Apron Anxiety

by Alyssa Shelasky

  “You were wrong,” I say to Chef, late night on the couch, smitten with Jennifer after our heart-to-heart and dragon-breathing popcorn kernels. “She’s not like me at all. She’s on another stratosphere of awesome.”

  Now, every time I take my monthly New York trips, I make sure to attend one of Jennifer’s famous dinner parties. Her style is so casual, yet so chic, that I watch her every move and then duck into the bathroom to frantically jot down notes. She invites fifteen to twenty people to her place—a mix of mercurial artists, reclusive writers, sexy stylists, and random wanderers—like it’s absolutely nothing. She hits the Union Square farmers’ market in Manhattan a few hours before dinnertime, conceptualizing understated meals like leg of lamb and London broil.

  Over a hunk of Gouda cheese and Turkish pistachios, Jennifer welcomes everyone to her home, with her sharp black eyeliner and razor-straight bangs. While bringing together friends of friends and making sure everyone’s glass is refilled with some enchanted cocktail of elderflower or açai, she asks everyone to be seated, spooning out meals of magenta carrots and midnight blue asparagus, and proteins swimming in secretly exquisite sauces. Without a flicker of fuss, we all feast on amazing food and unforgettable conversation until suddenly I’m sucking down stewed peaches and getting seduced. And so I invite myself over as often as she’ll allow.

  When the winter of 2010 hits, major blizzard alerts shut down everything in town. Chef closes his restaurants for almost a week. For the first time since we moved in together, already a year and a half ago, we are lovebirds around the clock, wearing matching sweat suits and taking turns making meals. As the snow hits hard, Allison, Laura, Kathe, and their husbands pop upstairs with their kids, whom I nibble on like they’re my own nieces and nephews. Chef is astonished by how tight I’ve become with our neighbors while he’s been off in the weeds. Unlike anyone who’s visited from New York and even our families, the C Streeters are the only ones who, day after day, truly see how hard our situation is. And they’re rooting for us.

  The Boys from the restaurant spend several snowy afternoons at our place, too. Being overworked, undersexed, and thoroughly exhausted New York transplants, they’re ecstatic over the free days off, and all they want is hard-core chill-out time. They’re always serving, but never served, and I’m thrilled to provide them with food, drink, and the foreign concept of not lifting a finger. But this is not as selfless as it sounds. I am well aware that the Boys are apprehensive about me. In the last year, they have seen Chef’s bloodshot eyes, heard our fights, and watched me storm into the restaurant with venom. Though they would never say it, I have no doubt in my mind that the Boys think I’m a bitch, if not a total horror. This blizzard gives me an opportunity to reframe myself.

  Between their monstrous appetites and culinary school degrees, my cooking is really put to the test. Before the latest storm lowers, with the streets being cleared just enough to drive, I sail into Whole Foods, where the checkout line has a two-hour wait. Without my usual scribbled grocery lists, I buy whatever looks nice and fresh. The concept of snow days brings me right back to Longmeadow, and I dream about soups my mom would make us, and the salads she’d serve with them, and I hunt and gather for those flavor memories.

  Shopping from the gut makes me feel womanly. I also have a craving for the shepherd’s pie we’d have as kids on cold, snowy days, and I collect what I think the recipe might call for. Then I zigzag around the fruits and vegetables, adding bushels of mandarin oranges, purple cauliflower, and Jerusalem artichokes to my cart, all the produce I know are in season because the New York Times told me so. I get packets of hot cocoa—high-quality Ghirardelli, this time—and can’t help but laugh. In my puffy ski jacket and pom-pom hat, whizzing through the market, I am truly a home cook.

  Back on C Street, where the Boys are boozing and the snow descends, I loosen my shoulders, take a shot of their whisky, and cook up every no-fuss wintry crowd-pleaser I’m capable of: meat lasagna, chicken drumsticks, cauliflower cheese soup, warm rosemary walnut bread, and the memorable shepherd’s pie. Every now and then, I catch Chef watching me from a distance, as I measure flour, add salt to the soup, or taste a sauce. He mouths, “I love you,” and then says to the Boys, “She’s turned into an amazing cook, no?” I blush and check the oven. And then he teases, “But she still holds a spoon like a convict!”

