Adventures in the Northwest
By Christina Kelly, our columnist and roving reporter

“Love and Italian Red”
By Christina Kelly

He was gorgeous, brooding and had the nature of a serious journalist. And, he was my first crush in college.

We worked as reporters at the University of Washington some years ago. Howard was just like me driven and guided by the internal “right” as journalists to expose wrong-doing. We lived and breathed journalism 24 hours a day. Our motto was our mantra “The public has a right to know.”

But this was college, and springtime, and I wanted to gaze into his big, brown eyes, sip a glass of wine and slip into something more comfortable. I agonized for weeks on a plan for a romantic dinner to win his heart and mind through food and wine.

“How about coming over to my place for dinner next week,” I said casually, knowing I would keel over with a heart attack in the next few seconds. “I’ve been researching wines from Italy and thought we could taste one. Maybe have some pasta.”

Romance was hardly a strong point for me. I didn’t know Howard well, but I imagined many things about him. I waited for an answer, hearing an internal clock echoing in my ears as my blood pressure forced a pink flush in my face. After all, I was suddenly changing the nature of our relationship, and throwing wine in to boot.

“Yeah sure. Maybe we could go over some ideas on that financial aid story,” Howard said, never looking up from his computer.

If he suspected any hidden motives, he didn’t show it.

Howard didn’t hang out with the rest of the young pup reporters, chasing beer and young college women with freshly brushed hair and glimmering pink lip-gloss. He kept to himself, and it was that hard-to-get, loner status that pulled me towards him like gravity. Of course, our conversations never ventured beyond newspapers and assignments, but I was sure there was something underneath that I was going to like. I just knew he was the grab bag with something valuable inside.

The next few days were spent frantically surfing through cookbooks at the library, reading about food and wine pairings. Surely a serious guy like Howard would notice all the details.

My month’s entertainment allotment was spent for this one night. Oh, but what a glorious sacrifice it would be. I selected two big red wines from Italy dry, lip-smacking with just enough elegance and finesse to beg a compliment from the most timid wine drinker.

Class on Friday wasn’t a high priority for me since my pasta sauce had to cook all day. It was a beautiful spring day and I felt like a pony kicking up my heels, prancing around, tossing my head back. I would have snorted if I knew how.

Dinner was a Bolognese sauce, rich with tomatoes, diced carrots, onions, mushrooms, peppers, celery, ground veal and lots of garlic. Paid extra for genuine parmiggiano reggiano to sprinkle on top. Since both of us were eating garlic, I didn’t think it would hamper the romantic moments surely to come after dinner.

Howard arrived at 7 p.m., placed a loaf of warm French bread in my hands and proceeded to fall into small talk about the newspaper industry.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I don’t know if I want to work for main stream newspaper,” he said while pacing my small living room apartment. “It’s all about big money and advertising and writing small stories about some city council hearing. I want more than that. I want to be a part of something.

“What do you think,” he said as he turned to face me for the first time.

There I was in all my glory, standing in my new, shimmery-white cotton Indian-print dress, long hair freshly curled, looking like a virgin princess waiting to sacrifice herself to the slightly-rumpled dark prince.

“Ah, you look great and dinner smells great,” he said, smiling for the first time.

At that point, I poured two glasses of wine and brought out a plate of sliced cantaloupes wrapped in prosciutto ham. Moonstruck, I began to babble about Italian wines.

“I really think you’ll like this,” I said, handing him the glass. “It’s from the Tuscany area of Italy. I am really more partial to Italian reds than French wines because they are such a better bargain and so undervalued.”

Howard put the glass on the coffee table and began wolfing down the melon slices. Sitting next to him, I could smell the scent of fresh soap like Ivory, blended with a light, musky aftershave. If I shivered slightly, he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at the wine glass.

“I don’t really drink,” he said hesitantly. “Had a bad experience at a wedding and made a fool of myself. Never developed a taste for it, I guess.”

