A couple of years ago Henry bought me a raspberry clafoutis from this little bakery in Greenpoint. He was over at his friend Fernando’s apartment watching “Project Gayway” and he’d left the clafoutis next to my laptop with a note that said, “Here’s a raspberry clafoutis for my little Strawberry Clafoutis.” (Strawberry Clafoutis was one of his nicknames for me—a year later he would endearingly call me Sour Cherry Strudel, two months later I was Blueberry Flognarde, and then until the end I was always Danish Remoulade with Capers.)
I was touched by Henry’s thoughtfulness and I smiled as I ripped into the raspberry clafoutis. But it was dry and tasted oddly like kielbasa—nothing like the clafoutis from Balthazar. How could I tell Henry that his gesture, while sweet, left a bad taste in my mouth? I decided to call Ruth, who advised me to tell Henry that I loved the clafoutis. So when Henry came home, that’s exactly what I did: I said, “Henry, it was a wonderful clafoutis.” Henry smiled and said, “I’m glad you liked it—mine tasted a little bit like kielbasa.”
After Henry fell asleep that night I crept over to my computer and posted on Emily Magazine. I cried as I wrote about the clafoutis, and how I’d lied to Henry about liking it, and how being dishonest could ruin a relationship. In the morning I knew he’d read it along with hundreds of other people. But I didn’t care. My relationship with Henry was important but not as important as letting people know about it.