  The Boys genuinely appreciate the hard work, inhaling everything I serve them, offering constructive criticism only when I ask. They suggest that my lasagna could use more tomato sauce because the meat will always suck it up; the drumsticks were delicious but needed just a dash of salt and pepper; the shepherd’s pie would have been perfect had I doubled the creamed corn; and the beef stew is solid, but could have been better had I used homemade stock instead of the bouillon cubes. Out of the oven come oatmeal cookies, chocolate cakes, and even some humbling half-burned brownies. We’re all well fed and in blissful hibernation. Chef is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.

  As soon as spring comes, Chef and I take a break from our respective culinary duties and go on our now annual vacation to Greece. I’m nothing short of flabbergasted that he’s making the time to get away, and even more taken aback when he vows to leave his BlackBerry in the glove compartment of the blue truck. We’ve been together almost two years, and because of my new basil-leafed lease on life, we are feeling like the stable, sexy couple we were the last time we landed in this village. It took about six months and sixty recipes, but I’m back to being me.

  On our first night of vacation, overlooking the Acropolis, Chef asks me to marry him. He gives me the most magical ruby ring, and I say yes immediately, not because I have complete faith that we can endure the ups and downs of real life, but because I know how deeply I love him. The ring is unbelievably stunning; I’ve never had a piece of jewelry that speaks to my heart so. Because I’ve been engaged before, and Chef’s plate is already full, we agree to keep any festivities casual and low-key, and loosely discuss having a tiny, intimate ceremony sometime within the year. I’d be most content eloping—as would my parents, who think weddings are a ridiculous waste of money and far too conventional for our DNA. (The one time I tried on a bridal gown, back in the Gary days, my rebel mom showed up to the all-white boutique eating a family-size bag of fluorescent orange Cheetos, a food I’d never seen her eat before in my life, and didn’t even know was in her vocabulary. The salesgirl made her stand in a corner while my sister and I cracked up in our corsets.) But the Greeks on Chef’s side would never accept my city hall fantasy, and we say we’ll deal with logistics later. Then we get some souvlaki and sit in the center of town.

  The nature of this trip is completely different, not because we’re newly engaged, but because we can experience the heavenly life of cooking together in Europe. This is the ultimate engagement present. While Chef grills octopus, sausages, goat, and whatever else the big, sweaty village butcher proudly hands off to him, I am the devoted sous-chef, sipping ouzo, pocketing techniques, and organizing our prep table. Together, we putter around the kitchen every morning and night, leaving only for a few hours by the sea and a couple trips to olive oileries and honey beekeepers. On a couple mornings before he wakes, I fail at a few lemon loaves and pound cakes, but that’s likely because the ingredient labels are in Greek, and I’m probably using cups of baking soda instead of sugar. Those get tossed, but nothing can keep me from trying again.

  Every day at the beach, while devouring Giulia Melucci’s I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti and Gael Greene’s Insatiable, I gather more recipes and inspiration. I feverishly wolf down my food memoirs and more, as if authors like Ruth Reichl were Ralph Waldo Emerson. Over a lunch of grilled octopus and Greek salad at Samos Beach, where paradise herself would be jealous, I finally come up with the name for my blog that describes my own messy journey into the kitchen: “Apron Anxiety: My burning desire to cook, without burning down the house.” Chef screams, “Yes, Lys, that’s it!” We toast our Mythos beers, link our sandy toes, and
I kiss my ruby ring.

  One day, the forecast says it’s going to rain all day and night. I’m happy to hear this because I’ve been wanting to slow-cook my first tomato sauce, the old-school way. The recipe comes from Giulia Melucci. It calls for a couple of eggplants, which we don’t have at home, so I take the truck and drive down the long, narrow, cliff-top road while Chef is still asleep. As soon as I pull out of the driveway, I turn on Bob Marley, the best, and the only CD we haven’t scratched up yet in Greece. After getting a little lost, I find my way to our favorite market, a few towns away. I am wearing a weird outfit, pajama pants and a vintage lace top, and taking nonstop pictures of the excursion on my camera phone. I don’t blend in, and I don’t care.

