Apron Anxiety (20 page)

All I can do is make it up to Shelley with her favorite thing
besides me and Phoebe: food. So I dig out my cookbooks that I had packed in my aprons and frantically bake all day long, crossing my fingers that my self-taught pastry skills are good enough to save my ass. When she comes home predictably “starrrving,” I sit her down with an oversize muffin, glinting with mixed berries, and a coffee with frothed milk on top. I contemplate stirring in that Xanax she mentioned, but instead, I fess up. I wait for her to digest the news and lose her cool, but she barely looks up. The girl doesn’t want to stop eating. I
could
be off the hook.

We go outside to assess the damage. The car runs just fine, but looks like it has been in a bad accident, and is totally reprehensible for the crowd Shelley runs with. We calmly decide that if insurance won’t cover it, I’ll compensate her for the cost in small increments at a time. “There’s just one more thing,” she suddenly says in a serious tone, standing by her busted automobile. “Can I have another muffin?”

Around sunset, I go hiking alone in Runyon Canyon to shake off some stress. I’ve probably marched up that steep mountain hundreds of times in my life, and I always come down stronger and more poised than when I started. I am totally confused about Chef and me—in fact no one, not even my mother, or any of the sage women in my life, can find the right answer—but I know that on one of these cathartic walks, wisdom will find me. It always does.

When I walk in the door after a two-hour trek, legs tight, cheeks flushed, Shelley is wrapped in a cashmere throw, looking up at me like the cat that killed the canary. As I stare closer into her face, I can see that she’s covered in crumbs. There’s a blueberry in her tooth, and I know what’s coming next. “Alyssa,” she says with gravitas. “I. Ate. Them. All.”

My need to cook for others quickly extends past Shelley, who devours my dishes but genuinely doesn’t know or care (yet) about the difference between
Iron Chef
and Chef Boyardee. Even though I’m trying to keep to myself in L.A.—searching for signs and answers amid the avocados and azaleas—word spreads fast that I’m in town, taking a break from Chef, and growing my food repertoire. Everyone wants to know the scoop on my engagement, but I politely explain that I have no interest in talking about it. It’s not because of privacy; I just can’t explain what’s going on between us. He and I were so damn good at comfort and pleasure, but when real life crashed our domain, we totally self-destructed. All day long, my mind plays hopscotch between “love is all you need” and “love is not enough.”

About a week into my L.A. trip, I get a text message from my friend Dara, a type-A TV writer who used to be a buzzed-about editrix in New York. Whip-smart, staggeringly confident, with surfergirl dirty blond hair that she’s never even touched, Dara is “a real winner,” as my mother would say, unsarcastically. She’s also the kind of friend who I can see once a year and pick up right where we left off, which is usually when she’s starting a dream job and I’m ending a relationship. In times of despair, Dara is the ultimate, no-nonsense problem solver. She won’t lick your wounds or take you for an ice-cream cone, but she’ll give you the cold, hard truth like you’ve never heard it before.

Her text message reads as follows: “this fri, u cook dinner here for us and like ten other fab pple, k? showrunners, v. cute nabes, pple u need to know. will leave door open. take my mini-cooper for groceries. low carbs. kk?”

I roll my eyes but crack a smile—an expression that has always accompanied our friendship. “Done,” I write back. Because of the blog, she thinks I’m the Barefoot Contessa. But
hardly! This will be the first big dinner party I’ve hosted. I’ve cooked for the Boys, made cheesecake onstage, and brought lots of food to the stoops of C Street, but a large sit-down dinner is a challenge I’ve yet to tackle. Part of me thinks I’m not ready for it, but another part knows that preparing a dinner for a bunch of Hollywood hotshots is exactly the distraction I need. After all, the hardest thing about not being with Chef is filling the time and space previously reserved for loving him.

Back on Shelley’s couch, thinking about Friday night’s dinner, which is only three days away, I obsess over the menu. I flip through
French Women Don’t Get Fat
, Jennifer Rubell’s
Real Life Entertaining
, and Mark Bittman’s
How to Make Everything
. I’ve also started to accumulate old columns by
LA Weekly’s
food writer extraordinaire, Jonathan Gold, which are stacked alongside farmers’ market maps, restaurant menus, and stolen paper placemats from Mario Batali’s Mozza, printed with silly Italian proverbs like “To avoid baldness, cut your hair during a full moon.”

