Making Moussaka For Neil

We begin at the beginning: a clove of garlic, too hard-headed for its own good, combined with two large onions, their first denuding revealing fallow gold: the second layer, a pale green puberty, then, the heartless blade of the knife slices into the virginal white purity of a cumulus cloud, which the shape-shifter processor reduces to odiferous pearly drifts, destined tor the fry pan's oil of olive from sunny Southern hillsides. This bounty blends with the underpraised, but indispensable tomato, staple in the kitchens of Italy and Spain, then Crimini mushrooms, sliced within an inch of their lives and browned in a skillet to bring odor of earthiness to this angelic mix. Six buttery ovals afloat in their embryonic bath offer elixir of egg to the whir of the beaters. With infusion of feta, and one of mozzarella, it marries with the mushrooms, and in lieu of vestal virgins, lies down with the pasta. We go now to oven. Heat does its homage, then with souls of the missing, we come to table, a chair placed for Neil: napkin, plate, and fork, until he welcomes us Home. Hosts us once more. for Neil Irvin Gray, 1918-2014