At 8-ish in the morning on the 5th of July, awakened by a leftover
fireworks boom de yada, I came out of my room to pee, just as my
flatmate Dean was coming out of the bathroom.

I said as little as
possible to him, “Hi” or something equally eloquent, stepped into the
john and almost slammed the door. He’d said nothing to me, which is
highly unusual, almost miraculous.Peeing takes a long time
these days, so it might’ve been a minute or more before I flushed and
emerged. Dean was standing right outside the bathroom door, waiting for
me.”The fuck?” I said, scowling and ready to holler.”I’m making cream of celery soup,” he said.”OK,”
I said, “don’t forget you’re cooking.” Several times he’s forgotten he’s cooking,
and walked away and started reading a book or talking on the phone, until the smoke alarm goes off.Even
as I spoke I was walking, on a mission from God to reach my bedroom
door and be on the other side of it, but over the course of those few
footsteps, Dean told me about the celery he’d purchased, and the onions
and garlic and some kind of cheese that would all go into his marvelous
soup.With my door only a few feet away, he began summarizing all
the compliments his cream of celery soup has earned every time he’s made
it. From the experience of so many invitations declined, there was no
doubt he was about to tell me I’d be welcome to have some soup that
evening, but I hurried behind my door and closed it before he’d said it.♦ ♦ ♦  A
couple of hours later, again I emerged to pee, and laughed out loud
when I saw Dean standing at the stove, stirring a pot, wearing a very
large, very puffy chef’s hat. That man loves to cook, and many times
I’ve seen him cooking in our kitchen, but never before had I seen him
wearing a chef’s hat.

The soup smelled pretty good, silly hat or no.♦ ♦ ♦  A few pees later, Dean was again in my path to the toilet, and there came the dreaded invitation to soup.I’ve declined Dean’s invitations thirty times, maybe more. Whenever he cooks, he wants everyone to join
him for the delicious, excellent, world-acclaimed whatever he’s made.From
the few times I’ve relented and accepted his invitation, there’s no
doubt that Dean’s cream of celery soup will be OK. It’ll be every
bit as good as if he’d opened a can of Campbell’s, but it’ll come with a
conversation without end.Soup? Maybe. An hour with Dean? No.”Thanks, man,” I said, “but no thanks.””There’s plenty,” he said, and I know.

Always
there’s plenty, because Dean never scales his recipes down. They’re all
restaurant recipes, which he cooks in enormous pans and pots, in
enormous quantities, most of which become leftovers, and most of the
leftovers become rot.
♦ ♦ ♦  At 6:30 or so, Dean knocked on my room’s door, and said cheerily, “Soup’s on.””We’ve
been over this,” I shouted above the blare of my three electric fans.
Seattle’s having a week or two of highs around 90°, and the house has no
air conditioning, so my fans are always on.”OK, sorry,” Dean answered through the door, “but if you change your mind…”
♦ ♦ ♦  I did not change my mind, and Dean and Robert ate soup in the kitchen for far longer than it takes to eat soup.They
(almost entirely, Dean) talked and talked, but here’s an unexpected
pleasure: My fans at full blast drowned out the words of their
undoubtedly inane conversation, leaving only an almost pleasant, almost
musical sound.Still didn’t want to hear it, but indecipherable is
an improvement. So I heard only Dean’s baritone voice, without
words… and more of Dean’s voice, more of Dean’s voice, more of
Dean’s voice, and then Dean laughed at something Dean had said.And
then
several more minutes of Dean’s voice, until just when I’d almost
forgotten that Robert might be in the kitchen, too, there came a moment
of Robert’s voice… followed by more of Dean’s voice, for another ten
minutes before Robert might be allowed to say something again (but keep
it brief, buddy).
♦ ♦ ♦  Three days have passed since the night of the soup,
so let’s follow the progress of Dean’s very large pot of cream of celery, which he’s told me twice is very excellent.It remained on the
stove-top, uncovered, until Wednesday evening, when again he offered me
some, again I grunted no thanks, and again Dean performed his kitchen
concert of solo conversation with Robert, over soup, and again I
couldn’t hear the words.
On Thursday morning, the giant vat of
the world’s most excellent and amazing cream of celery soup was moved,
still uncovered, into the refrigerator I share with Dean. It’s still
there, and there it will stay, until it begins to mold.7/7/2023