Eggs Benedict
Keshav loves Eggs Benedict. This is not a disputed fact. What is disputed is how practical it is to make this dish at home. Fortunately, I don't give up easily, a good thing when it comes to attempting to make hollandaise sauce. Hollandaise sauce, as you may know, is the key ingredient in Eggs Benedict--without it you only have eggs. The challenge of making the sauce is that so many elements are critical--if it is not blended well and at the right temperature, it will not emulsify and instead just be a gooey mess. Once it is blended, you need to use it right away for best results. In its own way, making hollandaise sauce is an exercise in mindfulness.
I found this recipe that promised to make the process easy, and I have to report that it was. As you can see in the photo, the Eggs Benedict came out quite nicely, and Keshav was both surprised and pleased. That would make two of us, honey. Like many great dishes, this one relies on the perfect combination of flavors: a crisply toasted English Muffin, a perfectly poached egg, lightly seared breakfast ham, and of course, smoothly blended hollandaise sauce. When it works you get crunch, tang, and comfort in your mouth all at once, and this is why it is worth the effort.
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I was thinking the other day about aging. Well, to be honest, I am always thinking about it, but in different ways. This time I was thinking about how others see me vs. how I see myself, and I came up with an analogy of sorts.
At my current age of 63, aging feels like standing in the doorway, neither inside nor outside, of a house I know, while the guests inside look at me and wonder whether they should invite me in. The fact that I am standing in the doorway suggests that I belong there, or at least it suggests that I don't NOT belong there, but my not coming inside casts suspicion on my motives. In this analogy, I feel as though it is up to me to signal my belonging by simply going inside, but my self-doubts stops me from doing so. It's as if I am weighing entering a place that is both familiar and also no longer welcoming. Do I risk getting thrown out?
I don't look old, that much I know. But I also don't look young anymore, and I am okay with that. I have been getting used to not looking young since approaching the age of 50. So what do people see when they look at me now? I am not really sure, and that is the source of my self-doubts. Is there a moment when others' perspective of me shifts, or does that happen slowly, like a photograph dimming over time.
Believe it or not, what I am describing to you is not a huge source of anxiety for me. It is more like just something I pay attention to, or notice, as I enter into this new phase of being Tony. What I notice is that I want to go back into the house--I am not ready to leave. There is a vitality associated with being inside that I worry is not available outside, where I feel I have to accept some sort of diminished version.
Whether I accept it or not, my vitality is already diminishing, at a slow rate. I notice this in the stiffness of knees and elbows, the tenderness of joints at times, the lack of stamina during exertion. Despite being healthy and fit, being 63 comes with limits that were not present at 43. My history of being very active and physical has both benefitted me and worn me down in ways that someone less active might not experience. Believe me, I would rather have tender joints than heart disease or diabetes. But it takes a while to live with limits since they require a bit of testing along the way: should I do squats today, or wait it out a day or two? How far down should I squat, if I squat?
When push comes to shove (or squat), I think I will just go back "inside the house" while I can--what's the worst that could happen? I no longer have to be the center of attention, thankfully, but that doesn't mean I can't make myself a plate at the buffet.
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I recently saw David Byrne, one of my heroes, perform a song from his new album on a late-night show. He is 73 years old, but he surrounded himself with several musicians whose ages range from mid-20's to early 40's. He did not look out of place even one bit--and was definitely the center of attention. What made it work is that it was his house the younger musicians had been invited into, rather than him being invited into theirs. And David Byrne's house has never been an old-folks home.
Maybe that is the trick. Rather than worrying if I am still welcome in the houses I used to enter, I could focus on making my house a place a invite others into. If I remove the analogy, this means making myself into a person who is inviting to others, regardless of my age or how they perceive my age.
Now what would that look like?
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