  Back at the villa, Chef has taken position on the couch with some late-morning coffee and apricot jam on toast. The wraparound windows are open, and with the dark skies and pitter-patter of the rain, it’s a gloriously lazy day. I tell him to stay there all day, and he says, “Perfect.” In the kitchen, I stir with patience, tasting frequently, slow dancing with seasoning, flattering myself over the developing flavors. I glance at Chef every so often watching the BBC or reading his book about saving the whales; his body is quiet, his limbs are long. He calls “Lyssssie” for me to come cuddle, but I just can’t leave the kitchen yet. This level of relaxation, which most couples experience on weekends or days off, is nearly nonexistent for us. Moments like this, with my sweet boy eating olives, catching up on current affairs, and singing my name from his well-slept, sun-kissed frame, seem to come once in a lifetime.

  By the time the crescent moon and shooting stars surface, we sit on the porch in our slippers and sweatpants, ready to inhale what will be my first great meal. We lick our plates to the sound of raindrops, hummingbirds, and “Redemption Song.” We name the dish Rainy Day Rigatoni.

  The Perfect Shepherd’s Pie

  SERVES 12 (FOR MOST PEOPLE, BUT ONLY 6 FOR THE BOYS)

  Kates, one of my best friends from Longmeadow, comes from a huge, amazing Irish family. I adore them all, but especially her handsome, gentle-hearted dad, a world-renowned doctor. How I love to tell him my crazy stories and make him laugh. In the dead of the winter, I called Kates in Boston for a good shepherd’s pie recipe, assuming she’d have one. She conferenced in her fabulous mom, who sure has the gift of the gab, and we figured out a very basic recipe that turned out to be absolutely delicious. And yes, I know, this isn’t really how the Irish do it, but it’s all good.

  1 bag Idaho or Russet potatoes, peeled Salt and pepper

  1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

  1 medium onion, chopped

  2 pounds ground lamb (or a mixture with another ground meat)

  ½ cup whole milk

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

  Two 16-ounce cans creamed corn

  Pinch of paprika

  Boil the potatoes in a large pot with salted water until they are tender, about 12 minutes.

  While the potatoes are boiling, heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the oil to the hot pan, then add the onion and sauté until translucent, about 10 minutes. Season the meat, then add it to the pan. Work a large spoon through the meat as it cooks, so it crumbles. Cook for 3 to 4 minutes, or until brown.

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Drain the potatoes and transfer to a large bowl. Combine the milk and butter in a small bowl and set aside. Mash the potatoes to your desired consistency. Stir the milk mixture into the potatoes.

  Fill a 9 × 12-inch deep casserole dish with all of the meat mixture, using a slotted spoon to drain and discard the fat. Layer with the creamed corn. Then spoon the potatoes over the dish and sprinkle with the paprika. Bake for 30 minutes and then broil for 5 minutes to brown the top.

  Serve hot.

  Neiman Marcus Chocolate Chip Cookies

  MAKES 12 TO 15 LARGE COOKIES

  For anyone looking for recognition, validation, honor, and valor, bake these cookies and call me later. They are perfect for sisters, boyfriends, neighbors, and naughty nights alone. Make them grand and generous, and if you’re baking for a party, be sure to prepare more than one batch. These bad boys fly. This is the original recipe for the famous Neiman Marcus Chocolate Chip Cookie.

  8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the cookie sheets

  1 cup packed light brown sugar

  3 tablespoons granulated sugar

  1 large egg

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1¾ cups all-purpose flour

  1½ teaspoons instant espresso powder, slightly crushed

  8 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  Preheat the oven to 375°F. Grease two cookie sheets with butter and set aside.

  In a large mixing bowl (or in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment), cream the butter with the light brown and granulated sugars until fluffy. Beat in the egg and vanilla.

  In a medium mixing bowl, combine the baking soda, baking powder, salt, flour, and espresso powder. Beat the flour mixture into the butter mixture. Stir in the chocolate chips.

  Drop the dough by large spoonfuls onto the cookie sheets. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, or 10 to 12 minutes for a crispier cookie.

  Eat one cookie while still hot. Then let the others cool before serving.