Conceptualizing a meal really turns me on. It’s one of the rare moments in life where anything is possible. Should we drink tequila, eat empanadas, and get sloppy drunk? Maybe it’s a fine-wine-and-grilled-fish kind of civilized soiree? Will deep-fried Southern food help the killer crowd loosen up? While Shelley and Phoebe doze off, I linger in the living room in my pajamas, flipping through recipes, drinking peppermint tea, and eventually deciding on an easy, elegant meal, completely within my comfort zone—herb-crusted baked chicken breasts served with mustardy, multicolored potatoes and a fun frisée salad.

Thursday night, twenty-four hours before the dinner party, I bake a sour-cream coffee cake while wearing nothing but a towel. It’s hot these days to begin with, and I’m sweaty and
jumpy about tomorrow. I take a chance with the recipe by adding an avalanche of dark chocolate chips—to me, dessert without chocolate is like sex without an orgasm. And I forbid Shelley from coming near the kitchen, which is quite cruel, considering the unbelievable smell escaping from the oven (and it is her kitchen). But she can see that I’m wound up and so she watches TV without a word.

When the cake is cooling, I take her to the Grove to my newfound favorite restaurant, not just because it’s cheap, but because it’s phenomenally fresh and authentic: a Brazilian churrascaria buffet. “Who needs Nobu?” I say, midplantain, as she gets up for seconds.

I’m too broke to rent a car and too scared to touch Shelley’s, so the day of the dinner party, I take the bus to the farmers’ market at the Grove. I hit it off with some Mexican housekeepers who warn me not to talk to anyone who takes public transportation in L.A., besides them, of course. I think of how my mother would rather be on that bus with the honest, hardworking people (and even the incoherent crazy folk) than anywhere else in Beverly Hills, and I miss her. The ladies made me laugh, and as I hop off at my stop and skip across the street to the butcher, I’m a little less nervous. I order twenty chicken breasts, the most meat I’ve ever purchased in my life, and pirouette over to the produce stand for some electric purple potatoes, as well as onions, lettuce, and a few other ingredients that look exciting.

My BlackBerry starts to buzz incessantly, so after crossing everything off my list, I duck into Sur La Table to put down my bags and stand in the air-conditioning while reading my messages. There’s an e-mail from an old friend with a big job at
New York
magazine. I had included him in a mass mailing to friends
and colleagues, letting them know I was on the West Coast in case they had assignments for me out here. I quickly open his note, which says, “We need you for the Emmy Awards in a few weeks. You around to talk?”

New York
magazine. Finally. The number one publication I’ve always wanted to work for. And the Emmys? Incredible. I’ve covered major award shows before, but not for such a respected outlet. This is a no-brainer assignment that I can kill. I’m jumping up and down in the utensil aisle, beaming in front of the pastry brushes.

Then I realized the complication. The Emmys are two weeks after I’m supposed to fly back to Washington. Our six weeks apart would be up, and Chef would be coming back from his show. I’ve promised him that I’d be there waiting. Extending my trip would mean extending our separation
and
letting him down. But how many times has
he
let
me
down? How many times has
he
put work first? “I’ll do it,” I write back immediately.

Before I rebundle myself with my poultry and produce, I call my sister and friends screaming, “Guess who’s reporting for
New York
magazine?!” Rach wants to FedEx me my favorite backless dress. Shelley texts me one “OMFG” after another. Even the security guard at Sur La Table congratulates me. I consider calling Chef, but I don’t want to ruin this happy moment with drama. The assignment is not the story of a lifetime or the cure for cancer; it’s not even going to pay for tonight’s food and flowers. But it’s nice to catch a break.

High on life and because the bus
is
a real bummer, I splurge for a taxi to the El Royale, the fabulous, fabled building in Hancock Park, where Dara lives with her boyfriend. I let myself into their apartment and connect my iPod to their speakers to
listen to a song called “Start a War” by the National. I’ve been listening to it nonstop. The lyrics remind me so much of Chef; how we once expected such an extraordinary life together, and now we’re barely hanging on.

We expected something, something better than before, we expected something more
. I crack open the windows and pull back my hair. I lay out the recipes for my herb-crusted chicken and mustardy potatoes. I pour a glass of wine.
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe, behind a painting, lock it up, and leave?
I decide that I’ll improvise the salad. I smell the parsley and rosemary, close my eyes, and think of our garden.
Walk away now and you’re gonna start a war
.

