For our Love Stories series about love in all its forms, one Vogue writer shares how Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat made her change her thoughts on marriage.
is a series about love in all its forms, with one new essay appearing each day until Valentine’s Day.
Cooking was one of the first expressions of love I remember learning. The most formative years of my childhood were the ones when I lived with my brothers and my mother in an unassuming bungalow in Southern California. It was our own little eden. The rose bushes, wild strawberries, and fuji apple tree in the front yard merely hinted at the delicacies concealed out back: a citrus grove of lemon, lime, orange, and grapefruit trees. Next to the citrus, a tiny crop of the sweetest black plums.
That dinner happened in the spring, and by summer’s end the relationship had ended. With it behind me, and college applications looming before me, my thoughts turned to what I wanted from my future. I knew I had to get out of California; I loved it so much that I feared I’d never leave if I spent another four years falling deeper in love with its beauty. Plus, nothing ever seemed toin that sleepy little town.
We talked about our majors and music—typical first-conversation fodder—but rather than distractedly glancing over my shoulder at the party, his eyes were kind and brimming with sincerity. Still, the meet-cute went nowhere; I never heard from him again. A few months went by; suddenly, it was Valentine’s Day. Blissfully single, I attended an anti-Valentine’s Day gathering, and I had a kind of déjà vu when my eyes met his again.
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