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?”
For the first few weeks in the bungalow, I’d take a half hour to write my Glamour entry in the morning, scrambling for compelling stories that I was willing to share about my newly single life. The problem was that my editors and readers wanted to see me single and mingling, but really, I was in no place for miniskirts and martinis. So usually I’d just inflate something true but totally insignificant, hit SEND, and be done.
I’d spend the rest of my day hiking, riding bikes, reading by the beach, and seeing movies, sometimes with Shelley, but usually by myself. I got a cherry blossom tattoo on my ankle just to see what it would feel like. And then I got a lotus on the back of my neck. There was no TV in the bungalow, so I was completely out of touch with pop culture, a cleanse of its own. This would have been a nice time to take up cooking, especially with all the raw beans and funky rice I had inherited in the pantry, but I was just as happy snacking on fruit, nuts, and chocolate all day, or take-out from any of the boho-Californian joints on Sunset Boulevard.
With trail mix in one hand and a California Chardonnay in the other, I’d sit quietly in the dark, spying on the neighbors sitting on the shared lawn. They were usually hand-rolling cigarettes and getting their cocktail on. They looked like young, adorable party animals, and they never stopped. Of course, I didn’t mind. I’d hear them cracking up (or were they cracked-out?) all night long. When I caught a very famous, “straight” actor stumbling down the driveway at six o’clock in the morning, I felt a flick of a switch. Enough with the heartbreak. It was time to have fun.
In half a second, the “nabes” took me in and became my wild, West Coast ride. Not only were they ridiculously spirited, but they were also quirky and nonjudgmental, and they brought out an uninhibited side of me that had been dormant since my childhood in Longmeadow. They were also raging cokeheads. That didn’t bother me—I did plenty of partying in New York, but it was usually encased in work, and since I was always scared about appearing strung-out to my family, nothing got too excessive. But in L.A., no one was watching. I made my own rules and did whatever the hell I wanted.
While Shelley was finding her place with the beautiful and successful showbiz types, I was transfixed by my new, screwed-up friends, and my nights with them were becoming a bit corrupt. They were delighted to bring me (and party supplies) everywhere they went—to outrageous parties in the Hollywood Hills, unbelievable barbecues in Malibu, and underground art shows in Venice Beach. They were wickedly funny, highly promiscuous, and totally reckless. They didn’t wear seat belts, they never needed sleep, and best of all, they didn’t let me so much as mumble John’s name.
One night, we w
ent to a party at a rock star’s glass mansion in the hills. I ended up so messed up from mojitos and more that I did a strip show on the deck while the nabes cheered me on. We found a disposable razor in the pool-house bathroom and I had one of the Guns N’ Roses guys shave my entire body. We called it performance art. It was exhilarating to be so out of control. Fuck John. Fuck the dating blog. Fuck it all. When the hot tub found me, things got even crazier with an infamous drummer I had grown up listening to. Later on he told me he had a wife. And that she wanted to join us next.
The nabes and I did the same thing the next night, at a different mansion, with a different crowd, breaking different rules, with a different drink and different drug. And then we did it again. And again.
I easily could have found my happy place in the risky world of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, especially on this other coast, where nobody knew what I was up to. All that raw inhibition felt way too natural for me. Becoming an artsy, tortured fuckup was so incredibly tempting, and the road was right there for me to take. But I didn’t. After eight months in Los Angeles, I broke my lease and moved back to New York. The nabes had too many demons and were rubbing off on me in addictive and destructive ways.
Shelley and I would stay best friends, but her life in Los Angeles was too Hollywood for me to handle, especially when it wasn’t part of my job anymore.
My dating blog for Glamour received substantial traffic, but also armies of haters because of its feather-light content and general lack of substance or self-analysis (I never took it seriously and it showed). Suddenly, I was petrified that I’d made a mockery of my professional self and had ruined my writing career for good.
And John? After almost a year away, I still thought of him every day. His incandescent eyes and boyish humor, and how deliriously good it felt to be near him no matter how grim the circumstances were. I made peace with the cruel fact that I’d never be quite the same again, that losing John broke me in a way that couldn’t really be rebuilt. But I came to think of heartbreak as an impetus to becoming a wiser woman, sister, friend, and writer, and, in a way, I felt chosen to have had such a healthy dose of it. Strong women don’t just happen.
If nothing else, my sad ending with John got me to L.A., which might have been a bit too sublime, but it did my soul some good. As I flew up, up, and away, back to New York, I knew I was moving somewhere in the right direction.
Sarabeth’s Velvety Cream of Tomato Soup
SERVES 8
When I waitressed at Sarabeth’s, I would watch in amazement as people bowed down to their bowls of creamy tomato soup. All these years later, whenever I mention that I once worked there, what’s the first thing I hear? Oh man, that soup … Well, I finally tracked down the original recipe, posted online by Sarabeth herself, after thirty years of secrecy, and this is it, exactly. The soup tastes just as I remember. Which triggers another fond memory: the adorable actor-slash-waiter who would feed it to me after we closed up shop.
