SWEET AND SOUR PORK
 
 
     "Do you cook a lot of your own meals," Rachel asked C T
before physics class one day during week 15 of the semester.
Although it was called the "Winter" term, the flowerings of
trees and emergences of blooms all about could hardly justify
the name.
 
     "I do my share.  I like pizza of course, but I never
make it as good as even Triomino's.  That's about the only
thing I get out.  My specialty is Hawaiian-style sweet-and-
sour pork.  I'll cook up a big recipe and eat it while I play
a movie on the VCR.  I use fresh green pepper and
everything."
 
     Rachel's ears could taste it and she appeared aroused
only by the description.  "Sounds really good.  Most of the
time I make hamburgers or macaroni and cheese."
 
     "Well I'll have to cook some of my recipe for you
sometime.  Say, as a matter of fact, why not tonight.  I'm in
the mood for it.  I'm feeling very Polynesian today.  The
flowers this time of year do it.  I remember seeing the leis
on my Grandma and Grandpa when they took their vacation this
winter.  I live on DeSoto Street, just past Hall Avenue.
703, Aparment 3B."
 
     "What time?"  This information was painfully vital, for
Rachel would have preferred "now."
 
     "It takes time.  I have to get to a good grocery store,
not one of those party stores.  I'd like a fresh pineapple
and a good selection of green peppers.  I can get it on the
table at six."  C T didn't know what he was saying.  Was this
a date or was he being free food service for a hungry coed?
 
     "I'll be there.  703 DeSoto, 3B, six.  See you." There
was a slight lilt to her eyes, eyes that the cruel men might
call cow's eyes.  Yet the flux density was still there as
strong as on that first meeting.  C T knew this had to occur.
He was just surprised that it came so easily.  He had a
concrete excuse, for he was a good cook.  He parted with
Rachel and walked briskly to his favorite large supermarket
out DeSoto Street.  He went to the produce section first.
The green peppers were in their usual assortment.  He had to
wonder who ended up buying the last ones, the ones with the
funny shapes.  He decided that a girl like Rachel didn't need
a picturesque green pepper, and the same applied to his
selection of pineapple.  The store had a coring machine, a
convenience found in the large markets of the day, so his
work was reduced by a large amount.  The next stop was the
meat counter.  He decided upon a small 1 kilogram roast.  He
usually made the recipe with chops, but he wanted time to
pick up the apartment a little for the dinner this evening,
and he couldn't be spending a lot of time boning.  A few
other items from sundry aisles completed both this
specialized expedition and his other shopping needs.  He
found himself to be a particularly adept home economist.  It
was his cooking experience before he went away to school that
made his single apartment living so economical.
 
     Sweet-and-sour pork sounds like a contradiction at
first.  "Sweet" is supposedly counteracted by "sour."  Any
Polynesian or Oriental cook worth his soy sauce will make an
immediate distinction between the two, however, as he tastes
his sauce mixture.  C T hadn't liked the flavor too much
until he had some extra pork chops and decided the recipe was
worth trying.  Tonight, he knew what he was doing.  The crisp
texture of the green pepper strips was the supreme
characteristic of his preparation.  That and a careful
blending of vinegar, brown sugar, and soy sauce with the
pineapple made him fight hard to maintain humility when he
forked up the delicacy over rice.
 
     He browned the pork after cubing it with his Moritz
chef's knife.  "Never be without at least one real chef's
knife," was C T's bachelor culinary motto.  He put together
the simmer mixture and started the pork in its long journey
to tenderness, although the journey wouldn't be as long with
the quality of meat he was using tonight.  He went to his
polyethylene cutting board and selected a prime onion from
his net bag in the pantry.  He cooked a lot with onions and
always bought 1 kilogram bags or more at a time.  Eating raw
onion while cooking had a strange appeal.  "Not too much
onion tonight!" he mused, although his primary intent was not
to make the meal taste like honky-tonk greasy spoon when it
was supposed to carry the flavor of the Pacific instead.
After this was done, he worked out his usual compromise on
the sauce.  He put the mixture on the stove and waited a few
minutes before cooking it to a gelatinous glaze.  Then he
heard the doorbell ring.  She was right on time.
Synchronized, he thought, truly in phase.
 
     "It smells great in here!"  Rachel stepped right in,
knowing she was welcome, and both her heart and her hunger
told her there was no time to lose.  "Is it going to be on
soon?  I've saved up all my appetite." She wasn't really
dressed up, although even C T's mind, which was usually
apathetic to female trends like Tammy's fashions, noticed she
was wearing a better grade of slacks and a designer blouse.
 
     "I've got to go in and put it all together and then
we'll eat.  I've got Citizen Kane from the library.  Have you
seen it?"
 
     "Only once, and that was in high school.  It was part of
a cinema class I took.  I don't remember too much about it."
 
     "Well let me go fix up the dinner and you have a seat.
I've got a bottle of California wine in the refrig, but I
don't drink too much of it.  It dulls my senses too much, I
find."  That was the truth.  It was going óÑïÑ easy.
 
     "I wouldn't want you to uncork any wine for me.  I don't
drink that much.  Say, what printwork on the walls!  Where
did you get these?"
 
     "My former roommate's Mom is an artist.  She does all
these things as a second income."
 
     "She'll be famous after she's dead, I'm sure.  They've
got the numbers, signature and everything."
 
     "Well here we are," C T declared, as he brought out the
plates.  "I have milk or pop, and you said you don't want any
wine..."
 
     "Milk for me."  C T went back for the milk and then put
the cassette in the VCR.  They ate of the creation and
watched the story of Charles Foster Kane begin as they had
separately before.  Who could "Rosebud" be?  C T remembered,
with his photographic memory, but he doubted Rachel could.
But then strange things were happening between the two of
them.
 
     "You know, you're a real chef.  Did anyone ever tell you
that?"  Rachel was wiping her mouth with average grace.  As
in another great from another dramatic mode, she was "no dewy
young miss who keeps resisting, all the while she keeps
insisting."
 
     "I don't like to take too much pride.  That's the
problem Kane has in this movie.  People think he has too much
pride.  That'll do it every time."
 
     "Oh, it's good to feel good about yourself.  I think you
should!"  Rachel leaned slightly towards him.  "I think
you've got all it takes and should be just as proud as you
think you can be."  It was so easy.  Why couldn't his pride
come just as easily in a justified form?  C T wondered if he
should be like the lascivious men of Lodge Hall.  He thought
she could be worth an advance.  But was this the average girl
she looked like?  Maybe those drunken characters had a way of
avoiding the average women altogether.
 
     "Here's my favorite part, in the opera hall!  Now I ask
you, is she such a bad singer?"
 
     "You mean, was Mr. Kane's pride in her just?"
 
     "That's right."
 
     "There are only so many points a person can cover with
respect, and Mr. Kane has overextended himself here.  I don't
think you overextend yourself, C T.  I think you underextend
yourself, even with your work in physics."  How could someone
this profound merely fit into his life as a part of a physics
class?  When the movie was over, and they finally made their
platonic end, C T realized how "Rachel" in his life was not
the great romance of his life but instead, like "Rosebud" in
the movie, she was a part of his happiest being.  They had to
do no more that night than create the images they did for
each other.