Slim to None (8 page)

"Look, I just need to clear my head. I’ll be back later."

With that I gather my plate and wine glass and begin to bus dishes into the kitchen. I continue this in silence till all the dishes are cleared. I pull out my disposable plastic storage containers and package up the entrée and the salad, throw in a couple of plastic plates and some utensils, then put them in an environmentally-friendly Whole Foods shopping bag. I whistle for Cognac, grab his leash, and we head out the door, leftovers in tow.

Chicken and Crab with Cheese in Phyllo

1/2 lb. grated cheese (equal parts gruyere, mozzarella and fontina)

2-3 boneless chicken breasts, cubed

1/4 lb. lump crabmeat, picked thoroughly to remove extra shells

Stir fry chicken on high in 2 tbl. peanut oil. Drain chicken well. Using liquid from stir frying chicken, mix with 2 chicken bouillon cubes (I prefer Oxo), 3/4 c. water, and 3/4 c. half and half. Bring to boil and thicken slightly.

Blend chicken and crabmeat together.

prepare phyllo

Butter 3 sheets, one on top of the other (keeping the remaining phyllo covered with a damp towel so that it does not dry out), then fold in half.

Place layer of cheese in center of phyllo sheet. Add chicken and crab mixture. Drizzle 1 tbl. chicken broth sauce over it, and fold at 90-degree angles into triangle.

Bake in 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes. Serve with remaining sauce.

Serves 4

Mix Two Parts Despair, One Part Rage, Serve with a Splash of Regret

George is bent over a book, deeply engrossed, when I find him. It appears to be a library book, with the crinkly cellophane cover over the top of the thick tome.

"Anything interesting?" I ask him, disturbing his solitude.

He startles, looks up at me, and claps his hands with glee.

"I haven’t seen you in days!" he says. "My stomach’s been rumbling." He rubs his belly for emphasis. He jiggles his shopping cart out of the way to make room for me on the bench.

I place the bag in front of him and begin to take out the containers, handing him a plate and a napkin and utensils. He tucks a napkin into his shirt, which strikes me as funny, considering his clothes aren’t exactly dry cleaner-fresh to begin with. Although come to think of it his clothes look far cleaner than most homeless guys I see wandering the streets—they’re not exactly soiled. I wonder how he keeps himself so clean without benefit of a washer/dryer.

"Whatcha reading?" I ask him. I know that George has unexpectedly refined taste in literature and I’m often surprised at his book choices. Two weeks ago he was reading
War and Peace
. He holds up the book and I see the title.

"
The Passionate Marriage: Keeping Love and Intimacy Alive in Committed Relationships
," I read aloud. I smack my lips aloud, pondering the title. "Interesting light reading for a Sunday evening. Any reason in particular you chose that?"

"Our therapist assigned it to us," he says as he dips into the dinner.

"Your
therapist
?" I ask, incredulous. "Yours and whose?"

"My wife’s. Has me going to some new guy now. He thinks this book will help."

As I watch George greedily delve into my pastry-crusted supper, I’m taken aback that a man who takes freebie meals off of virtual strangers on the streets of Manhattan actually has a wife and a therapist.

"You see a
therapist
?" I ask. "You’re
married
?"

He nods his head. "Yep. Thirty-five years this year."

"If you’re married, does this mean you have children, too?"

Again he nods. "Four of ’em. Jenna’s married, ’sgot two kids. Tamara’s separated from her husband—we hope they can work things out. Josh is working down on Wall Street, and Tobin just finished up at Harvard Business School."

My eyes are so bug-eyed open I have to squint them back into normal shape. "You have family?
Nearby
?"

"Oh, sure. Everybody’s in the area now that T’s back here working with Morgan Stanley. Sally, my wife, she’s up in Pound Ridge."

"
Pound Ridge? New York?
" I cannot believe this homeless man before me, the man I deliver gourmet leftovers to, hails from one of the most elite communities in the tri-state area. Pound Ridge is practically Martha Stewart territory.

"Yeah, sure, you’ve heard of it?"