He turned to look at me. My eyes must have registered the disappointment. I could feel a slight tearing up, but coughed to disguise it. Had a sensation like I was falling down a long flight of stairs.

“Oh, what the hell maybe you could teach me about this stuff,” he said as he gulped down half the glass.

Alarmed, I timidly mentioned that this was a big, hearty wine that was better sipped than guzzled. Howard smiled, took a tiny sip, smacked his lips and nodded in appreciation.

“Well, dinner’s just about. All I need to do it get it on the table.”

“Can I help?” he asked.

“No, thanks, but it will be about 10 minutes. Pick out some music, if you like.”

My table was set with the two nicest plates I owned, fresh-cut flowers, candles and place mats made by my grandmother. She would have smiled at this scene, being a fairly hip octogenarian. My culinary skills were brought to the table in stages, checking each time to make certain everything was in its place. I saw Howard thumbing though my albums and secretly prayed he would select something romantic.

“It’s ready,” I said, beaming with the thought that this would be the beginning of my first real college romance.

Howard entered the dinning room carrying a near-empty bottle of wine and a full wine glass. I didn’t remember having any more than half a glass myself. His face was flushed and I noticed he had unbuttoned the top portion of his shirt. Maybe things were looking up.

“Is it hot in here or is it just me,” he said, taking another swallow of wine before sitting down at the table.

“Christina, I think I should tell you something. I probably should have told you when you asked me over here.”

This didn’t sound good, I though.

“I am engaged to a woman in Iowa,” he blurted. “We got engaged right after high school. I don’t want to spoil a good evening I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since Iowa.”

I could feel my mouth twitch as I forced it to smile. I rearranged my plate, trying to recover from my hurt and disappointment. Suddenly, I wasn’t very hungry.

Howard seemed more concerned about the room temperature as he drained his wine glass. By this time, his face looked puffy and he seemed slightly agitated.

“Howard, what happened to you the last time you drank alcohol,” I asked, fear beginning to rise in my voice. His face was morphing in front of my eyes.

“I got sick,” he said, looking at me like a child who has suddenly realized he may be in trouble. “My folks took me to the emergency room. The doctor thought I might be allergic to sulfites in the wine.”

“Then why on earth did you drink this wine?” I said. “You could have told me you were allergic to sulfites.”

“I guess I was hoping that all wines didn’t have it,” Howard said. “I drank American wine that day. I thought maybe the Italians didn’t use it.”

Ten minutes later, Howard and I pulled up to an emergency room on Capital Hill in Seattle. Dinner cooled and congealed on the table. Two hours later, I returned him to his car.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said quietly, leaving other matters left unsaid.

“It’s between us,” I said, patting him on the arm as he slid into the car. “I’ll see you Monday.”

The stairs to my apartment multiplied as I slowly reached the door. The apartment greeted me with the sweet smell of sausage and tomato sauce still lingering in the air. I reheated the pasta, opened the other bottle of Italian wine and sat down to eat, on a crisp Friday night, with the lights and sounds of Seattle used as a blanket for comfort.

It was a good dinner, and the wine added a wonderful dimension. That was the first time I realized the magic of pairing the perfect wine with a great meal.

The memory of that night stung for some time, then forgotten as life brought other adventures and romances.

Years later, my friend Anne told me Howard was selling life insurance, or something akin to that, in Iowa. They ran into each other, staying in the same hotel in Orlando, Florida.

“He showed me a picture of his four kids,” she said. “He looked awful no spark -- no passion. God, didn’t you have a crush on him in college? I can’t believe you were interested in that guy.”

“Me neither,” I said, a slight smile coming to my face.

I realized that I moved on, nurturing my belief for the public’s right to know. Howard dropped out of journalism school and no longer occupied my thoughts.

Except one.

I now believe a bottle of Italian wine saved me from myself that night. Here’s to the Italians and sulfites.