2019-09-05 - Food and Music

Turns out Itzhak lives in a partial basement on Elm, a few blocks away from Julia. A young blonde woman named Stephanie owns the house; she's divorced with two kids, and her ex-husband is readily recalled as a tough inked-up guy not unlike Itzhak himself. Tonight Stephanie's on a night shift and the kids are at Grandma's, so Julia gets to use the house kitchen and not the tiny kitchenette in the basement apartment. The house is old and shabby, like most of 'em on Elm, and full of kid detritus. Toys in baskets, books, DVDs of Disney movies, grubby play furniture.

Itzhak's setting up to practice as the evening rolls around, toting his music stand upstairs with his fiddle, and a funny-looking arrangement made out of a suitcase.

August pulls up in car, newly washed (because there's no dirt from the drive to and from the cabin just yet), parks just outside the house. He gets a large, cardbox box full of vegetables and fruit out of the hatch. The contents are mostly the former, but there's a collection of apples and plums among the cucumbers (did he smile while adding those to the box? ...yes, he did), carrotts, bell peppers, leeks, artichokes, and tomatoes. It's a truly ridiculous amount of stuff. Nestled between all of this is a bottle of elderflower vodka, painted with elderflowers and bearing a blue heron on the front.

That sense of distracted unease that plagued him for a couple of weeks has begun to lose its grip, though it hasn't left the same person in its place. He's a little more guarded, a little less easy, at least among strangers. Fortunately Julia and Itzhak aren't those, so he smiles as he knocks, then lets himself in. He's in a forest green Henley tee, black jeans, brown boots. "Hey," he says, as Itzhak sets up. "How's things."

Julia is in the kitchen, puttering around and looking altogether blissful about it. She's sliding vegetables into what will be the stew for ropa vieja, and remarks to Itzhak mid-conversation, "You know, I never really understood the difference between a violin and a fiddle." And then August is there, so she leans back to apear in the kitchen doorway and smiles. "Hey, August. You're in time for dinner and music."

"Hey!" Itzhak calls cheerily from the living room, where he's shoving a couple toy cars aside with his foot. Himself he's dressed as he often is, in a very snug tank top and jeans worn suede-soft. If you accused him of dressing to show off his tall form and his tattoos, he'd deny it, and he'd be a liar. "C'mon in, pal." He sets his music stand where he wants it. "Well, there's a big difference between a violin and a fiddle," he says, answering Julia. "You know. A violin's got strings, and a fiddle's got strangs." Itzhak pulls the last word out in a ridiculous fake Southern accent.

August raises a hand to Julia in greeting, sets the box on the counter. "Not sure if anything in here is of interest for what you're cooking, but if so, feel free. Otherwise Stephanie gets to sort it all out." He pulls the vodka bottle out and sets it aside. That's for later.

He leans one hip against the counter, coughs a laugh at Itzhak's joke and eyes the violin. "Are they always the same instrument? Or do they make them different sometimes, you know, like," he waves a hand, searching for a good comparison, "like how pianos come in a lot of different types."

"Uh huh," Julia eyes Itzhak askance. "Do you know that one song from that one Disney movie? It's a graveyard and there's this big demon and all the evil spirits come to dance with him?" She gives her spoon a turn and eyes the pot she's working with, leaning over to give it a sniff. "What's in the box? I don't want to walk away from the pot just yet."

"Did you bring half the garden again? Oy vey, Roen." Itzhak's teasing August, grinning at him. "Nah, seriously, a fiddle and a violin are the exact same thing. They're different playing styles. But an electric violin is a different animal. Sometimes people put an extra string on those, because, I don't know, personally I think those people might have issues." He comes over to stick his big nose in the box and investigate, curious as a cat. "Night on Bald Mountain? No, but if you hum a few bars I can fake it."

He's so annoying when he's cheerful!

"Bell peppers--red and orange--leeks, carrots, artichokes, cucumbers, tomatoes." August holds up one of each as he recites this list to Julia, paying no mind to how he has to weave his hands and the veggies between Itzhak's curious face and the edge of the box. He smirks at Itzhak. "If I wanted to bring half the garden, I need to use one of the trucks. This is just part of the overflow. Don't worry, I have another box for Alexander and Isolde, was gonna walk it over there later."

