A Homemade Life (24 page)

S
ome nights, it's so easy. There's already soup in the refrigerator, and all it needs is warming. There's leftover chicken and a bag of green beans, and
ba daaaa!,
dinner is served. I love those nights. I try to live my whole life that way. Except for the nights when I'm making the soup, or roasting the chicken. That does have to happen sometime.

It helps, though, that I like mishmash meals, the kind where you reach into the refrigerator and pull out a few things that need attention—a neglected block of cheddar, let's say, and the end of a salami, and some cornichons and olives and a grapefruit—and that's dinner. I am a very lazy person, really, and I am also easily pleased. For as much as I love to cook, I love even more when cooking is unnecessary, and when all I have to do is eat.

To this end, Brandon is handy to have around. He can pull a meal from the seeming ether in five minutes flat. It's not guaranteed to be great, but it will almost always be good. When he was living in New York, he used to cook sometimes for his housemate Amie, and she has told me a few stories. Apparently, she once had a craving for hummus, but they had no chickpeas, tahini, or lemons, so Brandon pulled out a can of kidney beans, a clove of garlic, some olive oil and vinegar, and the Cuisinart. The results, Amie says cheerily, “were pretty good!”
Then there was the pancake episode. Because they had no eggs for the batter, Brandon threw in some extra oil instead. It goes without saying that this was much less successful than the kidney bean hummus, though the pancakes were edible, she tells me.

Like Amie, I have discovered that if you give Brandon a few ingredients, he will usually make good. He'll take the dregs of a bowl of homemade salsa, dump it into a pan with a can of black beans and half a tired onion, and ten minutes later, it's a very decent lunch. He'll take a few shallots left over from a recipe, peel them and toss them with oil and sherry vinegar, and roast them until they're soft and sticky. He can also take some arugula, a few pistachios, and a bar of chocolate and turn them into a salad. That's what he did a few days before our wedding, when my mother, who had flown in that morning, was coming to dinner.

It was a warm night, the kind when you throw open the windows and stand an oscillating fan next to the stove. While my mother and I set the table, Brandon assembled the salad. He washed some arugula. Then he chopped a fistful of pistachios and, on a whim, the corner of the block of chocolate that was sitting on the counter. Then he opened the refrigerator for a wedge of hard cheese and a jar of last night's vinaigrette. My mother had brought some figs, half-smashed in her carry-on, from the tree in her front yard, so he sliced them into quarters and piled them on one end of a serving platter. Next to them he laid a few thin slices of cheese. At the far end, opposite the figs and cheese, he made piles of pistachios and chocolate. Then he poured a glug of vinaigrette over the arugula, tossed it with one hand, and mounded it in the center.

It was almost too handsome to eat, but we did it anyway, with an old baguette that had been jolted to life in the oven and a bottle of champagne that, I'm pretty sure, was supposed to be saved for the wedding. It was delicious, a box of parts from different puzzles that somehow seemed to fit. My mother, a little suspicious at the start, scraped her plate appreciatively. But best of all, it was easy. Especially after planning an entire wedding. Of course, planning a wedding could make
anything look easy—homemade puff pastry, hunting and butchering your own boar, making water from scratch—but really, it was.

We've now made that salad countless times, with or without the figs and cheese. Whenever we mention it to other people, they raise an eyebrow at the thought of arugula and chocolate, but when they taste it, they usually shut up. We've already had one of them declare it her favorite salad, which we took as a pretty good endorsement, since we hadn't even plied her with champagne. That's why I wanted to tell you about it. There's no time like the present to start eating chocolate with your greens.

Brandon likes to use Banyuls vinegar, a fairly esoteric type, in the vinaigrette for this salad, but when I wrote the recipe, I found myself worrying. I didn't want to suggest that someone go out and buy a bottle of expensive vinegar just for one salad. So I asked if he could suggest a more common substitute. He thought for a minute, and then he announced, “Sure! Tell them that if they don't have Banyuls, they can just use Cognac vinegar.”

He's so warped. Which, of course, is why I married him.

ARUGULA SALAD WITH PISTACHIOS AND CHOCOLATE

b
anyuls vinegar is made from the Banyuls sweet wine of southwest France and aged in oak barrels. It has a caramelly, slightly nutty flavor, and goes incredibly well with arugula. But if you don't happen to have a bottle of it lying around, you can substitute sherry vinegar (or Cognac vinegar,
har har
), or you can buy some from Williams-Sonoma or Chef Shop.com.

