I plopped down on my dark blue living room couch and surveyed the changing landscape of my New York apartment. My boyfriend of 4 years and I had just called it quits, and though I was responsible for that decision, the vacancy of my life was now all mine to behold.

Amelia jumped up on the couch and pressed her face against mine. Ok, right, I’m not completely alone.

I took a deep cleansing breath, turned on the TV, and grabbed my iPad. I had received an email earlier that day when I was cooking– somebody from high school contacting me on my catering website, but I’d stopped reading after the “long lost memories/ I don’t know if you remember me from Bronx Science” intro. Also, the signature on the email was an automated business signature, not a personal one, and I didn’t look at it. I didn’t have the headspace at that moment for any kind of a reunion (most of the people who contact me this way want money I don’t have or information about people I’ve long lost contact with). 

“Ok, what was this again?” I said to myself and Amelia as I reopened the email. As I said, nothing really pulled me in until I got to the very end… the personal name at the end of the business signature.

Him.

Ohmygod.

It’s important to say here that I was a mess in high school. I know, I know, everyone is a mess in high school, but I had been in a very bad car accident on spring break the year before high school started. I had been in the hospital for most of my last quarter of 8th grade. I had been accepted into The Bronx High School of Science before I was hit by a car; before the coma, before the body cast, before the traumatic brain injury. 

When I started high school, I was trying to access a pre-accident brain that no longer existed. I was overwhelmed and confused. I struggled immensely. I was also awkward in my body, constantly tripping and walking into things. I dreamed of the days when I felt smart and cute and alive. They were just a year before, but they were long gone. I developed a superpower that would stay with me to this day: invisibility. I blended into the woodwork so as not to bring attention to my inability to do things well. I barely existed.

But someone could see me. 

He was a senior. I was a freshman. One of my friends, Sam, had an older brother, Paul, who was good friends with him, Francis. We never hung out outside of school, but once in a while, he would walk me from school to the train, or we would sit together and talk at lunch. He was always a good listener. He seemed genuinely interested in the things I was saying. I stumbled through our conversations and would often break out into a sweat because I was so nervous. I dated other boys that year, but I always felt butterflies when I saw my crush in the halls.

I’ll never forget running into him next to the auditorium on the last day of school. He saw me before I saw him, and he called out to say goodbye. He was off to college– from the Bronx to Berkeley– far, far away. He was full of energy and maybe a little last-day-of-school-Budweiser. I had many more years of school to go and felt embarrassingly unsophisticated. He gave me a big bear hug and said it was nice knowing me. I wished him luck and watched longingly as he faded into my past.

But then…almost exactly 30 years later, something reminded him of me, so he tracked me down online, found my catering website, and emailed my business.

And what did I do when I saw his name at the bottom of that email? Well, I kind of freaked out. I couldn’t sit still. I ran around my empty apartment screaming his name over and over again.

“Francis Dardis! Francis Dardis!!!”

Amelia started jumping and barking with my sudden boost of excitement. “Bowooowooowoooof!”

“Francis Dardis! Francis Dardis!”

It was insane. I was a 44-year-old running around like a maniac.

I finally calmed myself down and spent a few hours writing my reply. I was playing it casual, but interested. His email signature said he was based in Portland, Oregon, and was an architect. I asked him questions about his life. Why Portland? Why architecture? Was there a wife? Kids? I rewrote my email about 40 times- blushing, sweating, grinning. I felt 14 again, but better, because I wasn’t 14.

A few days later, I was in line at Trader Joe’s when my phone let me know I had a new email. It was from him. He was glad I remembered him (!). He wrote, “If I recall, I had a mighty crush on you back in high school.”

And now, I would like to make a public apology to all the people shopping at the Upper West Side Trader Joe’s that day, because I made a squeal that was really not appropriate for grocery retail. I turned to the stranger behind me in line and almost showed him the email I had just read. I was filled with so much excitement that I jumped in place for what seemed like minutes. I could not be contained.

I went to cook and took the long bus ride home. Then I walked my dog and made myself dinner– the whole day writing my response in my head. I was still playing it cool. I told him, in so many words, that I had a mighty crush on him, too, back in the day. What I wrote was, “Right back atcha”: casual, easy-going, breezy, but in reality, terrified, excited, and very interested.

