When in Doubt, Add Butter
Read When in Doubt, Add Butter Online
Authors: Beth Harbison
To Jami Nasi, Melody Winnig, and Jill Jacobs Stilwell, who kept me sane(ish) during the writing of this book in a way bigger than they will ever know. I honestly don’t know how to thank you enough.
Jamie Taylor, what can I even say? And what
could
I say that wouldn’t make you say, “Shut up, Mouthy”? You’re the best!
Finally, Mr. Bigosi … you’re the bomb. Like it or not, I love you. And you don’t know it but you saved me.
Acknowledgments
The past couple of years have brought a lot of good and some not-so-good, but the greatest blessing of all was having the support of my friends no matter what. There were nights when I would write to you guys and send my thoughts out into the darkness hoping you wouldn’t think I was nuts, and, wow, you stepped up so much I am humbled. So, in no particular order, thank you: Annelise Robey, Cinda O’Brien, Jen Enderlin, Al Dobrenchuk, Meg Ruley, Connie Jo Gernhofer, Sara Poska, Carolyn Clemens, John Obrien, Steffi Alexander, Mimi Elias, Shannon Perry, Sean Osborn, Pips Harbison, Chandler Schwede, Stef Moreno, Nicki Singer, Lucinda Denton, Helen Carrese, Annie Sacasa, Martina Chaconas, Russell Nuce, Robyn Dunlap, Maureen Quinn, Kristin Reakoff, Patrice Luneski, Chris McLean, Kate Genovese, Jenna Novotni, Kristin Murphy, Brian Hazel, Mary Kay McComas, Anita Arnold, Basia K. Atkins, Jacquelyn Taylor, Elaine Fox, and Connie Atkins. Wow, that’s a big list. How lucky I am to have such friends and family!
Ideally, life is made of moments, not speculation about the possibilities of the future or memories of a past that can’t be changed. Thank you all for the wonderful moments. I will always be grateful.
Contents
Chapter 1
When I was twelve, a fortune-teller at the Herbert Hoover Junior High School carnival said to me: “Gemma Craig, you listen to me. Do
not
get married. Ever. If you do, you’ll end up cooking for a man who’d rather eat at McDonald’s; doing laundry for a man who sweats like a rabid pig, then criticizes you for not turning his T-shirts right side out; and cleaning the bathroom floor after a man whose aim is so bad, he can’t hit a hole the size of a watermelon—”
This man sounded disgusting.
“—make your own money and be independent. Having kids is fine, but get married and you will be miserable for the rest of your life. I promise you,
the rest of your life
.”
This chilling prediction stayed with me long after I realized that the fortune-teller was, in fact, Mrs. Rooks, the PTA president and neighbor who always gave out full-sized 3 Musketeers bars on Halloween, and that her husband had left her that very morning for a cliché: a young, vapid, blond bombshell. Mrs. Rooks had four kids, and at the time, I thought of her as really old, and I didn’t quite get why she cared so much if she was married anymore or not.
She was thirty-seven.
I was thirty-seven last year.
But for the most part, I have followed that sage wisdom she imparted, whether it came from a place of deep inspiration or, maybe, from a place of bitter day drunkenness. It had an impact on me either way.
Dating was fine. I love men. I love sex. I love having someone to banter with, flirt with, play romantic tag with, and finally yield to. Many, many times I have thought, in the beginning of a relationship, that
maybe
this guy could be different and the relationship might last against the odds my young brain had laid out.
But inevitably things soured for me, usually in the form of boredom, and
always
within two months. Seriously. This was consistent enough for my friends to refer to it as
two months too long.
The good thing about a breakup at two months is that there usually isn’t a lot of acrimony or anguish involved. The bad thing is that it gets tiresome after a while. Honestly, I’m a normal woman, I’d
love
to be in love. I’d love to have a family to take care of and to surround me as I navigate the years.
But once I hit thirty-seven, I had to wonder if that was really in the cards for me.
And if that was the case, I was okay with it because I had a career I loved that allowed me some of the better parts of June Cleaver–dom, along with the ability to hang up the apron at the end of the day and be my own, single self.
I am a private chef.
Being hired to cook for people is really different from standing around a kitchen with friends, drinking wine and making snacks. It’s different from making a whole Thanksgiving dinner for family. It’s vastly different, even, from cooking for strangers at the soup kitchen, where the pride of creating something delicious is just as compelling but somehow … easier. Less judgmental.
Cooking for people in their homes
can
be like cooking for friends, but more often than that, it’s like cooking for the meanest teacher in elementary school: someone you want to shrink away from, hide from. Someone you hope to God won’t call on you or make you speak in front of everyone else. Someone you’re pretty sure will yell and scream at you if you do one little thing wrong.
The many scenarios include—but are not limited to—taking the fall for a failed party (“the food wasn’t good enough”), taking the blame for a neglected hostess (“you shouldn’t speak with the guests even if they talk to you first”), shouldering the blame for the burden of unused ingredients (“I have to do something with the rest of these onions now, thanks a lot”), and other failures of life in general (“my husband doesn’t want to come home on time for dinner, but if you made something he couldn’t resist, then he would!”).