"I'm good for the pot, but you know, August, if you wanna leave me giftboxes of fresh vegetables on the regular, I wouldn't cry over it." Julia bats her lashes at the older man, adding, "You know, just listing those ingredients makes me want to drag out my recipe for ratatouille sometime." She gives the stew another swirl, lifting the spoon out and taking a very careful sip. "Itzhak, c'mere. Taste this."

Itzhak's humming 'Night on Bald Mountain', sort of, trying to remember how it goes. "Dnnnnn-dun-dun-dundunDUN.... What exactly is ratatouille, besides a movie my niece made me sit through about fifty times." Obediently he leans over, steadying Julia's hand with a finger on her wrist, and sips. "...Rrrgng." He makes a wordless sound of happiness.

August gives Julia a dry look. "Well, now you've done it. Put yourself on my list of people to foist things off onto. You might regret it once the zucchini come in." He smiles, though it's genuine, and not saccharine in the least.

He tells Itzhak, "French dish," he says. "Stewed vegetables, basically--tomatoes, squashes, eggplant, herbs, and garlic. You can do it like a sort of rough stew, but these days people slice things and arrange it, make it look relatively fancy for presentation." The smile becomes a grin at Itzhak's appreciation. "Need any help? Setting the table, that kind of thing?"

Julia looks pleased. "Yeah? I try to get the right balance so the shredded beef will still be flavorful but also put something in the broth, you know? And even though 'stewed vegetables' sounds really gross, a good ratatouille is delicious and texturally kind of smooth on the tongue, and garlicky, it's amazing. I have a thing for all the dishes that tend to get classified as hearth or rustic or peasant food, whatever."

"Yeah," Itzhak agrees, eyebrows drifting up, and sips the rest of the broth from the spoon. Only then does he let Julia go. "Hell yeah." He grins at her, those expressive eyebrows up, and waves August over to a cupboard so he can start handing him plates. They're mismatched, some chipped, plainly from Goodwill. "Jewish food is all peasant food so I'm down with that."

"Peasant food's fine by me," August says as he moves to the cupboard. Almost always the easiest recipes for me with what I have to work with." He pauses in the act of handing over a dish with a chip, sems to study it for a long time. He sighs, finishes the motion without repairing it. But oh how he wants to.

"Usually the easiest things to make with what I tend to have on hand." Which was to say, a whole lot of vegetables and herbs, game bird meat, duck/chicken/goose, fish, and goat milk. He fetches out the silverware next, pulls down some glasses.

Does August even know how Julia would flip to have access to those ingredients? He should figure this out! A little bit more seasoning and then voila, it's ready. She makes sure there's padding on the dinner table and just brings the pot right to it. "Give it a little to cool down. But basically we're ready. And then you," pointedly looking at Itzhak, "Are gonna play. Call it dessert."

"Like with ya hunting and all?" Itzhak helpfully fills in the blanks for Julia. "What all kinda stuff do you hunt, anyway? Birds and whatever, I know." He flashes a downright cocky smile at Julia. "Yes ma'am. I built a suitcase drum, you get to hear it for the first time."

August brings over the glasses and sets them at each place, then the silverware and some paper napkins. "Whatever I can, really. A couple of guys from the Forest Service I go out with in the fall for a few seasons--goose, elk, deer, turkey, depending on what we get. The tags are expensive so we tend to hunt together. I fish regularly, and I hunt rabbit and dove as much as I can when those seasons are open. Feral hogs, but we don't get so many of those, so it's rare to find one. Chickens and ducks I raise myself."

He sits down, letting dinner cool as he's been warned. "A suitcase drum?" He eyes Itzhak's setup, trying to sort out how such a thing works.

Julia just stares at August across the table like he's Santa Claus. "Holy shit. Do you have any idea what I could do with ingredients like that?" She almost cries. "And I'm stuck in front of the fryer. I could do a braised dove that would make you both weep. Weep."

The suitcase, an actual literal suitcase, is one of the big chunky old-fashioned ones that looks like it was bought new for someone's honeymoon in 1961. A drum pedal is attached to it, and a tambourine lies on top. Shit is gonna get wild, apparently.