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small Vidalia onion, chopped
2 medium shallots, chopped
4 scallions, green parts only, thinly sliced
3 garlic cloves, minced
Two 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes in puree
4 cups whole milk
4 cups heavy cream
⅓ cup all-purpose flour, sifted
⅓ cup dill fronds, torn into tiny sprigs
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 cup grated white cheddar cheese, for serving
Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a skillet over medium-low heat. Add the onion, shallots, scallions, and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened and translucent, about 4 minutes. Transfer the mixture to the top of a double boiler over boiling water. If you don’t have a double boiler, fill a large saucepan with water and bring to a boil. Set a large heatproof bowl to fit tightly on top of the pan and transfer the mixture to the bowl.
Using a wooden spoon, further crush the tomatoes into small pieces. Add the crushed tomatoes and puree, milk, and cream to the vegetable mixture and bring to a simmer, stirring often.
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, melt the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter over low heat. Gradually whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking almost constantly, to make a roux, for about 3 minutes. Be careful not to brown it. Whisk about 1½ cups of the hot tomato mixture into the roux, then pour the roux mixture into the top of the double boiler and stir until blended.
Reduce the heat to low and simmer for about 35 minutes to allow the flavors to blend and thicken the soup. Turn off the heat and then add the dill, salt, and pepper.
Serve hot, topping each serving with about 2 tablespoons of grated cheese.
The soup can be prepared up to 2 days ahead, cooled completely, covered, and refrigerated. It should last for 4 to 5 days. The soup will thicken when chilled; when reheating, thin the heated soup with milk to the desired thickness. Do not freeze the soup.
Reality Bites Banana Bread
MAKES 1 LOAF
My twenties were crazy and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Through it all—college, the celebrity scene, my split with John, and an escape across the country—I would always beg my mother to make me this banana bread. Before my parents moved to New York, my mom once bought a ticket for it on the bus, along with a larger food shipment. I’m extremely fortunate to have a family I can count on for anything, and that devotion is exactly what I taste when I dig into this.
2 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus additional for greasing the pan
½ cup sugar
1 cup (2 medium or 3 small) mashed ripe bananas
3 tablespoons sour cream or low-fat yogurt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup chopped walnuts
1 to 1½ cups semisweet chocolate chips (depending on your sweet tooth)
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a medium mixing bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.
In a large mixing bowl (or in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment), cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the bananas, sour cream, and vanilla. Mix well.
Blend the flour mixture into the banana mixture and stir in the walnuts and chocolate chips.
Pour the batter into a greased 9 × 5-inch baking pan and bake for approximately 45 minutes, or until the top is firm and golden brown and a toothpick or knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
Cool completely in the baking dish or on a rack before slicing and serving. Wrap the leftovers tightly in foil and store at room temperature, and the banana bread should last a good week. It freezes beautifully too.
3.
Oui, Chef
I am standing near City Hall, heading toward my home across the Brooklyn Bridge, and there’s a gray-haired millionaire wearing an Hermès tie, dancing to the tunes of a homeless man on the trombone. New York, it’s good to be back.
Over the past year, I left the West Coast, disassociated myself from the Glamour dating blog, turned thirty, and after six intense interviews, got a full-time job that I’m really proud of. I’m a staff writer at People magazine, with a good salary, a private office, and interesting assignments involving film, music, television, health, human interest, and a lot more than celebrity news. My editors all know that I accepted the job under the condition that I won’t have to go clubbing, stalking, or slithering into places where I don’t belong, and that I’m a reformed party girl with an early bedtime.
Living in California completely reset my body. It took the mani-pedi, buy-the-shoes, blow-the-doorman right out of me. Ultimately, I had to go all the way across the country just to come back down to earth.
When I’m not reporting, I spend a lot of time with my forever sweet
and easy sister, who’s working at Real Simple magazine, just a few floors down from People. Or I’m having long talks over a few drinks with my closest New York girlfriends, Beth and Jill (Shelley, who I talk to ten times a day, and who is gradually mellowing out herself, never came back from L.A.). Beth is from Western Massachusetts like me. She’s strikingly pretty and reminds me, in her unpretentiousness, of the girls from home. (When Jean died, Beth and I had just started working together at a PR firm, and I remember feeling like she was the only person who understood how the tragedy rocked my tiny town.) And then there’s the smokin’ hot Jill, who’s as devoted as she is difficult. She works in fashion and dates only fancy men whom I describe as “camera ready.” She’s the one I count on every time there’s a party or a plus-one; I just love her company.
As always, I’m enjoying a lot of alone time, too—hunkering down at poetry readings, jazz clubs, and other weird and wonderful gatherings, befriending singletons with short bangs and Buddhists with perfect posture, and conversing with total strangers on everything from capitalism to colonics. In this city, you can meet more great people while buying a stick of gum than most do in a lifetime elsewhere. Everyone has a story, mind-bending or blood-racing, on this island of provocateurs. On my favorite nights, I just putter around aimlessly, vacillating between culture and curiosity. There’s nothing I’d rather do than roam the streets without watching the clock.
Not that life has been uneventful.
After L.A., I invested my life savings in an apartment in an almost-happening neighborhood of Brooklyn called Ditmas Park. I lived there for a few months, but when a meth-head mooned me in the building’s elevator, I realized I wasn’t as edgy as I thought. Soon thereafter, I rented the place to two librarian pescatarians on a budget, while I waited for the property to appreciate and the neighborhood to become a little less sketchy and a bit more Starbucks.
Apron Anxiety Page 4