Yesterday I asked it what to do about my bed. I’m on my third air mattress; they keep deflating in the night from some mysterious leaks that develop and I can’t find. And even though they’re cheap, they’re not disposable; I can’t continue to go through them every couple of weeks. So I turned to Gemma and asked her what’s to be done about my bed, and flopped the journal open and let my finger fall.
There is no point in wasting money on the poorest quality of things, you will outspend yourself in the future replacing them, and suffer from their shoddiness in the meantime.
I shit you not.
Of course, she was giving a lesson to her new scullery maid about why it’s important to invest in very good pots and pans and knives, and to keep them impeccably maintained, but the sentiment is no less true. For what I have spent so far on my deflating inflatables, I could have already gotten a cheapish mattress and box spring set. So I bit the bullet and bought a real bed, since I do have to finally admit to myself that I’m not just camping out here temporarily, not here in my house, not here in my life. I’m on my own and wherever I am, I’m going to need a bed. Caroline told me about an online company that has all the top name brands for about 70 percent off, so I ordered a midlevel Serta for what it would have cost me to buy a cheapo no-name in a local store, and it’s being delivered tomorrow. Maybe in a real bed I’ll get restful sleep. I’m a little worried about falling out of it, though.
I’d gotten so used to Grant on my right, and I’m something of a sleep migrator, so as I would wiggle over in my slumber, his warm presence would be my sleep speed bump. He called it encroachment. I told him I just loved him so much I wanted to be close to him. Which was true, but also probably more because I tend to run slightly cold and Grant ran slightly hot, so I was seeking his warmth to borrow. But without him there, I seem to just keep going, and I often wake up in the middle of the night, teetering precariously, one millimeter from dumping myself off the right side. I may need to install a safety rail, or push the bed right up against the wall.
For now, I just have to get through one more night with what is essentially a half-blown-up pool float.
Today Jag and I are having a tutorial on bathrooms, starting with the first-floor bathroom and powder room. It will be a welcome change from being stuck in the freezing basement. We’ve finished the gutting, opened the place up to the stone foundation and the dirt. The stone and masonry work down there is truly beautiful. English and Irish stonemasons hand chiseled the stones to fit flush together with only the barest minimum of mortar. The brickwork, classic Chicago Common Brick with beautiful decorative work at the corners, is in impeccable shape. Jag assessed the space and asked if I might consider leaving it exposed.
“Your space here seems to be dry, you have only the minimum of spall and efflorescence. This stone is a good three feet thick and the brick is four courses; you won’t need insulation for warmth. And the work is so very lovely. We can clean it, remove any loose mortar by hand and tuck-point, wash it with a lime solution, and then do a linseed oil seal on it to keep the dust down and bring out the color in the stone and bricks.” Then he got sheepish; it was the most he had ever said all at once since we began working together. And obviously he was having a vision.
“I like that, go on. What else would you do down here?”
His whole face lit up. “Well, I think this basement could be a space to really honor the more industrial end of the age. I know you are keeping so many of the original details upstairs, so why not strip away the coverings and let the building artistry shine here? Those steel beams are works of art, with those wonderful big square beveled baseplates and huge rivets. You could leave the beams and walls exposed, really give it a cool industrial vibe, but not contemporary industrial, not like a loft with all that horrible painted metal ductwork, but more early nineteen hundreds industrial?” Then he smiles a wicked smile. “You know, like the robber baron who built this mansion didn’t care enough about the help to give them real walls or floors.”
This makes me laugh. “I LOVE it. Jag, you are a genius. It’s practically Steampunk.” I could already see it, and the space began to come to life a little bit in my mind. “We could put the bathroom over here, get a big soaker tub for this nook.” I walked over and pointed out a six-foot-by-four-foot niche, stone foundation to four feet high and brick above, suddenly screaming out for a large deep bathtub with a slate surround, like a grotto pool.
“Exactly! And then the open shower right over here . . .” And we were off. We spent the better part of two hours designing a gorgeous basement bathroom, with a large guest bedroom suite, making the basement a luxurious spa-like getaway as opposed to making your company feel like they are garrisoned. Once we have a chance to flesh out Jag’s ideas, we head upstairs for a coffee break.
“I have to say, Anneke, this project is the most exciting thing I’ve ever been involved with. Thank you for letting me work with you.”
“The pleasure is all mine. You’re definitely bringing much added value. Have you talked to your folks about the school thing yet?”
He shakes his head. “It’s hard, you know? They have given me so much, and they want what’s best for me. They will tell me that all they want is for me to be happy, and deep down they mean that; it isn’t like they would disown me or anything. But I know it will be a huge disappointment. That’s why I’m trying to figure out my visa problem. If I could stay here, finish out this project, get a job in the industry, then I could present the news to them from a place of strength.”
“And your dad, he’s a diplomat, couldn’t he pull some strings for you?”
“He’s a stickler about stuff like that. When we first got a sense of the whole diplomatic corps stuff, he always told us that as far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as diplomatic immunity, and if we ever got into trouble, we would have to deal with the consequences like anyone else. I’d never ask him to help me with something like this. I’m a grown man, I can’t have my daddy bailing me out.”