FOR THE VINAIGRETTE

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons Banyuls vinegar

½ teaspoon salt

5 tablespoons olive oil, plus more to taste

FOR THE SALAD

About 8 ounces arugula

2 tablespoons finely chopped raw unsalted pistachios, for serving

2 tablespoons finely chopped bittersweet chocolate, for serving

 

First, make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl, combine the mustard, vinegar, and salt and whisk to blend. Add the olive oil and whisk vigorously to emulsify. Taste, and adjust as needed. Depending on your vinegar, you may need more oil. We often add 2 additional teaspoons, but it varies. This is a more acidic dressing than some, but it shouldn't hit you over the head with vinegar.

Put the arugula in a large bowl and add a modest spoonful or two of dressing. It's best to err on the side of underdressing at first: arugula is delicate, and it needs less dressing than other greens. Using two forks or, preferably, your hands, carefully toss the arugula, taking care to handle it as lightly as you can, since it bruises easily. Taste, and add dressing as needed.

Divide the dressed arugula among 4 plates. Serve with small bowls of chopped pistachios and chocolate on the side, allowing each eater to sprinkle his or her salad with a bit of each.

 

Yield: 4 first-course servings

S
ometimes I still can't believe that I'm old enough to be someone's wife. How on earth did that happen? It was only a few days ago, I could swear, that I was in the foyer of my parents' house, bumbling and biting my way through my first kiss. It couldn't have been more than a month ago, at most. Sometimes Brandon and I look at each other, shaking our heads, and say, “We're
married?
Get out!” It's a lot to wrap a head around.

Our wedding meant more than just the beginning of our marriage. It meant a new family, one that starts from just the two of us. For me, it also meant walking down the aisle without my father. I never thought I would have to do that.

I remember, in the weeks before our wedding, wondering what he would have said about all this. He would have liked to know Brandon. They would have holed up in his office upstairs, listening to Gene Krupa and talking about beer. It's strange, but sometimes when Brandon laughs, he sounds exactly like Burg. Sometimes I could swear that he was still here, sitting right next to me. Wherever he is, I would like him to know that my mother gave me his wedding ring, and that we had Brandon's ring made from it, melted down and remolded. I know that he would have wanted that, to be a part of us in some way.

We had an Alice Walker quote printed on the back of our wedding
program. “I have learned not to worry about love,” it reads, “but to honor its coming with all my heart.” It's hard not to worry, honestly, about making this sort of commitment to someone. But I want to honor Brandon. I want to honor what came before us. And I want to honor us.

Sometimes I forget how improbable our story is, and how uncertain it could have felt, because it didn't. I remember telling someone, shortly after I met him, that Brandon was like magic, that he could make things happen. He does, every day. He reminds me of something my mother once said about my father: that one of the things she loved about him was that she could learn so much from him. I know exactly what she means.

I used to think I had a good dowry. I can make a nice meatball and bake a fine chocolate cake. I can find my way without a map around Paris, Seattle, and Oklahoma City. I stand to someday inherit that stunningly ugly ceramic boar that sat on my father's bathroom counter. But Brandon brought with him more than I could have ever thought to want. He brought an eye for vintage champagne glasses, that Caetano Veloso song he always sings in the shower, the crease on top of his nose, and the stunning mess he makes on the kitchen counter. He brought his chana masala, his love for cabbage and chocolate, and his gentle questions about my father, whom he will never meet. He brought that mischievous look that he flashes when he asks if I want a chocolate malt, the radishes and the butter and the salt, and the way he asks me to marry him, grinning, over and over, almost every day. Sometimes when I see him across the room, I can hardly believe that I get to be his wife.

 

For our rehearsal dinner, we chose a clearing on the property of an old homestead next to a river about fifteen minutes north of Bellingham, with a dozen picnic tables and an old wooden water tower. Brandon's father strung tiny globe lights around the two white tents we rented, and we ran kraft paper down the tables. Then we topped them with
small jars of homemade pickles and a larger jar for a centerpiece, filled with blue cornflowers, nigella, lavender, and thistle.