"Of course, my husband loves to ride his motorcycles up that way. It’s where we pick apples each fall. It’s so gorgeous up there, especially when the leaves change."

"Indeed." George takes a bite of the chicken and crab and smiles a satisfied smile. "Mind if I ask what restaurant you got this from? Damned good stuff."

I blush. "Chez Abbie," I joke.

"Oh yeah? New place? I haven’t heard anything about it."

Until a few minutes ago that would not have surprised me. But now that I know he hails from the upper crust, all bets are off.

"I made it, George. It’s just a little something I whipped up at home. Wasn’t exactly what my husband wanted tonight, so I figured you might enjoy it instead."

"Abbie, you’ve missed your calling. This is top-notch cuisine."

"It’s nothing, really. But thank you for the compliment."

It’s silent for a few minutes.

"It’s none of my business, but do you mind telling me why you’re here—" I spread my arms out everywhere, "And not there? I mean, Manhattan’s lovely and all, but really. I wouldn’t kick Pound Ridge outta bed for eating crackers."

George laughs, then shakes his head. "It’s complicated."

I look at my watch. "Hey, I’ve got time. All the time in the world, in fact." Tomorrow’s the first day in my new job, and I’m in no rush to get going on that. Plus I’m not too jazzed about returning home to William, what with my starvation-induced spat and all. Maybe I should pull up my own copy of the Sunday Sentinel and sleep here tonight, in fact. Though it might get chilly, even with a blanket of newsprint.

"I had it all," he says, taking a bite of salad then closing his eyes as a sublime look spreads across his face.

"You like the dressing? My own recipe," I tell him.

He nods his head. "It’s got something different in it, can’t quite put my finger on it."

"Orange juice. Tiniest pinch of saffron."

"Clever. Nice touch. That’s what I like about you, Abbie. You march to the beat of your own drummer."

Wonder if William would agree with that. Maybe that’s true, I’m listening to the beat of
my
drummer, not ours. If one can extrapolate from salad dressing to bigger picture situations like career choices and child-spawning options. And dieting.

"We lived the life everyone
aspires
to. The kids, the dogs, the girls had horses. Country club memberships. A household staff. Vacation spot on Mustique."

He has a domestic
staff
? He’s eating my food as if he’s desperate for nourishment. Which would’ve made sense but for this revelation that is spilling out before me.

"Mustique? Where Princess Margaret used to go?"

"Yep," he says between mouthfuls. "Mick Jagger, too."

"Mick? Scrawny in swim trunks?" Inquiring minds want to know.

"Scrawnier still in none."

I burst out laughing. Somehow can’t quite imagine Mick Jagger naked in the surf. Or perhaps I choose not to.

"Sounds like a perfect life. What happened?"

"I don’t know if something went wrong or if I saw the light," he says. "It started with the tennis pro on the island. Javier."

"With your wife?"

He looks at me, surprised. "No, no, no. Not that! Not at all. It was my daughter, Tamara."

"Forgive me for my confusion but how did you go from a tennis pro hooking up with your daughter to living on a park bench?"

He sighs. "It’s hard to say, really. I think it made me take stock."

I offer him my bottle of water I’d tucked into my purse. He takes a swig.

"It made it
all
seem wrong. It no longer made sense. I just realized I’d been working my ass off for what? So that my children could live this indulged life and my wife never bothered to talk to me and I realized one day when I came home from work that the only creature in the house that gave a shit about me was the dog. And then only because it was her dinnertime and she was waiting for me to feed her. So I called everyone together. Handed a file this thick with all the necessary paperwork to Sally—" he holds his hands about six inches apart to demonstrate. "It had information on bank accounts and insurance and accountants and lawyers, the usual stuff. And I said I was taking a hiatus from our lives. I needed to re-think things a bit."

Jesus, what is with this re-thinking stuff? If this is what re-thinking looks like, I’m perfectly happy with my life and in absolutely no mood to re-think a thing.

"So how long have you been here?"

"Oh, two years, give or take."

