Lasagna as a Sacrament

I never met him. Our houses opened onto different streets, but from my balcony I actually could, as the saying goes, hit his home with a rock. In fact, as the rock flies, he was one of my closest neighbors. From time to time, my wife and I would hear snatches of not-quite-intelligible conversation as he and his family came and went — stray pieces of what unfortunately turned out to be the last days of his life.

I did meet his wife once, briefly, at a neighborhood potluck. She’d brought two huge serving trays of lasagna: by far the biggest and most popular contribution. She seemed nice in the way that strangers who bathe and speak rationally and bring you lasagna seem nice. For all I knew, she could have been a Satanist or a cannibal or — worse — a bagpipe aficionado, but none of that seemed likely. At one point, I had thought I’d heard bagpipes over there, but maybe someone had simply stepped on a cat.

Like everyone in town, I’d eaten at their restaurant, Arnoldi’s. Good, solid Italian food, reasonable prices. The place had a warm, friendly feel to it. Nasty people don’t run friendly businesses. If you’re the CEO of Cox Cable or B of A, I’m not saying those companies are your fault — but actually, they pretty much are.

My glowing memories of Cox Cable and Bank of America could all be listed — with room to spare — between the last letter of this sentence and the period. But once at Arnoldi’s — when the stars aligned, or the culinary gods decided to reward me for years of eating broccoli like a responsible adult — I got the single best order of lasagna I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve tasted a lot of outstanding lasagna. I almost had a Sicilian mother-in-law, and lasagna was her specialty. She probably served it to celebrate the end of the engagement.

Death can sneak up on you, but fire engines can’t. The one bringing the paramedics to our neighbors’ home had pulled in right below our balcony. We didn’t know then that a mutual friend was over there desperately performing CPR. I learned my neighbor’s name — David Peri — when I learned he’d died.

After that, looking out at the view David no longer shared, I’d often notice additional cars at the Peri home — reminding me of frantic journeys, desperate vigils. Dread. As what had seemed solid, foundational, almost eternal, changed forever.

The crowd at David’s funeral service overflowed the Mission. Filled it and then some! I’m expecting 97 people at mine — but only if I die skydiving with Taylor Swift on national TV.

Google led me to David’s Facebook page. If the Bank of America held your mortgage and you had to pick their next CEO from a photograph, this was the guy you’d pick. He had 682 Facebook friends. His last post, “Happy birthday to my super wife,” got 131 likes. I almost “liked” it myself. Because I did actually like it. But that seemed like claiming a connection I hadn’t earned, and I already felt like an intruder.

The previous post was a shot of “our fabulous grandchildren.” Ten of them. Below that was a composite photo of 26 other kids. A click translated the Hebrew text to “These are the kidnapped children. Share so the world can see.” Twenty-six children. Twenty-six precious, miraculous, fragile universes — threatened.

David Peri couldn’t have had a smaller part in my life. Smaller even than the strangers I pass on my neighborhood walks. At least with them I share a perfunctory “Hi” or a nod. Maybe even a few words as I struggle to keep their dog’s nose out of my crotch. David was more like the people I pass on a busy day downtown — just too many people to acknowledge. I’m not sure what would happen if I tried to connect with each of them. But it might involve mental-health professionals and/or the police.

“If every rock was a diamond, diamonds would be as worthless as rocks.” I’m not sure who said that. It might have been me. In any case, it doesn’t apply here. Because, there are two truths I want to hang onto about David Peri. First, he had something — I’m not sure what — to do with me having the greatest lasagna of my life. A positively transcendental lasagna.

Second, he was one of a kind. People aren’t rocks. (You can quote me on that.) We can’t acknowledge them all. We can’t even begin to register most of them. But somehow, we have to value them. Because, every single one we lose is a diminishment, a lost universe. And whether we know it or not, they all touch us.

Thanks for that lasagna, David. It was a blessing.

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