By the time Dara comes home, I’ve done most of the prep work, cleaned my dishes, and am able to display some level of composure. The hard part is over, but I’m still sort of scared. She comments on how amazing the apartment smells, which gives me a small boost of confidence, especially coming from her. We have an hour before the guests arrive. Together, we set the table with a blue-and-white-toile tablecloth and a large vase of sprouting sunflowers. We light a few unscented candles and talk about what’s been going on. As overexteneded as her own life is, Dara is the first person to help her straggler-artsy friends find apartments, land jobs, and get laid. She hands me a set of all her keys—to the house, Mini Cooper, and bike lock, as well as the membership card to the studio where she practices yoga, which she advocates that I use whenever I want. She also wants to fix me up. This is Dara’s way of showing love, and as always, I am touched.

I tell her I don’t want to meet guys while I’m in town, and please not to push it. This is not a matter of morality; in theory, I am not above a little indiscretion (a hot kiss from a dark
stranger, some meaningless sex) while Chef and I are summering in the gray. What’s wrong with a steamy one-night stand after all the hell I’ve been through? In fact, I would feel very cool acting all Parisian and polyamorous, lifting my flowery frocks high up above my head. I’m just not in the mood. Orgies of avocados, cherry tomatoes, and toasted pine nuts are all I want to fantasize about for now.

As we chill the Prosecco and anticipate the doorbell, I change the subject by asking Dara for a rundown of who’s coming to dinner. “Basically,
ehhhveryone
,” she says, deadpan. I have a flashback of Shelley dragging me to New York nightclubs to take tequila shots in our Bordeaux nail polish and cushioned Dior handbags, with her idea of “everyone,” too. In all fairness, Dara’s illustrious guest list, the so-called literati of Los Angeles, is a discriminating crowd. They’re sophisticated, well traveled, and for the most part, dedicated gourmands. What’s more, Dara tells me that Christopher Wagner, the head writer for my all-time favorite TV show, will be stopping by for dessert because he lives down the hall. To meet the mind behind the dark, dysfunctional, sexually devious show, in honor of which I’ve joined chat rooms and fan clubs, and talked at length about with Chef (also a die-hard fan), is a big deal. When the doorbell rings, I dash into the guest bedroom to change out of my apron and into a long, strapless sundress.

Dara’s friends stroll in with their huge screenplays and deep sighs and it is evident that this no-bullshit crowd is ready for dinner. They situate themselves around the dining-room table. After quick introductions, I take my position at the stove. It’s interesting to meet all these smart, successful, overly ambitious types, but besides Christopher, who’s coming late, I don’t really care about their credentials. At this point in my life, I’ve learned
that everybody hurts and everybody is hungry. When Shelley arrives with the coffee cake, I kiss both her and the Bundt pan, and feel more at ease having them there. My pseudo-baker instinct tells me this dessert is stupendous, which comforts me, just in case dinner is not.

My baked chicken is almost ready and the purple potatoes are in the pot. Once they’re cooked, I’ll mash them with caramelized onions, Dijon mustard, white wine vinegar, olive oil, pepper, and capers. The frisée and endive salad is crisp and self-assured, ready to be served with my grandmother’s dressing on the side. For a split second, I get really sad that Chef can’t see me in action. It’s been a few days since I’ve told him to stop calling, insisting it’s “counterproductive” to the clearing of our heads. But at this moment I miss him terribly. Dara’s boyfriend walks into the kitchen, sees me tearing up, and asks if I’m okay. I blame the onions and carry on.

The rock-hard potatoes are holding back the show. I’ve immersed them in too much water, which is not yet boiling, and the suckers won’t soften. I’m screwed. There’s good wine, green grapes, and soft cheese on the table, but I sense some displeasure from the dining room. They’re hungry! Just as I start to really panic, Dara smoothly walks into the kitchen, covers the pot with a lid, and returns to her guests like she never left. This speeds things up tremendously.
Damn, why didn’t I think of that?

With no time to dwell, I swiftly finish up. I assemble the crispy chicken breasts on a beautiful silver platter, next to a white ceramic plate with the smashed purple potatoes and an etched-glass bowl filled with whimsical leafy greens. We’re going to eat family-style. With all my dishes out of the kitchen, I pull up a chair and join the table. As everyone digs in, I watch how my colors and textures really come together. The
presentation is unfussy but elegant, and the vibe is great. We eat, drink, gossip, talk showbiz, and eat and drink more. The chicken might be slightly overcooked, but no one seems to notice. I try not to eye who is taking seconds and what’s being pushed to the side, because all that really matters is that the room feels just right. Anyway, Dara would have told me if something fell short.