Love Food: Pork and Pie

Love food is, as David explains, the food that you make that’s full of love, desire, hopes, or dreams. Pork loin with apples, sour cream apple pie, it’s the food you share with your favorite person, the meal that’s imbued with all the promise of love, now and forever.

The One and David

[David wrote this 11 years ago, and it stills holds true on their 28th anniversary.–ed.]

Today marks 17 years that The One and I have been together (which is actually more like 50 in straight years). The way he tells it, it was my linens that clinched it for him.

In 1993 I bought my first bed. Before that, during college and just after, I made do with a futon or, on occasion, a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. But when I turned 32, I decided it was time to have a proper place to sleep. Bereft of the design gene my people are supposed to possess, I chose a ridiculously large model with massive head and footboards. To camouflage this Victorian monstrosity, I purchased tons of pillows and one of those all-in-one matching linen sets that no matter how you use it, you can’t screw up—kind of like Garanimals for beds. Gold sheets with a barely perceptible floral pattern contrasted with a deep brown and burgundy coverlet and matching shams and neck rolls.


One look and he was smitten. All of his life The One wanted a bed with a headboard and lots of pillows so he could prop himself up, eat caviar, drink champagne, and read, “like Joan Collins,” he’s wont to say.

For me, it was his cooking that sealed the deal.

It’s not that he was a great cook back then because he wasn’t. (There was that time he wanted to make a healthy cake from a box and used a wickedly peppery olive oil instead of canola. I could go on, but shan’t.) No, it was the fact that one Sunday afternoon late in October he stood at the counter in his house in upstate New York, cutting and dicing and shaking pans. For me. It was the first time anyone I cared for made a meal for me. The recipe: Cider-braised pork loin with sautéed apples.

Love food, I call it.

I remember waking up from a nap, the angled light of late afternoon long gone, and walking down the hall. Kenny G (yes, Kenny G) was playing on the stereo. I hadn’t yet thrown myself into cooking, so I was fascinated. I leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched. This was long before we remodeled. The white walls and cabinets the color of chewing tobacco hadn’t yet been painted butter yellow and Navajo white. The sliding glass door to the deck was another year away. The cutting board was an old piece of wood (and, sadly, since lost in one of our moves); the stove electric, its coils glowed red like a giant branding iron. He wore an apron; The One likes to be neat when he cooks.

I’m convinced the reason I recall that moment, that room—when so many others have slipped from memory—is the food. His love food. It anchored us in time, exerting an emotional pull that still keeps us orbiting around each other, all these years later.

Not long after, again on a Sunday, I made him a sour cream apple pie. My love food. While baking, the apple slices jostled together in layers interspersed with a tangy cream. On top, a perfect pebbly streusel crown. Back then I was rail thin and ate nothing but Fiber One cereal for dinner, so he was surprised I even baked.

“I’m a gourmet cook,” I said a bit defensively.

“Really?” Was that doubt in his voice?

“Yes.” And to prove it, I pulled out the Gourmet magazine that featured the recipe. My logic was of the rock-steady kind: if A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Ergo, if the recipe I made is from Gourmet, and Gourmet is the magazine of gourmet cooks everywhere, I am therefore a gourmet cook. He sniggered a bit but still ate two pieces, holding out his plate Oliver-like, asking, “Please, sir, I want some more.”

Throughout that autumn and winter, our first together, Sundays were our pork and pie day. We never seemed to tire of these dishes. Eventually, the weather warmed, and we discovered the grill together. As we grew older (and withstood three near breakups, the loss of loved ones, the inexorable march of age) other recipes became our love food. There were his tuna burgers with wasabi mayonnaise, stewed chicken and olives, and mile-high lemon meringue pie (which he made for me just once and will never make again, it was so complicated). My Christmas goose, salt cod casserole, and dark chocolate espresso cake.

As I write this, on a Sunday, The One is in the kitchen, the rhythmic toc-toc-toc rocking of his favorite chef’s knife—the 8-inch one with the cracked handle—reaches me. Something is spitting in the sauté pan; it smells like lamb. On the stereo, a movie soundtrack (he’s mercifully outgrown Kenny G). In a few minutes, I’ll walk out and watch him. Thankful that we’re still together, thankful that he’s still making love food for me seventeen years later.

David Leite's signature



  1. OK. I’m late. and The One should be celebrating the entire month. 17 years. Zowie. Thank you for that enchanting story. I’m STILL laughing over your “logical” assertion that you were a “Gourmet” cook back in the day. I’ll definitely have to use that one. Seriously – best to you and The One. 17 more years many many many times over. JT

  2. A lovely piece of writing. Your words are so tender and honest, they transported me into the kitchen with you both. Thank you for letting me be a voyeur into such beautiful, private love moments.

    Here’s to you and Your Love. The two of you have found something very special and beautiful. Congratulations!

  3. Hi David (and The One),

    I’m trying to think of something eloquent to write about how much I enjoyed reading that, and the good wishes I send your way, but teary eyes and “awwwwww…” is the only thing I have right now.
    Thanks, congrats, and best regards to you both,


  4. David, what a wonderful story. Love it.

    For me, Love Food is Arroz con Pollo. A dish I made many times before I met my husband and made perfectly. The first time I made it for him, I ruined it. I guess I was nervous. A few years after we were married, I decided to pull the recipe out and try again. That time I nailed it. Now it is “The Dish” for us. I make it when I am in a romantic mood, when I am saying sorry, etc.

    In those days, I thought of myself as a vegetarian and I knew he wasn’t so I was trying to impress him. Even though the dish failed, I still impressed him somehow and now we are married over 20 years (nearing 21).

    Wonderful story. Thanks for sharing.

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