds.

One August afternoon, she taught me to make quiche. We’d been drinking cold tea, lying out in the sun on the baked floorboards of her open third floor deck. She always referred to it as the South of France. Indeed, we felt like Riviera contessas, tanned and fascinating, sipping our drinks, applying scented oils, adjusting floppy straw hats and sunglasses. By late afternoon, we were starving. We shuffled into the house in our flip-flops, trailing our towels through the ancient screen door. It took us a moment to adjust to the dim interior—the South of France had been dazzlingly bright.

In the kitchen, Maggie’s touch was at its most assured. She foraged from cupboard to cannister, pitcher to pot, carefully choosing ingredients. Eggs held the secrets of the universe. Freshly grated cheese invoked all earthly mysteries. Milk and onions and the small remains of other meals became elements in the mix. All the while, I listened to her talk about her holy days, her hippie days, her married and divorced days. I watched her hands work through all the practiced motions until the cooking ritual was complete.

Later, tea gone, quiche nothing but sprinkled crumbs for familiar crows, we sat outside again among the potted plants and peeling shingles. Together we watched the sun set below the ridge of houses that bordered Whitley Terrace. We summoned the peace of shared silence. We communed with the departing daylight. Maggie lit candles and incense – to keep the bugs away, she said – and we settled down to wait for darkness and our sister moon.