Apron Anxiety (5 page)

Gary was “pumped” to take my taste buds even further, and next planned to sequester me at some hard-core Japanese restaurants. It killed him that I wasted precious opportunities to try the most exotic raw fish night after night at Nobu. But he wouldn’t even get the chance to teach me how to hold chopsticks. Before my taste for sake could develop, my relationship with Gary ended. I was not a good fiancée, and he deserved better than what I could bring to the table (or not). For me, real life in New York was just beginning. I was tipsy, untamable, and totally caught up. There were too many mistakes to be made and too many pinch-me moments to be had. Especially when it was guys like Derek Jeter doing the pinching.

Our relationship officially ended on our fifth anniversary, the night Gary planned to take me to Gramercy Tavern, arguably the best restaurant in town. But instead, I was downing margaritas at the Maritime Hotel, flirting with a party-hopping photographer I was in love with for a few seconds, and interviewing Mischa Barton, who was launching a sexy new show called
The O.C
. Meanwhile, Gary was at the apartment, waiting with flowers, continually calling the restaurant to extend the reservation. I never came home that night and we broke up the next morning. Gary might not have been the great love of
my life, but I did love him, and I wish he never got hurt. I still can’t walk past Gramercy Tavern without hating myself a little.

But that’s New York. The streets are filled with neon-lit restaurants that taste like nostalgia, glamour, guilt, and goose-bumps. If you’ve lived here long enough, every corner booth, deli counter, dive bar, coffee shop, and critic’s darling becomes a Polaroid of your life. The meals at Sarabeth’s with my parents, or Nobu with Shelley, or Tamarind with Gary—they are seasoned with moments I pray to remember and things I hope to forget. But for me, the food always came second to the snapshot.

I DON’T
know what revolves more in New York, relationships or real estate, but a few weeks later, I was walking up seven flights of stairs, carrying a laundry basket of mud masks, pumpernickel pretzel rods, and Cosabella thongs. I’d moved out of my place with Gary—who let me go gracefully, like the gentleman he always was—and into a shared walk-up on the Upper East Side.

The schlep up the stairs was nothing short of sadistic, but it led to a huge, whimsical furnished triplex, with big bedrooms, a California kitchen, and the most important amenity of all, excellent roommates who were never home. They were a few boho-chic girls I knew peripherally from the magazine world, and, to my benefit, had loaded fiancés with Tribeca lofts and Hamptons weekend homes. This left me with three floors of Moroccan rugs and Barcelona chairs, and a rooftop decorated with lanterns and potted tulips, all to myself. It was like
Last Tango in Paris
, but with a Pick A Bagel on the corner.

Twenty-seven and newly single, I had promised myself that from this point on I would date only men who intensely intrigued me. I don’t know why I stayed in such an uninspiring
relationship for so long. Chalk it up to being young, immature, or the fact that, despite his pin-striped shirts and fantasy football league, Gary was a great guy.

Betrothed to no one, I found that I was happy to just hang out. I had my job, my friends, and, on this particular night, my sister to keep me busy. Rachel, who was working on her master’s in education, was visiting my apartment for something that couldn’t possibly be less academic: she was making an audition tape for
The Bachelor
and needed my help. After three years of televised weddings, celebrity-endorsed tanning creams, and press releases from Donald Trump’s assistant, I was so turned off by reality stars that I was mortified to even be part of such a mission. But hey, anything for my sister. Even a rose ceremony.

To commemorate “the wrap” of her three-minute monologue—which was not her most poised, Natalie Portman moment—I offered to make us some hot cocoa with a few Nestlé packets, which were covered in cobwebs in the cupboard. There was just one problem: I had no idea where to start. Twenty-seven years old, with double degrees, tons of bylines, and the private phone number to every
Queer Eye
and straight guy in New York City, here I was with two polka-dotted mugs, a few stale packets of cocoa powder, and a stupid, blank stare on my face. I considered asking my sister for help, but this was a girl who wanted a flower from a stranger with a man-tan. I decided to handle it myself.

One of my roommates kept a shiny coffeemaker on the slate countertop. I thought I’d just fill the carafe with water and heat it on the stovetop. Simple. I was sure that I’d seen my mother do this before. (In hindsight,
that
was a teakettle.) So I did just that: I turned on the gas stove as high as it would go, and felt quite satisfied with myself. I skipped downstairs with my sister to wash up and get into our pajamas. But as we wiped off the
silver glittery makeup from Rachel’s big brown eyes, the fire alarm started to screech. I ran to the kitchen.

“Call 911!” I screamed. “The house is on fire!”

The plastic carafe had caught on fire. Disaster. I had flashes of my roommates losing all their fancy family heirlooms and Louis Vuitton luggage, and me going to prison for pyromania. We frantically called my father: “Come over! We need you! We set the kitchen on fire!” He must have been watching a Red Sox game because once we assured him that we weren’t in any serious danger, all he really had to say was “Oy vey. You girls.” Thanks, Super-Dad. My mother, much more helpful, urged me to grab my tax returns and run. My guess was that they didn’t want to walk up those seven flights of stairs to save us. Luckily, the sexy NYFD did.

The firefighters arrived at the scene before any serious damage was done. After they saved the day, and the pretty, pre-war apartment, a few of the firefighters even asked for our numbers. Everything worked out in the end, except
The Bachelor
rejected Rachel, and I became content on giving the kitchen, and all of its compadres, my continued cold shoulder.