Itzhak's rummaging around briefly before he comes to the table and sets out a pitcher of iced tea and a bottle of grenadine. Then he sits and, with zero caution, takes a bite of the just-now-off-the-stove stew. And it doesn't seem to bother him at all, he just makes an appreciative sound. He gestures silently at Julia, then August, mouth full, like, so do it already!

Not one to say no to food which is making Itzhak squirm, August serves himself some stew. "Well," he says to Julia, "mourning dove and grouse season just opened. Quail starts at the end of the month, along with pheasant and duck. Goose comes in October. I'm more than happy to bring you a few of my haul. I tend to do better with the dove and quail than any of the others. Turkey's in spring. Collared doves are invasive so I go out for those a few times a month." He pours himself some iced tea, adds a dollops of grenadine. "And the vegetables, well, I've always got those, so." He shrugs, like he can't help but make those grow just by living near them.

Julia's smile comes curved and slow. "If you bring it, I will...cook it." she says, saluting August with her fork. "The shredded beef should be tender." she tells the her tablemates. "I'll start making dinner for everyone. If I can have access to fresh game, I could do wonderful things." She all but claps her hands.

Itzhak swallows and literally rolls his eyes in total stupid bliss. "God damn, Julushka." Detailed critique is beyond him. Only chowing down can sufficiently express his opinion on whether the beef is tender or not.

"Then bring it I will." August sips from his tea, digs in on the stew. He mmmmms after the first bite, savoring it. "Incredible," he says, and raises his glass of tea in a toast. "To the chef," he says.

"If we take an elk or deer, I can even bring you some of that. We don't always put in for elk, it's expensive as hell. Worth it, if you can get one, but," he makes a face. "Just as easy to fish and hunt doves." He grins at Itzhak's reaction. "Well now we know how to get your attention--offer you good food."

Julia beams at the pair of them. "You two are the best." she says, though let's be honest, Itzhak's visceral reaction pleases her in particular. "Helps to keep the entertainment well fed. But how are you doing, August? Aside from keeping your larder stocked."

"Always," Itzhak says, surfacing long enough to say that. "A hungry fiddler's a cranky fiddler." He drinks a slug of iced tea, and looks interestedly at August to see what his answer is.

August has some stew as he contemplates Julia's question. "I'm doing okay," he says, flicking a glance at Itzhak, then to Julia. "Had a bit of a rough couple of weeks, but...it's getting better." He clears his throat. "Better, eating dinner with you two." A small smile, and he sets to eating with a gusto to match Itzhak's.

Itzhak fulfilled his part of the bargain after the three of them were done with dinner: he played. He's the first to deny he's actually an entertainer, but well-fed and chipper and relaxed in front of friends, he's funny and charming. Inspired by Julia's mention of Fantasia, first he plays the Hans Zimmer Pirates of the Caribbean theme, with panache and flourish. The purpose of the suitcase with the bass pedal attached becomes clear: he can stomp the pedal and the thumper makes a satisfying, if rough and rustic, THUMP against the side of the thing. The tambourine jumps along in time. It adds a surprising amount of verve to his performance.

He plays a long while out of his eclectic repertoire, pausing between songs to chat and laugh and talk about what he's going to play and why. He can even sing half-decent while playing, although he doesn't often. Eventually he calls a cease-fire, sweating and wiping his forehead, and drinks down an entire glass of iced tea in which the ice had long since melted.

August is glad to relax in a chair and listen. As raw as his experience in the dream left him feeling, it also left him feeling ready, in a way. Like he'd molted, cast off an old layer and was forming a new one. It was a delicate time, but not a bad one. He's not one to demand any specific songs, enjoys anything Itzhak plays. He helps clear the way through the pitcher of tea, occasionally adding in a spot of grenadine. Not too much; he doesn't like things very sweet, but a little here and there always hits the spot.

During one of the breaks, he says, "Aren't they doing an open mic night at the Twofer? You should go to that. I'll go and cheer and clap for you." Which has no chance of being embarrassing, no, not at all...

