Crying

I've always been easily moved to tears. Even before the surgery I cried over the Iraq War at least three times per week.

Literature and food make me cry. I've bawled over my Jane Austin. Tears are conjured by Lorca's poesy and Whitman's exuberance. Last week my daughter Ella (the chef) fixed me a risotto con fungi al porcini, and I wept expansively when she set it on the table. I slobbered like my childhood basset hound, and then redoubled my crying when I remembered that animal with fondness.

Over the years, folks have equated crying in men with, at turns, cowardice, girlishness and insanity. But I'll let all those macho red meat males sucking back their tears know that crying has gotten me laid on at least four separate occasions. Remember, too, that I weighed in at 255 lbs before my surgery, very little of that muscle.

But a reader reminds me that depression, what I call the black ass, is especially acute after quad bypass surgery. I'm not sure if this is the reason for my recent upsurge in crying, but tonight I finished a chapter of my new novel and was so moved (we writers do love ourselves on occasion, don't we?) that I went out onto the patio of my flat in my underwear and wept until my skin was stippled with gooseflesh. It is winter after all. Two coeds walking by on the dark sidewalk asked, "Are you okay, sir?" with genuine concern. The old farts who say our younger generation is soulless are bitter and stupid.

In any event, I'm a bit worried by the sheer volume of tears I'm able to produce. Visiting a friend, a young assistant professor in the Philosophy Dept., I sat on his couch with his three-year-old daughter on my lap watching her favorite film, "A Bug's Life." I cried like a baby when the animated ants vanquished the brutish grasshoppers. The child reached up and touched my beard, saying, "That's okay, Mister Trout, it's only a movie." I kissed both her cheeks and forehead, chuckling new tears of joy.

Black ass

"Black ass" is what Hemingway called his dark moods. Black ass is what likely killed him. My therapist tells me that my own depression is hardly lethal; apparently my ego provides counterbalance. Still, he says that it's something to watch.

Whatever the case, my visions seem to have brought the black ass upon me with a vengeance. I cancelled class, locked myself away, sneaking out only to buy a capon and truffles. I roasted it in, as the French say, funerary style with the truffles stuffed under the skin. Fresh sage and olive oil (xx), plus black pepper. New potatoes. Accompanied by my lovely '99 San Gimignano riserva, though my stock is dwindling.

Still this did not alleviate my condition. Ms. Puppycute came to my door. She plays by the book and probably couldn't stand for the cancelled class. I stood in my bathrobe, staring at her through the spyhole, and then I hid behind my sofa until she stopped knocking.

Finally, I called my oldest daughter, even though I don't like to worry the girls with my nonsensical brooding. They tend to fuss over me like mother hens. Ella is in culinary school and Billie is studying at the Foreign Service School at Georgetown. She hopes to join the Peace Corps and then serve in USAID. I tell her to say 'hi' to John Bolton, but she says, "Some of us need to fight from the inside." She's right, of course.

Billie Trout: Hello?

Daddy Trout: (attempting good cheer) Meine Engeleinchen!

Billie Trout: Oh no, what's wrong Daddy? You sound awful.

Daddy Trout: Nothing's wrong, just checking in...

Billie: You're lying.

Daddy: Drat! Just a black ass. No big deal. How's life, Daughter?

Billie: Daddy, tell me, are you okay?

Daddy: I'm fine. Just a little blue. This one isn't so bad. Lonely, I guess.

Billie: I'm sorry...we all worry, even Mom. Why don't you call her? That might help. She says how she misses you often.

Daddy: I'm glad she and I are friends again, but I couldn't handle that right now. Can I come to DC for a few days? We'll hit Etrusco and check out Francesco's latest menu. We'll drink too much wine, talk loud, act like rubes, snort at anyone who looks Republican.

Billie: Sorry, I'd love it, but I'm giving a paper at a conference in Miami this weekend.

Daddy: Rats. Next weekend?

Billie: I've got an exam...Thanksgiving's coming up, maybe we'll get together then.

Daddy: Isn't there a Harry Chapin song that goes something like that? (starts to sing)

Billie: Don't, Daddy...you'll make me cry. I promise I'll call you every day.

Daddy: Bless you.

She ended up recommending a brisk walk while there's still a few leaves and before the winter slop sets in. How I miss the pristine whiteness of my home country, even with the forty-below days and the cabin fever. I drove to a nearby state park and did a seven mile loop, laboring over some of the ravines. I sat on a cliff watching a redtail hawk coasting on the thermals. The walk served me well. At home I rolled some lobster ravioli, albeit the lobster was frozen. A cold tomato-cucumber sauce and the last of my San Gim. riserva. Tomorrow should be better.