“I get that. You have to stand on your own, make your own way.”
“Exactly. I just want to introduce them to the life I want in a way that makes them believe that my future is secure. Especially because I’ve fallen so in love with Chicago that I know I want to make it my permanent home, I don’t want to go back to England. And I especially don’t want to go back a failed student with no job, slinking home with my tail between my legs to start all over.”
Every time Jag reminds me that his time here could be limited, my stomach turns over. I just can’t imagine being here without him. In such a short time, he’s become a friend, a good friend even, and a hard worker and inspiring partner. It feels a little like working with Joe in a strange way, even though I’m taking on the teacher role; Jag has the same calming energy, meticulous attention to detail, and easygoing manner. I love working with him, and personal affinity aside, I’m not sure at all what I will do if he does leave. Every sub I’ve called since I left MacMurphy, all the guys who used to show up at the drop of a hat to help me out, they are insanely busy; not one has been able to fit me into his schedule. If Jag leaves, I’m monumentally screwed.
“What’s going on with trying to get the different visa?” He has a friend who encouraged him to apply for a six-month tourist visa to replace the soon-to-be-defunct student visa.
“Waiting to hear back. The primary concern is that they know how long I’ve been here and that I am here on a student visa, and they may question my reasons for staying if I have no work and no school. But maybe it will go through; I should know something soon.”
“Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed! I really don’t want to have to finish this beast without you.”
“Thanks, Anneke, that means the world to me. We’ll just keep hoping. And working. Aren’t we on upstairs bathroom duty today?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll go pick up the tub
from the glazer, and grab the stuff on the list from the Home Depot and be back in about an hour and a half or so.”
We need a break from the cold and filthy downstairs, and frankly, I need access to a better bathroom than the one upstairs. Now that the flooring tile is grouted, we can reinstall the freshly reglazed claw-foot tub and the new toilet, put in the vanity cabinet and sink; by the end of today it should be functioning, and we might even get to the powder room demo if we work clean and fast.
First I have to take Schatzi on her morning walk. I hate the morning walk. At night, dog people respect solitude. The evening walk is about two things: getting your dog tired enough to sleep and hopefully not wake you at some ungodly hour, and getting your dog to poop. It isn’t big socializing time, especially in the cold. But daytime walks? Then everyone in the neighborhood wants to meet and let the dogs cavort and make chitchat. I’m terrible at chitchat. And Schatzi is terrible at cavorting these days. The neighborhood is full of dogs, and it should be a way to meet people and make friends. But so far, no such luck. In the few weeks we’ve been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I’m still grateful she wasn’t a bigger dog.
Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus’s dad, would always lean over and ask, “Do you think they’re planning to invade Poland?” which never failed to make me laugh. And thinking of that makes me sad. I haven’t thought much about what she has gone through, but I realize these past couple of years must have been hard. First she lost her person, and got uprooted out of the only home she had known since she was eight weeks old. Then she came to know Grant, whom she loved, and got comfortable in the condo and that neighborhood, made new friends. And now, with no warning, upended again, in a drafty dusty place, with no Grant and his little nibbles and bits, no Otto, no Lucy, no Klaus.
I realize I know very much how she must be feeling.
I spot Gemma’s journal in the kitchen. Might as well.
“Gemma? What can I do for poor Schatzi to make her a little bit happy?” I reach over, stand the large book on its spine, and let it open. Closing my eyes tightly, I point my index finger, make a couple of dramatic circles over the page, and drop my hand.
I have few skills beyond what I can do in this kitchen, but what I can do in this kitchen can make you happy, can comfort your sorrow.
Apparently Gemma thinks I need to cook for Schatzi. I scan the next paragraph to see whom she is cooking for and what she is making.
Poor Mr. Rabin. The Missus has taken the children to visit their grandparents in Ohio for the week, but work keeps him so busy he cannot join them till the weekend. He is a man who is only fully alive when his beautiful wife and their lively children are near him. The only thing I can do is try to cheer him with his favorite things, nursery food mostly, soft-boiled eggs with buttered toast soldiers and crispy bacon. Sausages baked in sweet beans. Shepherd’s pie. Cookies and cakes. Bread and butter pudding with candied ginger. The food seems to soothe him, and he often takes it in the kitchen with me and the other staff, letting us share a growler of beer or bringing up a bottle of wine from the cellar to pour. His twinkle comes back a bit, admonishing us all to not tell Missus of his adventures belowstairs.
Hmmm. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I really should try to cook something special for her. Maybe that’s why she loved Grant so much. I grab her leash and we do a quick walk around the block. It’s still insanely cold, so she isn’t interested in anything more than a quick pee, a ladylike dump, and a fast return to the house.
