Our relationship started at the beach.  I went in and out of the water while he watched.  He finally followed me into the ocean.  We stood there, shoulder deep for an hour, talking.  He was Argentine, on vacation there in Florida.  He was intelligent, charming, charismatic, beautiful… with shoulder-length hair, velvet brown skin, and tattoos that had come from living with a tribe in the deep jungle.  He was real. 

He had written down my email and so we began a long correspondence.  He lived in Buenos Aires making the distance between my fingertips and his far too far.  Still, we would reach out to each other over space… the desire indelible, palpable, and mounting. 

Then came 9/11.  He was there for me, worrying over my well-being, my friends in New York, my life continuing in a place that was hanging in the balance of possible war.  He was loving, caring, and I was falling in love.

He came back to Miami once more.  We had planned to see one another, but it didn’t happen.  He was en route to somewhere else, but I knew it was because by now he had someone and it was too complicated. 

I went to Buenos Aires for ten days to dance tango.  He picked me up at my hotel to take me to lunch and there he was, tall, shining, magnetic.  At lunch he told me about his girlfriend.  I quietly tried to recalibrate my heart and drank the rest of the wine.  We sat in the sun, looking at the boats, talking and enjoying silence.  Comfortable, like we’d known each other in other ways. 

He began to drive me home, but changed his mind midway, canceling a business meeting.  Instead we drove to a loft he owned, filled with pre-Columbian treasures he had collected with his father.  Lining the brick walls were long glass shelves on which rested these ancient artifacts. The room vibrated with their energy, their power.  He put sacrificial bowls in my hands, tiny cutting knives made of carved stone, blood stained icons, jade statuettes, ancient clay beads. I shook from their vibrational weight.  Huge African body masks sat in the corner, worn and wearied.  A winding iron staircase led upstairs where paintings by one of his children hung.  There was a bedroom there too, with white Frette sheets and a down comforter stretched between the corners of a great mahogany four-poster. 

He was late for his poetry class.  He rushed downstairs to prepare a tea before we left.  It was maté, the strong tea so common to Argentina and Uruguay.  As I put the silver straw in my mouth and drew in the harsh taste, I felt the bitterness of parting.  It was in the tea… and in the knowing that this was the end of our story. 

Weeks later, back in Miami, I felt the need to recreate our story, so bittersweet.  So I made myself a maté along with one of my favorite snacks – roasted garlic with honey on warmed French bread.  An odd coupling of tastes to some, but to me, it made sense.

Separate garlic cloves from the head and place on a lined cookie sheet with the sheathes still on each clove.  Roast until as soft as butter.  Warm a baguette in the oven at the last minute, cut into rounds, smear with creamed honey.  Squeeze the garlic over the honey and spread with a knife. 

If garlic and honey doesn’t make it with your bowl of tea, try a simple snack of peanuts. 

For the maté, buy a good quality herba maté such as Rosamonte, or any other that you can find in your neighborhood.  You will need a special gourd, which is also called a maté in Spanish, along with a bombilla, or silver straw.  Pour the dried leaves of the yerba maté into your gourd.  Make a little space on the side by pushing some of the tea away with your straw.  Slowly pour hot, not boiled, water into this space.  Watch the leaves absorb the water and add a bit more until there is liquid to drink.  If you want to add sugar you can, but I prefer my maté as is.  Sip slowly, relishing the bitterness that turns to something else as you get used to the strong taste.  Try, as I do, to relish the metaphor…

Maté is best when shared.  It makes for a beautiful ritual among friends as you fill the gourd for your guest and pass it along.  You may keep adding water to the bowl as the tea will become less bitter and astringent through many steepings. 

Maté can also be found in tea bag form, but to me this takes the beauty out of drinking it.  Maté also comes with added flavors, such as orange, lemon, and mint.

Michele Kadison

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