Itzhak says, "Are they?" in pleased interest, and pours some water to down that too. "Okay but don't cheer until the end of my set. Get all embarrassed and mess up. Julushka said she wanted me to go to one, but there wasn't one. So now there is one and I'll go. I'll have to brush up on all my stupid violin versus fiddle jokes."

After Julia leaves, donating the leftovers to Itzhak (and by extension, Stephanie and the kids, if they can get to it fast enough), Itzhak sets to wiping off his violin with a soft cloth and loosening his bow. "Whatcha think?" he says, casually, but not fooling anybody; he wouldn't ask August what he thought of his playing if he didn't care.

"Real good," August says, with the sincerity of a man who's been to a few jazz clubs. "I like that you're enthusiastic about it. I know that might sound ridiculous but some musicians don't have a strong stage presence. Nothing wrong with that--not everyone's a performer. But if you're performing live..." He makes a face, shrugs. "And I dig this suitcase drum, that was fun. Really added a lot more than I expected."

He helps clean up the table and starts washing dishes, because the cook is not allowed to clean, period. The chipped plates taunt him, and he refuses to fix them. Refuses. "Seriously though," he nods at the box, "I'm happy to bring more of this if it'll help her. Growing these is second nature for me now. I barely need to use any power to do it." He frowns as he scrubs. "Was thinking of looking into opening a community pea patch, maybe. Get more people involved in it."

Itzhak makes a funny face when August accuses him of having stage presence. And yet, he does, much as he's reluctant to admit it.

"Well, thanks. ...Thanks." He puts his instrument away. "Yeah the suitcase drum is pretty rad, right? I might put another pedal on it for the tamb, but might be hard to work 'em both and stand to play. And I gotta stand." Because, frankly, he looks awesome standing, tall and beaky and fierce in his unique way. "You see the way she looked when you said you could bring her stuff? Bring her stuff!"

He drifts into the kitchen to loiter around helpfully, propping up a wall with one shoulder. "Was hopin' this would do you and Julushka some good," he says, as a way of opening conversation.

"Stuff will be brought," August assures Itzhak. "I usually just get enough collared dove for myself, no reason I can't hunt for other people too. And vegetables are always available."

He dries the dishes, going slow if only to keep his hands busy and draw out the moment. He nods at Itzhak, glancing up at him. "It did. Thanks. It's good to...be with people, be around people, after a thing like that." As much as being in town would never be easy for him, it helped to see it whole by daylight, remind himself the sight of it burned and blasted had only been a Dream. (Only.)

"I still hear and smell things now and then, but it's not like before. More like...getting over it. Letting it go." Another glance at Itzhak. "You know?" Back to the dishes. He's about done now. "Getting better, not worse. So there's that."

"I know." Itzhak quirks his eyebrows, wry. He puts the dishes away, since he knows more or less where they go. "I could feel it in you. Through the link. Feel that it'll get better. So I gotta believe that. Think it will."

August makes a low sound, nods. "Twenty year process," he says, mouth curling in a partly-suppressed smirk. "Still here," he murmurs, voice lower.

He dries off his hands nods at the vodka. "Feel like some elderflower vodka? I seem to recall being promised some details if you got you drunk. Plus..." He glances in the box, pulled out a pair of plums, offers one to Itzhak.

"What else we gotta do with our lives, yeah?" Itzhak thwaps August lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand, smiling crookedly. He accepts the plum and promptly chomps into it. "...Oh, man," he mumbles, trying to catch plum juice, "that's so freakin' good. Way better than the ones from the store. Bust out the vodka, old man, and I shall bear unto thee my soul, or at least racy details."

"Soul, racy details..." August shrugs as if to say he can go with either. He gets down a pair of small glasses, cracks open the bottle. He pours a fourth of a glass for each of them to start, gives it a sniff, takes a drink. "Mmmmm, damn that's good stuff." It's sweetly floral, almost like lychee, and the vodka's smooth with a clean finish. He sighs, looks at his glass. "Maybe that's what I need to get into. Figuring out how to make us some good booze." He follows the drink with a bite of plum, sighs at the combination. He eyes the plum, then the vodka, pondering mixed drink options.

That only lasts a second. Then, "So. Let's go with racy details. Seems like things are going pretty good with, ah, both your ladies."