We were aiming for the kind of event where the bride could wear jeans and a ponytail, the kind of evening that goes well with a bottle of Hefeweizen and a game of Frisbee. We ate sandwiches of pulled chicken stuffed into soft rosemary buns. We ate Roma tomatoes roasted to a deep, opaque red, and roasted eggplant and squash and shiitake mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes cooked on the vine. We ate sliced heirloom tomatoes with fresh mozzarella and a fingerling potato salad with sweet onions, little green beans, and mustard vinaigrette. We ate tartlets filled with mascarpone and fat, purply gooseberries, and chocolate chip cookies made with oatmeal and coconut. We ate until dark, which comes late here in the summer, and then the mosquitoes came up from the river and chased us home.

 

The next day, at four o'clock on a cloudy afternoon, we got married. We stood in a park on the water, between two trees, under an enormous white tent with scalloped edges and open sides, and word has it that someone's dog ran around on the beach behind us for the better part of the ceremony. I also heard that a drunk bum wandered over, which I am grateful to have not noticed, though in retrospect, I like the idea.

I was a mess that day. I woke up feeling out of sorts, and when I sat down next to my mother at breakfast, I burst into tears. I hadn't expected it to feel so strange without my father. Every time I walked down the hallway of the hotel, I saw an aunt or an uncle or an old friend of his from Oklahoma. But he wasn't there. All morning, off and on, I kept catching myself starting to cry. After a while, I wasn't even sure why, which scared me half to death. There are pictures of me getting ready to come down the aisle, my eyes rimmed with red. I am sure that my bridesmaids were secretly devising an emergency plan, in case I should make a run for it.

But then the music started playing, and my mother looped her arm through mine. She walked me down the grassy aisle, both of us teeter
ing in our heels, and she kissed me on each cheek, and then Brandon took my hand. Our friend Shauna was officiating, and it felt good to stand there next to her. My brothers David and Adam stood up and spoke about our family. Brandon's sister Courtney spoke about his family. Keaton talked about that night at the Alibi Room, the day after I first met Brandon. Sam spoke about his friendship with us. Brandon and I had written our own vows, and I sobbed only a little during mine, which at this point felt like a victory. When we kissed, he wrapped his arms around my waist and tipped me back, so that his curls fell onto my cheek. And when he righted me again, everyone clapped and cheered, and we ate potato chips and drank lemonade and walked to the reception with Sam and Brandon's childhood friend Steve carrying my long veil like the train of a dress, and we were married.

 

When you care about food, and when you're marrying someone who cares about food, and when you met this someone because of food, there is quite a bit of pressure to feed people well at your wedding. We gave it our best shot, and I think we did all right.

There were deviled eggs two ways: with crème fraîche and paddle-fish caviar, or with herbed aioli and capers. There were quartered apricots wrapped in prosciutto and grilled, served on thin toasts and dolloped with goat cheese. There were tiny corn cakes made up like open-faced BLTs, with basil mayonnaise and avocado, and there were toasted baguette slices with butter and radishes and salt. For dinner, there was smoked sockeye salmon with a salsa of nectarines and chiles. There was a fennel salad with shaved Parmesan, and baby beets with blue cheese and hazelnuts. There was a farro salad with feta and caramelized onions, carrots, and celery. And for dessert, there was cake, of course, which I'll tell you more about in a minute, and ice cream. And when my mother stood up and gave her toast, the minute she said my father's name, the sun came out. And then, for once, I wasn't the only one crying.

Our wedding was exactly what I hoped for, and still, when it happened, it felt like a surprise. In that way, it felt just like us. I don't know
when I've ever been more proud of the two of us, and of what we love. I also don't know when I've ever been sorrier for not eating more deviled eggs. I'm telling you, and I learned the hard way, don't let socializing get between you and a platter of deviled eggs. And when you've had your fill, take the dance floor with your new husband, preferably to Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter's “Night and Day,” and when he dips you at the very end, when the horns are blaring, close your eyes tight and thank the heavens that the planning is through, and that the beer is cold, and that you can dance, dance, dance.