  7.

  Unsavory

  Apparently I am not the only one who ever wondered if lemon chiffon was a dessert or a porn star, because people are reading my blog. In fact, so many people are reading it that I’ve been asked to do a food demo at a popular event space in D.C., on a big stage, in front of a hundred people for a springtime soiree. Human beings are paying real money to see me make food. It’s almost implausible.

  The event organizers and I agree on a simple, straightforward cheesecake, so I choose the recipe I grew up with, Lynn Papale’s Cheesecake, which I ate every day my freshman year of high school. I ask my mother to fax the recipe to me, to her elation, but I also implore the family not to come to Washington for the demo because it’s too much pressure, and I’d actually rather pretend it’s just not happening.

  I’m on the side of incapacitated for several reasons, not the least of which is that I just learned what a springform pan is, and worse, I am petrified of public speaking. It’s a horrible hang-up that I have. My voice quivers, my hands shake, and I seem to forget to breathe. Leading up to the big night, I’m so nervous about baking and talking (at the same time!) in front of all those people that I can barely sleep, and I’m tempted to call the whole thing off. But I have to do it. I wanted a voice in this city, and here’s my chance … poured swiftly into a graham-cracker crust.

  Hours before the event, I am in the green room, pacing. I’m pretty sure Chef won’t make it, so I’ve ask my new friend Bella, another New Yorker who moved to D.C. for her fiancé’s career, to come along for moral support. Bella is the only friend date in two years that stuck (my sister set us up), and between her and C Street, I finally feel like I’m surrounded by strong, funny, and wise women—the fuel to my fire for as long as I can remember.

  The staff gives me a five-minute warning, and I beg Bella to come onstage with me. She’s says I’m talking like a lunatic and tries to psych me up. I thank her for being my stand-in fiancé, and reluctantly head backstage. As the hostess of the evening introduces me to the crowd, “One of our favorite food bloggers, who’s not afraid to take chances and make mistakes …,” I pat down my Anthropologie apron, gather some semblance of cool, and walk toward the mock kitchen in the center of the stage. I look at the crowd, confrontationally, filled with kitchen-phobes and camera crews. There’s the celebrated food writer, Carol Blymire, waving at me! And then I see Chef. He’s in the front row with a handheld video camera. I can’t believe he came.

  “I’m Alyssa, and I’m going to try not to pass out or poison you,” I begin.

&nbs
p; Like a real train wreck, I stumble through the crust preparation, spilling the walnuts on the floor because my hands are shaking so wickedly. Then I add one stick of butter to the graham-cracker crumbs, instead of half a stick. The recipe is right in front of me, but I keep flubbing the measurements, awkwardly laughing at myself. “I guess if I were some domestic goddess, I’d have nothing to write about, right?”

  My demo is definitely comical. Chef is beaming.

  “Next you add, like, a shitload of cream cheese,” I say crassly, because my vision is actually now blurry from my nerves and I can’t make out the proper quantity (it’s two pounds).

  Miraculously I get the mixer working, add the rest of the ingredients, and stick the clumsy cheesecake into a fake oven. I end the presentation by saying, “Don’t worry, the cheesecake you’re getting was made by real bakers, not me.” And then I remember that I wasn’t supposed to tell them that.

  Following the demo, the floor is opened for questions about cooking and blogging. I offer a lot of nonsensical advice, defer to Chef for the hard-core foodie questions (“Do you guys all know my sexy and famous chef-fiancé over there?” I say, realizing a second too late how tacky it sounds), and thank the crowd for making me feel so welcomed. Everyone cheers loudly at the end and reflexively, my body curtsies. I guess my flawed presentation was kind of the point. At least no one asked for their money back.

  As I soak it all in and pack up my things, Bella tells me it was a big hit. I think she’s exaggerating, but I thank her for being by my side and give her cheesecake to bring home to her man. Chef covers me in hugs and kisses, asks for my autograph, and mentions taking me out to dinner to celebrate the big debut. It’s 10:00 p.m. and I haven’t eaten anything substantial all day; I’m overjoyed by the idea. It makes me think of when my parents would take me to Friendly’s Ice Cream after violin recitals and school plays as a child.