Such was life in my late twenties. It was a time of sparks, stories, and self-discovery. It didn’t take long after calling off my engagement with Gary for me to start meeting guys everywhere I went. They landed in my life with ease and delight, swinging gently on the hammock that was my heart, until I affectionately released them to their overprotective mothers, ovulating ex-girlfriends, minuscule bank accounts, enormous penises, Bar exams, probation officers, or some combination thereof. I found a certain thrill, a built-in drama, in the lost puppies I liked and who liked me back. They came in all looks and livelihoods, but they usually shared a similar nature: sweet
to the core and microscopically unstable. At least I stuck to my guns … not one fling was boring.

MY HEART
got wounded only once. It all started when my new dentist, John, a drop-dead-gorgeous Greek, walked into the examining room, as I prayed not to bite, dribble, or drool. For the least sexy profession, he was one of the most attractive men I had ever laid eyes on. But it wasn’t just his looks that had me aflutter. I liked
everything
about him: his soft, deep voice; old-fashioned, doctorly masculinity; and especially the way his scrubs fell on his six-foot-two frame. After the requisite doctor-patient small talk, I gathered John was a fine man who happened to be dressed up as George Clooney’s younger, fitter brother. And before I could barely spit, he went from being my new dentist to my long-term boyfriend.

On our first date, at a tiny trattoria near my walk-up, John admitted that, ideally, he wanted to date only Greek Orthodox women because he felt strongly about marrying within his religion, and it was a nonnegotiable family rule. He also told me that he still lived at home, and would not feel comfortable telling his family about our first date, and probably any to follow. Being Jewish, I have always understood the concept of “marrying in,” though my own hyper-groovy parents would be overjoyed with an interracial, interfaith, same-sex story line inside our already why-be-normal family. I admired, rather than begrudged, his forthrightness. And naturally, it only made me want him more.

Our feelings grew fast and feral, and before I knew it, we found ourselves living in a strange, futureless world for two years, on and off. My heart throbbed harder for him each day,
yet the circumstances remained exactly the same: John was forbidden from dating a non-Greek, and was petrified to tell his family the truth.

It was 2006, and
Us Weekly
was keeping me busy and paying me well, so I alternated the drama of celebrity gossip with the drama of my own bottomless love. When I wasn’t working, all I wanted to do was bask in Greek culture: the music, the customs, and, surprisingly, the food. My family adored John and continued to hope that he and I could overcome “the Jesus thing.” Every few weeks, he’d bring them pastries from Astoria, the Greek neighborhood in Queens. He’d present honey-drenched treats like kataifi (a Shredded Wheat look-alike that tastes like baklava), galaktoboureko (a sweet, custardy cake), and loukoumades (round fried balls covered in cinnamon and powdered sugar), and we’d all have a great time getting silly and sticky. They asked John to teach them their Greek names and became avid fans of George Stephanopoulos.

As a couple, John and I would sometimes sit at cafés in Astoria, even though I sensed his anxiety about running into a family member there. It wasn’t like anyone could spot us with our heads buried in crazy-caffeinated frappes and flaky, fried spanakopita. Learning about Indian food with Gary was a good time, but nothing compared to exploring Greek cuisine with John, who would put his fork to my lips, as I practically purred. We’d wrestle for the last lamb chop or bite of halloumi cheese. I eventually put a stop to anything involving tzatziki, because it resulted in the world’s worst garlic breath, which was the only thing on earth that could keep me from kissing him. I didn’t know much about food, but these simple Mediterranean ingredients—olive oil, lemon, and oregano—were the flavors of some of the best nights of my life.

But I was almost thirty, and the issue of my non-Greekness was escalating every day. Approaching our two-year anniversary, with all our breakups and makeups, I found a Greek therapist, Dr. Pappa, who understood our situation, and we both began to see her separately. She told me that John truly loved me and was “working extremely hard” to find the strength to confront his family about us, but still had a
very
long way to go. “It could take months; it could take years,” she said bluntly, but kindly. This ripped my heart out.
Years?
I became terribly frustrated, and my family, who began to grasp that we were truly at a stalemate, started to intervene. So, too, did my colleagues at the magazine. Our Shakespearian tragedy wasn’t endearing to anyone anymore, least of all me. I loved John like no other, but the ride was making me sick and I wanted off.

In a span of seventy-two hours, I collected as much strength as I could, resigned from my job at
Us Weekly
, sold all my material possessions on Craigslist, walked into John’s office, and begged him never to contact me again. He pleaded for more time, but this patient had lost her patience. I kissed my forever-supportive family good-bye, did “the trick,” and flew across the country to California to quit John. Through work, I had come to know Los Angeles quite well and knew it was the only city that could energize me almost as much as New York. I wasn’t moving there for good, but I didn’t buy a return ticket either. I convinced an equally down-in-the-dumps Shelley to move there, too, with the caveat that we couldn’t live together … I needed my space.

My spirit was broken, but it was hard to stay sullen in sunny California. I accepted a job as a dating blogger for
Glamour
magazine because it seemed like a good gig, and knowing me, there would be plenty of fodder (even though I hadn’t looked
at another man since my fateful dentist appointment two years ago). Sight unseen and off the Web, I rented the first furnished apartment that seemed like my style, a bungalow at the foot of Runyon Canyon. It came with a porch, a hammock, and a banged-up convertible. The landlord said the neighbors were “a bunch of hilarious gay guys,” which sounded really good to me. On move-in day, she was showing me the kitchen already filled with exotic spices and grains when I interrupted by asking, “Great, but where are your take-out menus?”