In the car, I turned up Alison Krauss and wailed deeply, dramatically.
Id had breakups before, but this was no breakup.
It was a fissure Id seen coming that felt nonetheless like a great and endless fall.
Simply Recipes / Eva Feuchter
I was convinced that we wouldnotbreak up, and that was the real tragedy.
My utter helplessness in the face of what I knew I should not continue to endure.
How he pushed me into a doorframe, and then I pushed him into the wooden drawers.
Acquaintances I hardly knew begged me to end it already.
My friend, whod heard all this before, announced that we needed to go out.
His roommate, a Vietnamese boy named Hao, was boiling something on the stove.
I floated to him, my senses stirred by a familiar smell, hunger grumbling from deep within.
I had only eaten an apple that day.
Peanuts, he said.
I hot-potatoed it in my hand while he looked on, bemused.
It was creamy and salty, nourishing and simple.
I stood uselessly with the shell until he stretched out his hand and I dropped it into his palm.
Thats just what I needed, I said.
I could tell by the way he looked at me that he knew the conditions of my surprise visit.
Theres a whole pot, he said.
Help me out: I cant eat it all.
He spooned a heap of peanuts into a wooden bowl, draining the juices through a sieve.
On top of the bowl he placed a smaller one for the shells and handed it all to me.
I sat at the counter and watched him turn off the stove, drain the rest of the peanuts.
Must have been two pounds, probably more.
He put the leftovers in the fridge without taking any for himself.
How long have you been boiling these?
He said, almost indignantly, Three hours at least.
My mom taught me.
Hao was a guys guy; the center of every group of friends.
The gluten keeping them all together with his good humor and ease.
He had broad shoulders and round cheeks, lightly pockmarked and dusky pink when he drank.
His bottom lip was fuller than his top, and behind them, he had perfect teeth.
Then the heat, the boiling.
That deep starch smell, mingling with whatever else she was cooking in the kitchen.
My job was to taste the peanuts every half hour, to double-check they got that perfect mushy texture.
We dont like a peanut with tension.
The flesh has to sink under your teeth like silt.
I threw the shells on the ground, where the crows picked over them.
We were lucky to have immigrated to the south, where boiled peanuts were as common as in Vietnam.
So boiled peanuts are home for you, he said.
I wanted to cry with the relief of not having to explain myself to a man.
He could make decent pho, he said.
I told him he would make an excellent husband someday.
Will you keep me fed in boiled peanuts?
His smile was broad, magnanimous.
As much as you’re free to eat.
Hao laughed from the front seat.
Thats a Vietnamese girl right there.
My friend shot me an annoyed look.
Are you taking that into the sushi restaurant?
BYOP, I winked.
Then she laughed and said, You are too good for him.
I knew who she meant.
Later that night, I finished the bowl of peanuts between the second and third bars.
My friend and I crashed in her boyfriends apartment, but I woke up early the next morning.
I had to get back for my shift at work, my classes, my boyfriend.
Before I left, Hao slung a gallon-sized Ziplock bag through my open window.
Inside, boiled peanuts.
My good husband, I said, blowing a kiss.
Driving home, I didnt stray from my path this time.
When I got back into town, I made up with my boyfriend.
In a few months, Id move across the country with him, much to my friends despair.
I still called him my Vietnamese Husband, up until I actually did get married.
He was a good friend who became a very good husband.
