Apron Anxiety (15 page)

I
t’s been two months since I learned that béarnaise isn’t the name of a senior citizen and that the act of trussing relates to roast chicken, not eighties hair. And because of my new enthrallment with the kitchen, life has been significantly better on C Street, for Chef and me both.

He
loved
the macaroni and cheese, not only because it was dark and golden on the outside and rich and creamy on the inside, but because the entire experience seemed to enliven me like nothing else has been able to. Since that meal, I’ve been on such a culinary kick: I’ve attempted something sweet (peanut butter cookies, hazelnut biscotti) or savory (spaghetti and meatballs, chicken cacciatore) every afternoon to serve us at night.

My tastes and textures rank somewhere between pretty shitty and almost good. And just as I predicted, I possess nothing of feminine grace or refinement in the kitchen. Yet a delicious mood has spread throughout the house. The tension in the air has been gently lifted by the sweet smell of cranberry muffins and cardamom coffee, and what originated as a “quick fix” has become my happy place. I am a busy bee in a dirty dishrag, running around town, searching for celery root, cilantro,
fennel seed, and other exotic things creeping into my new vernacular. There is music in my head again; the kitchen windows are cracked open. I run up and down our stairs, plucking fresh herbs from the garden, refilling our kitschy watering can, and watching our livelihood grow.

My homemade meals haven’t changed Chef’s hours (though he’s been sneaking home for lunch almost every day for leftovers, and pedaling full speed to C Street immediately after closing shop each night). He is so excited to hear about my culinary adventures that you’d think I was Anthony Bourdain with boobs.

His delight has nothing to do with my mediocre honey mustard chicken though—he simply loves seeing me so lucid and lighthearted. An infamous, skirt-chasing chef once said to me, “The only way to keep a chef happy is to keep his cock happy.” Maybe so, but taco night with a twinkle in your eye works well, too.

As the days peacefully pass, my lemon-thyme lamb chops and grilled portobellos are proving to be much more than a relationship narcotic. Just weeks ago, I felt so insignificant, but my victorious (or even edible) meals now infuse me with pride. And I feel like I’m actually developing a small talent in the kitchen! You can’t teach someone to paint like Picasso or bounce like Beyoncé, but cooking is an art that really can be learned. It’s basically turning on an Arcade Fire record and following directions. What I love the most is that, unlike the world itself, in the kitchen you get what you give. If I find a solid recipe, gather nice ingredients, and follow the instructions, I will produce something good to eat. Life may be unpredictable, but pasta puttanesca is not.

Of course, without my recipes, I’d be a wreck in the kitchen,
and I realize that it takes time and experience to develop a real cooking rhythm. But for now, I am pleased to be a whimsy, flimsy amateur. I find comfort in not needing to be the best.

My cupboards now have all figmentations of dry pasta, plus rice, beans, and lentils; my fridge is stocked with potatoes, carrots, and onions at all times; and my freezer has chicken stock stored in ice-cube trays and vodka infused with pineapple. I try to live by certain rules of thumb. Like how a pinch of salt can transform an entire dish; if you don’t have good olive oil, you better just order in; always keep a layer of foil on the bottom of your stove for spillage; Pinot Noir is a “bridging wine,” it can go well with fish or steak; cooking with seasonal ingredients is the ultimate secret; and most important, always have a backup plan.

Last week, which was Labor Day weekend, my two best friends from New York, Jill and Beth, took a break from their fashion shoots and kick-boxing classes to experience my new, wholesome life of pretty pinafores and fresh berries. The morning the girls were set to arrive, I baked my mother’s famous banana bread, adding a compulsory amount of chocolate chips, and just for fun, a few handfuls of butterscotch morsels. As I let the double loaves cool on the rack, I walked down the street for a coffee, feeling earthy and self-satisfied. As I skipped my way back into the kitchen, with a smile and café au lait, I saw that itsy-bitsy ants were attacking my loaves. Those little bastards! One loaf was so infested that I chucked it as far as I could throw it. The second loaf I saved just in time, with only a dozen or so creepy crawlers to reconcile with. In the end, I served that mildly buggy loaf to my most beautiful, powerful, and refined friends. And they inhaled it.

This weekend, my equally undomesticated sister is here. I get so excited to pick her up and feed her the homemade challah
I’ve packed in the car, I ram our rusty Jeep directly into the Bolt Bus she traveled on. No one gets hurt, and as luck would have it, the bus driver takes the blame. I’ll forever be a subway girl. Rachel cannot comprehend how the hell I baked what she’s eating. And I surprise her even more by saying we’re going shopping.
For kitchen stuff
. “Wait. Seriously?” she says, in disbelief over my new idea of an awesome shopping spree. I tell her to relax and eat.

We drive to Friendship Heights, where parking is a bitch but the Bloomingdale’s housewares department is having a great sale. I browse the clearance section for Le Creuset cast-iron pots and All-Clad copper pans. My wish lists, previously reserved for Helmut Lang blazers and Lanvin flats, now include things like double boilers, pizza stones, “spoontulas,” and cleavers. I have flashbacks of my mother dragging me to Macy’s Cellar to start a bridal registry after I got engaged to Gary. I remember crying hysterically in front of the Cuisinart section, experiencing my first real panic attack. Back then, life with a food processor meant life without thrills. Now, I’d sell my soul for a slow cooker.

The last time Rachel was here I wasn’t feeling like myself, anxiously clocking Chef’s hours and bitter that he didn’t take the entire weekend off to spend time with her. These days, hopping from supermarkets to specialty shops, I don’t have the time or interest in playing the boyfriend police, and I’m embarrassed that I ever was. I’ve accepted his hours and travel schedule, telling myself that we’re just a cool, unconventional couple.