I head back to the kitchen to assess the fridge. Gemma mentioned soft-boiled eggs and bacon and buttered toast soldiers. I’ve got some eggs, which I know Schatzi can eat, and there is still a half a packet of bacon. Well, eggs and bacon sound good to me; I only had a bowl of cereal before Jag got here, and I’m a breakfast-all-day kind of girl, and I bet the dog will like it too. I’m almost giddy when I get them out of the fridge. And then I stop. I’ve never made a soft-boiled egg in my life. I’ve eaten a zillion, Grand-mère was good at them, as was Grant. And I do love dunking little strips of buttery toast in the gooey liquid center. But I’ve never even tried to make one. I flip through the journal till I find it.
Soft-Boiled Eggs. Bring a small pot of water to a roiling boil. Drop in three fresh eggs. Cook for precisely three and a half minutes, and remove to a towel, dry the eggs, and place in the egg carrier.
That seems simple enough. Despite not having the egg carrier, I think I can manage it. I put some water on to boil. I put a skillet on high heat. Take six strips of bacon out of the package and lay them in the skillet. The sizzle is intoxicating. Nothing in the world smells as good as bacon; I defy you to disagree. The water comes to a boil in minutes, this BlueStar range can crank up to 24,000 BTUs; it never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can get pasta made here. I drop in the eggs, and turn back to the bacon and flip it over. It is spitting grease all over the stove, and when I turn it my arms get speckled with peppery little stings. I remember that Grant always made it in the oven, but I don’t know how, and Joe always did it on the stovetop. Of course, when Joe did it, it was always a mess; I’d forgotten that part. The bacon is almost done when I remember I was supposed to cook the eggs for three and a half minutes. I have no idea how long they’ve been in there. One minute? Two? I figure two, and check my watch. The acrid smell of burning hits my nose, and I look over to see that my bacon is scorching, and quickly pull the pan off the heat. I drop the now-mahogany brittle slices on the waiting paper towels. Just shy of black. Crap. By the time I turn back to the eggs, my watch says it has been almost two minutes, so I quickly get them out of the water and onto a kitchen towel. I let them sit while I make a couple of slices of toast, butter them, and sit down to open an egg. But there is no gooey runny inside, just a powdery hard-boiled yolk, with a thin film of green around the edge. Figuring Schatzi won’t care, I cut it up, break up a couple of strips of bacon, and dump them in her bowl with a half cup of kibble.
Schatzi wanders over and sniffs at the bowl. She looks up at me quizzically.
“Go on, girl. A special treat.” I pause. “Because I love you.”
The dog turns back to the bowl, and gingerly takes a piece of egg out. Then she makes a happy grunting noise and tucks in, wolfing it down like I didn’t feed her last night. Within minutes, the bowl is empty, licked clean, and Schatzi is grooming herself contentedly.
“You’re welcome.” I reach down and scratch between her silky ears, and she whips her head around and bites my hand, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave marks. Then she heads out of the kitchen.
I fucking hate that dog.
I look back at my own meal of burnt bacon and rubbery eggs and now-cold toast with the butter congealing, and take a breath. Goddammit, I should be able to cook a freaking egg. I dump the mess in the garbage and start over.
I put the water back on to boil and get a couple more eggs out of the fridge, a few more slices of bacon. I put the bacon in the pan over low heat in hopes of having better control. When the water comes to a boil I drop the eg
gs in carefully and set my watch for three and a half minutes. I turn back to the bacon, which is actually cooking well and not making nearly as much of a greasy mess all over. My watch says I have a minute and a half left, so I put a couple more slices of bread in the toaster. The bacon is looking perfect, and I take it out of the pan and put it on the paper towels. My watch beeps and I gently remove the eggs from the water. The toast dings and I grab it and butter it generously.
I sit back down and say a little prayer. And slice the top of the egg off. The white is set, and the yolk is a puddle of liquid gold. I dunk a piece of toast in the egg, and my eyes roll back in my head. So yummy. I pick up a piece of bacon, and it’s just how I like it, fairly crispy with the fat well rendered, but still with a little bit of chew. I wolf it all down; it may be the single most delicious breakfast I’ve ever eaten. And I don’t know why, but I start to laugh. Really laugh. Belly laugh with tears running down my face, in a way I haven’t laughed since I can’t remember when.
I’m just drying off the skillet when the doorbell rings. Since Jag replaced it, it now peals a series of musical pings, very old fashioned, and no longer reminiscent of an air-raid siren. I almost look forward to it.
“Hello there!” I throw open the door expecting Jag with his arms full of materials, and instead am greeted with the only sight that could immediately put a damper on my decent morning.
“Hi, Anneke! I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe we’d have that walk or something before you head to work, if it’s not a terrible time for you. Hello, Schatzi girl! How is my sweet pup?” Emily scoops the dog up in her arms, and begins to waltz her around the porch, laughing and murmuring to her that she is the most beautiful of all the doggies. The dog, who not fifteen minutes ago savaged me for deigning to cook her a custom special breakfast, is now nuzzling this unwelcome stranger, and reaches her head up and licks Emily’s cheeks with the tenderness of any mother cleaning a dirty child. Of course.
Recipe for Disaster Page 15