He wrote, “I’m coming to New York to see family in a month or two. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?”

“Sure”, I said, “I drink coffee…”

I’m a minx.

I was still reeling from my breakup. As much as I wanted to explore a rompy rebound with my high school crush, I found him much more compelling than that. We became pen pals, writing once a week in the beginning and then more and more frequently. I wrote to him honestly about the end of my relationship. I wrote him about work, giving him play-by-plays on cooking in strangers’ apartments in the city. I wrote about my family, friends, and pets. He listened. He responded. He was supportive in a way that didn’t make me feel like he was just putting up with my dialogue until he got to speak again. It felt different than anything I’ve ever done. I was different. I was broken from my breakup– broken down and then broken open. All I could be was myself.

We decided to have dinner instead of coffee.

I was nervous.

That’s putting it mildly.

30 years is a long time. He used to have a long, layered mop of ’80s hair, and at the restaurant, an unrecognizable bald man introduced himself as Francis. But after we were seated and started catching up, he was laughing and I saw in his smile the boy that he was back then. It was as if an alarm clock rang inside of me. Him. Holy crap. It’s really him. No time had passed at all.

We talked for hours and hours. We ate tapas (Tia Pol) and walked on the Highline. We sat outside and told stories while looking at the sky over New Jersey. We split a sundae at a coffee shop. We didn’t touch. We didn’t kiss. It was too soon for me to get romantic, though it was, by far, the most romantic date I’ve ever had.

We wrote every week, which turned into every day.

You can’t rewrite history, but your perception of it can shift. I have done a lot of stupid things in my life because I felt I was invisible. Would I have done those things if I knew at least one person could see me? Probably. Does him remembering me after all this time make all my frustrations disappear? Nope. But it means that, when I stand on top of a mountain with bright red hair and shout out to the world, “DO YOU FUCKING HEAR WHAT I’M SAYING?” at least one person says, “Yup.”

All I can say is it’s nice to know I wasn’t wrong about everything in high school.

Months after that first connection on his next trip to New York, I had a party in his honor, introducing him to my best friends.  We had a Moroccan feast, which I cooked, of course. 

Here is the recipe for my Moroccan chicken with tomatoes, saffron, and honey. It is one of my most requested dishes in catering/ private-chef-land, because it hits all the best points on your tongue. It’s a perfect fall meal, great to share with an old friend.

Moroccan Chicken with Saffron, Tomatoes, and Honey

Ingredients

• 1/ 4 teaspoon saffron
• 2 ice cubes
• 4 large chicken thighs 
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1 large onion, diced
• 1 14-ounce can whole San Marzano tomatoes, drained
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1 1/2  tablespoons honey
• Salt and pepper to taste

1. The very first step of this recipe is blooming the saffron, which is a key step to yeild the full taste and aroma of saffron. Put 2 ice cubes into a small bowl and sprinkle the saffron over the ice. Leave the ice off to the side as you prepare the rest of the dish. As the ice melts, the saffron will bloom and then you’ll add it to the sauce to reap the biggest saffron reward.
2. Season the chicken pieces with salt and pepper.
3. Heat the oil and butter in a large sauté pan. When the butter has melted but before it browns, place the chicken pieces into the pan, making sure not to crowd them. Sear until the chicken has browned, about 5 minutes each side, and then transfer the chicken onto a plate. Keep the pan with the juices and fats on a medium heat.
4. Place the chopped onion into the pan and season gently. Lower the heat and sauté the onion until it softens and becomes translucent. Add the drained whole tomatoes, the cinnamon, the ginger, and the saffron ice (now saffron water).  Let simmer for 2 minutes. Add the chicken pieces back to the pan, spooning sauce over the chicken (the sauce won’t be too saucy yet, and that’s ok). Cover the pan and cook over low heat for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Transfer the cooked chicken pieces to a serving dish. Stir the honey into the simmering sauce, and taste for seasoning. Let it cook, while making sure it doesn’t burn, for about 5 minutes.
6. Spoon the sauce over the chicken and enjoy!