Presently, my only concern is finding a good chocolate chip cookie recipe because I read somewhere that every home cook should have a killer go-to, and the few batches I’ve made have come out too hard or too flat. So in the spirit of shopping, I decide that Rachel and I should embark on one more try: the
Neiman Marcus Chocolate Chip Cookie. I’ve heard that they’re to die for and that the store, which is conveniently down the street, gives out recipe cards. We stop inside, where I grab the cookie instructions, tear Rachel away from the Marc Jacobs rack, and hit the road.

Back home, I wrap her in one of my aprons and tie one on myself.

“You look just like Mom!” she gasps.

For some reason, I get choked up when she says that. I miss my parents.

“Think about it, when Ma was my age, I was already ten years old,” I say to Rach, as I prep our ingredients.

“Life is so weird,” we say at the same time.

We turn on some music and stand in position. I preside over the mixer, calling out ingredients and measurements like a drill sergeant (“Flour.… Sugar.… Eggs.…”). Rachel obeys while I beat and blend. Then I scoop oversize balls of batter onto our baking sheet, and like the little girls we once were, we lick the mixing bowl clean. The cookies come out like absolute beauties. A hint of espresso offers the perfect snob appeal, and I know Chef will be impressed—if we don’t eat them all before he comes home. We inhale a couple each, and take a picture of the gooey goods as proof of our halfway-legit domesticity for our parents.

As I naturally dive deeper into baking—including so many riffs off that recipe, adding pecans, dried cherries, and white chocolate—it decidedly becomes my preference to cooking. Some say that cooking verses baking reflects a personality difference, that cooks are free-spirited and bakers are by the books, but that doesn’t apply to me. It’s much simpler: I love sweets. I love cakes, candies, cookies, and pastries. I love them so much that I start worrying about my own muffin top.

Based on the better-your-hips-than-mine theory, I start bringing trays of my homemade treats to our next-door neighbors, whom I’ve diligently kept my distance from, fearing the obligatory schmoozing and small talk. But because I don’t want to gain weight, and because I’m feeling like the happy-go-lucky girl I once was, I finally start to sniff them out. Allison the executive, Laura the intellectual, and Kathe the athlete all live in the brownstones surrounding our house with their handsome husbands and happy children. Most nights, they sit on their stoops like good Samaritans, chatting away with vino and baby monitors in hand, waving me over to join. I always say, “Oh, another time!” And then think … 
as in never!

What I quickly learn, after sharing a few sugar cookies and a botched batch of blondies, is that of all the stupid mistakes I’ve made in my messy, misguided, romantic comedy of a life, dismissing these women without giving them a chance was the dumbest move of all. It turns out, after all those friend dates with debutantes and dominatrixes, and all those spin classes with economists and environmentalists, all I had to do was walk over and say, “What’s up?” I had an entire block of inspiring, ass-kicking women, just as worship-worthy as anyone in SoHo or on Sunset Boulevard, waiting to be the support system I so desperately needed. And because they are actually cooler chicks than I’ll ever be, the second I open my door with a basket of scones and a shrug of the shoulders, they welcome me onto their stoops and into their circle and everyone laughs it off. “I
knew
you weren’t a total bitch,” jokes Allison, the blunt one, who I instantly love, and who lives directly next door. “Yeah, well, keep that between us,” I say, over the moon.

And just like that, I have a village.

AS A
long, Indian summer serenades C Street, I start poking my head out from our bay window, calling down, “Who’s got eggs?” and “Anyone allergic to nuts?” It’s a seamless transition from cordial neighbors to very close friends, and because of the proximity of the brownstones, our lives seem to gracefully intertwine. Soon, I’m “stooping” every night, bringing down pitchers of minty mojitos and whatever sinful treats I baked that day. The simple act of borrowing sugar and breaking bread turns into bonding over cellulite, sex, fertility, finances, adultery, mortality, and everything else we need to say and hear, as girlfriends do.

Because I am the only one without kids, I take pleasure in playing with their little ones, who are amazing children, and who really make me want to have kids of my own. I text Chef photos of me with Maeve, Ronan, and Libsy, who range in age from three to six. They help me rake the autumn leaves from our sidewalk, water Mister Chef’s tomato plants, and frost lopsided carrot cakes in my kitchen. My block keeps me very busy with barbecues, potluck picnics, and backyard pizza parties, with the girls’ cute and easygoing husbands tagging along when we let them. It’s an unspoken fact that I will come to everything alone. I am the stray who C Street has taken in.

They probably feel bad for me, but what no one ever sees is what happens when Chef walks in the door, right around midnight. Besides cooking for him, I’ve also started a private food blog about my journey from noncook to good cook, to (hopefully one day) great cook, for his eyes only. I’ve designed it with a messy, scribbled font, as if the background is slightly ripped, tattered, and stained with coffee and wine; I curate it with whimsy photography and tear sheets of wacky fashion, with silly, random posts entitled, “The Devil Wears Burrata” and “Fucking and Shucking.”

No matter how tired he is—and with two restaurants, a major expansion plan, and a couple of regular TV gigs, he is close to comatose—Chef loves watching my cooking education unfold. He longs to hear my latest blog entry; he insists it’s his favorite way to unwind. So, while the rest of the street is sleeping, I slip off his shoes, slide him onto the couch, and share my latest confessions about putting brisket under the broiler and throwing away the expensive stinky blue cheese he brought home because, well, it stunk and I assumed it had gone bad. We laugh our way through the reading, and then I feed us dinner.