LITTLE CORN CAKES WITH BACON, TOMATO, AND AVOCADO

Adapted from Ciaò Thyme Catering and Doug Doolittle

i
n most circles, the words
wedding food
aren't exactly synonymous with
delicious food
. We wanted ours to be different. When we started planning, the caterer was one of the first elements we considered. In the end, when we decided to get married in Bellingham, we chose it not only because it was pretty and on the water and so on, but also because of the caterer we found there, Ciaò Thyme. When we asked them to make fingerling potato chips for after the ceremony, they clapped. When we said that we wanted deviled eggs during the cocktail hour, they grinned and started gushing about aioli and the hens at a farm nearby. And at the end of the night, they danced with us and kissed us both on the cheeks.

The recipe for these hors d'œuvres requires a little time and advance planning, but they're well worth the effort. For a vegetarian version, try replacing the bacon with thinly shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

FOR THE ROASTED TOMATOES

½ pound cherry tomatoes (about 30 tomatoes), halved

2 teaspoons olive oil

FOR THE BACON

10 slices thin-cut bacon

FOR THE CORN CAKES

1 medium ear of corn

½ cup fine cornmeal

½ cup cake flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon kosher salt

½ cup whole milk (not low fat or nonfat)

¼ cup water

1 tablespoon canola oil, plus more for brushing the pan

1 tablespoon pure maple syrup

1 ¼ teaspoons apple cider vinegar

FOR SERVING

Good-tasting mayonnaise, such as Hellmann's

1 medium avocado, quartered from end to end and thinly sliced

A handful of fresh basil leaves, sliced thinly

Crunchy salt, such as Maldon salt or fleur de sel

 

First, prepare the tomatoes. Set an oven rack to the middle position, and preheat the oven to 325°F. Put the tomatoes on a rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle them with the oil, and use your hands to toss them gently, arranging them cut side up. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until they shrink slightly and their edges are gently shriveled. Set aside to cool. (Tomatoes may be roasted up to 3 days ahead. Refrigerate in an airtight container and bring to room temperature before serving.)

Next, prepare the bacon. Turn the oven temperature up to 400°F. Arrange the bacon slices in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake until the fat begins to render, about 5 minutes. Rotate the pan, and continue to bake until the bacon is crisp and lightly browned, 5 to 6 minutes more. Transfer with tongs to a paper-towel-lined plate, and cool briefly. Using your fingers, snap each strip of bacon into 5 to 6 small “chips,” each 1 to 1½ inches long.

Next, prepare the corn cakes. Put a small, heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over medium-high heat. While it warms, use a sharp knife to cut the kernels from the ear of corn. Discard the cob. When the pan is hot, add the kernels and cook, shaking the pan occasionally, until the corn is browned in spots and fragrant, 30 seconds to 1 minute. Remove the pan from the heat, and scrape the kernels into the bowl of a food processor. Allow to cool.

While the corn cools, prepare the batter. In a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, cake flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and whisk to mix well.

In a Pyrex measuring cup, combine the milk, water, oil, and maple syrup, whisking or stirring with a fork to blend. (Do not add the vinegar yet.)

When the corn is cool, process it briefly in the food processor, until it is finely chopped. You want it to have some texture, but no big lumps. Add the corn to the dry ingredients, along with the wet ingredients and the vinegar, and whisk to just combine. The batter will foam a bit and thicken. Allow it to rest for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, warm a nonstick pan or griddle over medium heat. When the pan is hot, brush it lightly with oil. Scoop the batter by the teaspoonful into the pan, forming round cakes about 1½ inches in diameter. Do not crowd the pan. Cook for about two minutes on the first side, until golden, then gently flip and continue cooking until the second side is cooked, another minute or less.

Transfer the finished cakes to a platter while you cook the rest of the batter, brushing the pan lightly with oil between each batch. (Corn cakes can be made up to 2 weeks ahead and stored in a ziplock freezer bag in the freezer. Thaw at room temperature, then revive their texture with a quick pass through a low oven or toaster oven.)

To finish, top each corn cake with a smear of mayonnaise. Place a slice of avocado on top of the mayonnaise, then a “chip” of bacon atop the avocado, and then a roasted tomato half, and finally a thin ribbon of basil. Sprinkle with a small pinch of salt. Serve immediately.

 

NOTE:
These corn cakes, made a little bigger, would be good for breakfast, too. Just drop the tomatoes, avocado, mayonnaise, and basil, and serve instead with a fried egg and bacon.

 

Yield: about 4½ dozen corn cakes