Jonathan Irving
Dear Joe,
Well, it finally happened. I fucked up the meatball recipe, Joe. I fucked it up. I really tried . . . I watched your video: master chef, you fed us with your abundant food . . . which was really just an extension of your abundant heart.
I tried to do what you did on the video, but the meatballs still didn’t come out like YOUR meatballs. I don’t know, man—can you try not to be angry with me, Joe?
Like the time I made the skirt steak, and then when it came time for me to slice it—with you by my side – you watched my first slice . . . and then came the slow, telling words with that signature curtness of yours, in that slightly squeezed higher pitch of your baritone trombone voice:
“What are you doing, man?”
“I’m slicing it thin—at an angle.”
“You don’t slice it with the grain—you’ll ruin it! You gotta slice it AGAINST the grain!”
Oh fuck, I wanted to die, Joe; I’m still recovering!
We’re all gonna have to recover from . . . from “this” somehow—your leaving.
We’re all going to have to feed each other now.
It’s going to be hard, without you here, Joe.
I mean, do you have any idea what it’s going to be like now? Like twenty people showing up at your house on the fourth floor, bringing their twenty trays of meatballs, all lamenting that none will taste anything close to anything YOU made . . . which gathered us around the table…
You must have loved that, Joe, seeing everyone gathered around the table, talking, eating, loving.
But now, we’ll be bringing things to share. That’s how it’s gonna be, Joe, I mean that’s how it’s gonna be. It’ll be like chamber music, like jazz music, man. All the players show up and bring their best game—lay it on the table and let the jam session begin!
I mean I’m sure it’ll be a bit rusty in the beginning; you know, the rhythm of the whole thing might be a little off, but we’ll practice, you know-- a few gatherings, a few rehearsals, and we’ll get it right, because you’ll be there.
You’ll always be there, Joe . . . we’ll just miss you.
Jonathan Irving