"Do you mind me asking why you didn’t choose somewhere more user-friendly to be homeless, like, say, Hawaii? I mean Hawaii would be much warmer. And it seems like such a friendly place. New York? Sure, we’re all as nice as can be, but really. Enough is enough. Then again, Paris would be lovely, too. I bet you’d get some wonderful leftovers there. But all the
merde
would be enough to keep me from choosing there."

"Yeah, I though about going someplace warmer. But my wife persuaded me to stick a little closer to home. And don’t go saying I’m like a kid who runs away down the block."

"I wouldn’t dream of it." It’s like he was dipping his toe in the ocean of escape, but not quite ready to swim too far off-shore. "So are you planning on staying here forever?"

"It’s hard to say. Sally’s been forcing me to meet with a shrink uptown. Says she’s gonna leave me if I don’t."

"You show up there with your cart?"

He nods. "Took a while to convince the doorman to let me in. Now he greets me with an open door."

"What’s it going to take for you to go back to your old life? Will you have a job to return to?"

"I’m lucky. I never have to work another day in my life. I made buckets of cash, and invested well. Sally will never have to worry for a day in her life either."

"But don’t you think she’s had to worry a lot—about you?"

He looks at me, almost mystified.

"Huh. She’s got her life. Her friends, the grandkids. She golfs every Thursday and plays Mahjong with the ladies in the neighborhood. She doesn’t need me."

"I don’t know about that. Don’t you think she’d like to share her life with you?"

"You got any dessert?" he interrupts me.

I shake my head no. "Sorry. I’m dieting."

"And
this
is your diet food?"

What is this—a conspiracy? Did Mortie get a hold of him?

"I only had a small portion." Oh, God. Who am I kidding? Small portion my ass. I think the only one getting small portions is my husband—small portions of me, that is.

I look at my watch. "I’d better get going, George. My husband’ll be wondering where I am. Let me know how the book goes."

"Good luck on the diet, Abbie."

"Thanks. I need all the help I can get."

Abbie’s Anal Retentive Salad

I actually love salads, but somehow once I’ve gone to all the trouble to make them, I’ve lost interest in eating them. I’m very exacting in pursuit of the perfect salad, so I can assure you that you’ll love my salad, even if I don’t.

ingredients

Ideally the ingredients used in a fresh salad should be local and in-season. Obviously this is not always possible, so in that case, go for organic high quality produce when possible.

Mixed greens, including arugula, butter lettuce, maybe some baby romaine and other tender baby lettuces

3-4 radishes, finely grated on a culinary microplane

fresh baby carrots, thinly sliced in rounds (I especially love maroon carrots because their gorgeous crimson color offset by the carrot’s orange insides is so beautiful when sliced)

fresh bell peppers, in a medley of colors, depending upon what’s available in-season (I love purple ones in the early summer), diced. Slice three rings (in mix of colors) and set aside for garnish

cucumber

tomatoes—I’m sure you know that summer heirlooms are my preference, however if not available, I’d suggest going for a handful of grape tomatoes

broccoli, in tiny florettes

cauliflower, in tiny florettes

Toss all of the above together, and then add any of the following:

broken bits of crostini, for fabulous taste/texture

smoked chicken (I often throw a couple of chicken breasts into a smoker) and you can find stovetop ones that work wonderfully—for an hour, and then use the chicken for add-ons in salads, or in chicken salad)

caramelized walnuts

marcona almonds

dried sour cherries

dried cranberries

fresh blueberries

crumbled goat cheese

breaded sautéed goat cheese

shaved slices of parmigiano reggiano

dressing

There are many variations you can choose for this, I’ll include options. I’m a guesstimator with amounts, so will give you rough ideas of them.

About 1/2 c. canola oil (can use olive oil)

1/4 c. red wine vinegar (can also use sherry vinegar, raspberry vinegar)

1/2 clove crushed garlic

splash of white wine

1 tsp. Dijon mustard

pinch sugar

1/4 tsp. each of basil, oregano and marjoram

dash each of herb pepper blend and seasoned sea salt from Sunny Caribbee spice company www.sunnycaribbee.com

pinch of salt

two twists of pepper mill

Mix together, shake well.

Now do you see why this is an anal retentive salad?