Steve was a modern day Renaissance Man. On our first date I learned he was a graduate of the culinary institute Johnson & Wales, and a chef at a prestigious seaside French restaurant (read about my coffee enlightenment here). A gifted pianist, his apartment was stuffed with the requisite keyboards and two huge, old-fashioned amplifiers from the 1950’s.
He was also a scuba diver, having grown up in that world due to his father’s involvement in the industry. I accompanied him to the beach when he went diving, learned a bit of the lingo, and became educated about the rules. Scuba divers could harvest lobster, for example, but never take pregnant females from the ocean floor. Shellfish could be taken for personal consumption, but divers are not allowed to sell what they gather for profit. There was a lot to learn.
He was educated, charming, and funny. We really fell for each other, and it wasn’t too long before I moved in with him. He taught me how to chop an onion quickly and efficiently, without cutting my fingers or crying. I learned how to make a roux, and other little chef’s tricks around the kitchen. There were many things to love about Steve, but one of his best qualities was his compassion.
Chefs work late hours. On the weekends I would wait up for him, landing a big kiss on his sweaty face while he exclaimed, laughing, “Oh, honey, let me wash off the kitchen smells first!” One night he was later than normal. He walked in the door, with his jacket loose around him, and whispered, “look what I found in the tank at work!”
He proceeded to pull an enormous lobster out from under his jacket. “She’s pregnant,” he said. “I found her in the tank. They’re not supposed to cook pregnant lobsters.” I remembered my lessons at the beach with him. If a lobster is pregnant they exhibit an egg sack, or a notch in the tail. There is a hefty fine if scuba divers are caught harvesting pregnant lobsters as that will deplete the population of lobster in the New England coastal areas. My brilliant and sensitive man had noticed this and tossed her back in the tank rather than let her be someone’s dinner. He managed to grab her and surreptitiously stuff her under his shirt (technically stealing) before dashing out the door. “We have to set her free,” he said, taking off his stained apron and pulling on a sweatshirt. It was 2 o’clock in the early morning chill of October, but I realized in a moment that this meant nothing to Madam Lobster. “Let’s go to Nahant.”
Nahant was a small, rocky peninsula near our home where he was sure the lobster would find safety. In the pitch dark we drove out quietly to a spot on the cliffs. Steve picked up the beautiful creature he had rescued and scrambled down the small bluff to set her free in the cold Atlantic, so she could lay her eggs and proceed to make hundreds of other little lobsters. My heart swelled knowing that my lovely man would risk trouble at work to set a crustacean free because that was the right thing to do.
I think Steve set a higher standard for the modern Renaissance Man that night.