Fortunately, most of the time I’m treated as if I’m invisible. Which is okay with me, except the dodging out of the way of people and not making eye contact can sometimes be challenging.
Still, I prefer that to being faced with accusations.
At first, I didn’t see this coming. I always loved to cook, and got pretty good at it early on—though a few major mishaps come to mind (root beer extract in cupcakes was … a mistake)—but it never occurred to me that I could make a living this way. I guess that seemed too domestic for me at the time.
When I was working in Manhattan right after college, my mother tried to convince me, time and again, to meet a nice man and settle down. She wanted me to open a retirement account, and my legs, and start a future and family.
Not me. After what I’d been through, I think I was seeking some form of anonymity. What I would have said at the time was that I simply wanted to be free to go wherever the wind blew me. Like I was just a whimsical spirit, blowing through life and open to everything.
The problem was, the wind wasn’t a reliable headhunter, so I moved from one go-nowhere job to another, proving my mother’s fears more correct every day. Every time I found a job I liked, something happened to ruin it: like when I temped in the props department for a local morning show in the city, and I mistakenly got a Cat in the Hat costume out for a celebrity guest who was supposed to be Uncle Sam for a special Fourth of July segment, but in my defense, the electricity was out and it was very hard to see in the storeroom. (And who would have thought they’d have a Cat in the Hat costume at all? Seriously, how often could that have come in handy?)
When I hit twenty-six, I started to question if I was being irresponsible and immature by continuing my “free-spirited” ways. To my mother’s delight, I settled into some good corporate jobs with excellent benefits. Three years in the research department at the local CBS affiliate led to two years at the Discovery Channel—and a routine rut that would have bored even the most patient yogi in Tibet.
But as I settled into a routine life and watched the years fly by like the calendar pages in a movie, I started to feel
old.
That was all. Not pious, correct, responsible, or anything else, just
old.
Suddenly I realized that actors and actresses and singers and even pro football players were
younger
than me.
Ten years ago, my life was
I have plenty of time to figure out what I want to do
.
Five years ago, I reached
Hmmmmm.
Two years ago, I found myself teetering on the edge of
Uh-oh,
and looking straight down the barrel of
Oh, shit.
I quit my tedious job, got myself a place that was tiny and modest but it was
my own,
and I followed my passion into a cooking career. I loved it. I
love
it. I’m my own boss, I meet interesting people all the time, I’m never bored, and whatever small part of me has a maternal instinct to take care of people is satisfied by nourishing them.
Then leaving.
Monday nights, I cooked for the Van Houghtens. The pluses included: the location (Chevy Chase), beautiful kitchen (the marble counters, stainless steel
everything,
and one of those fridges that blend into the cabinetry), and the stability of the job. I’d been doing it for a year now. Minuses included Angela’s attitude, and the fact that they had the ugliest pantry you’ve ever seen in your life.
Not cosmetically; it was the stuff inside it. Angela had very specific and spare tastes. Think of the fussiest eater you’ve ever known, and Angela made them look like a glutton. Honestly. There was so much she
couldn’t
—or, more appropriately,
wouldn’t
—eat that it was astonishing that the woman even had functional bones, much less any flesh on them. And really, there was very little of that.
No dairy. In fact, no “moo food” of any sort: no steaks, milk, sour cream, cheese, and check every package of bread for signs of whey, casein, and so forth.
No onions. Not dried, not powdered, not within three feet of anything she eats because “the essence will permeate it” and it will have to be thrown away.
No soy. Including soy lecithin, mono-diglyceride, guar gum, even citric acid.
No nuts. No nut derivatives. Nothing that was processed in a plant anywhere near nuts, even if the plant was in Georgia and Jimmy Carter lived five hundred miles away.
No honey. Nothing even vaguely connected with bees, including certain plants. So, yes, it was easy to avoid honey, less so to avoid anything Angela considered “honey related,” but I did it.
No cinnamon or “warm” spice.
No garlic.
No fun.
Every time I looked at Peter and Stephen, her unfortunate and emaciated husband and son, I just felt an overwhelming urge to make them a pot roast with caramelized onions and a big ol’ coconut cream pie.
“Peter,” Angela would coo, narrowing her eyes and scrunching up her nose at him as he reached for another meager portion of romaine lettuce (beets were too sugary, radishes too “hot on the stomach,” whatever that meant, and onions already established to be out of the question), “do you
really
think you need more?”
It was as if she were talking to her son and not her husband. Yet it didn’t hold any maternal kindness. Just bossiness.
Once in a while he’d say yes, and eat it anyway, but for the most part, he’d set the bowl down with a dull thud and level a burning look at her once she looked back down at the bowl she was slowly working her way through. I like to think that was only when he had a witness—me—and that normally he’d tell her exactly where to stuff it. It’s hard to understand why a smart, hot, successful man would spend his life being whipped by a switch like her.
