It takes every bone in my body not to send the pictures to Chef, but considering how off-kilter he’s been today (having droned on and on about the unfairness of life in the five messages he’s left me), I decide against it. Baiting him would be cruel … to both of us.
Before even taking a bite, my family is visibly astounded. They admit they never believed that I could pull off an entire meal, let alone something so elegant. “I hope you eat your words!” I say, smiling. “Literally! Eat!”
This New Year’s Eve dinner turns out to be the most delicious meal I ever made. There are second and third helpings, loud moans, and by the end of the meal, every single plate is licked clean. Our brains are soaked in flavor. My friends are stuffed. My sister can’t stop smiling. The meatballs were scrumptious small wonders and the pasta was earthy and addictive. The only minor disappointment was the fig salad. I should have listened to my gut; figs just aren’t meant to be served midwinter. Seasonal is a real thing. But no one really noticed except me (and probably Benjy).
I sneak away to check my BlackBerry and read everyone’s reply to the food porn I sent earlier. In the course of our hour-long dinner, I see that I have five more missed calls from Chef and a text that says he’s throwing his phone in National Harbor if I don’t pick up again. He knows I’m throwing a big dinner party, but he is upset, which makes me upset. I try with everything I have to push my emotions aside. If I fall apart now, it will steal every inch of integrity I put into this monumental meal. And I’m not going to let that happen.
It’s just before midnight and the fireworks on the Hudson River are starting. My mother and father insist on cleaning up while us “kids” go up to the roof. Drunk and bundled up, overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge, I confess to Beth and Jill that months ago on C Street, I served them banana bread with bugs in it. “You did what?!” cries Jill, a raging germophobe to began with. We are screaming and crying with laughter. My sister is entangled in her new beau, who is hopefully a better kisser than he is a conversationalist. Tommy is taking candid pictures of the bombed Jill and Beth, party-girl poses and pouring champagne into each other’s puckered lips. Benjy is quietly keeping me warm.
We have one minute left to go until 2011. Some of my parents’ neighbors, also taking advantage of the view from the roof, introduce themselves and extend their chilled bottles of French bubbly and opulent trays of berries and bonbons to us. I raise my glass, in my favorite city, with my closest friends and my well-fed family and toast, “To new beginnings!” Wiping away my runaway tears, dismissively blaming the wind, I release all the tension of the day, and maybe even the year. And then, hoping the sweetness will cut the tang, I add a raspberry to the fizz.
Lamb Meatballs Garnished with Pomegranate Seeds and Resolutions
SERVES 12
If becoming an amazing cook was last year’s New Year’s resolution, these meatballs made it all come true. I think it’s safe to say that this is the most delicious dish I’ve ever made. The original recipe was inspired by a home cook who submitted a recipe to Food52.com under the screen name “My Man’s Belly.” I imagined the ruby red speckles of the pomegranate arils and felt an instant connection to the dish. That recipe suggested serving the meatballs on top of orzo, but I served them alongside Nigella’s Fusilli with Toasted Pine Nuts and Feta. You can serve the meatballs freshly made or cooked the day before, but either way, make enough so you have leftovers. I made meatball subs (“grinders” to those of us from Western Massachusetts) for weeks.
For the sauce
4 cups unsweetened pomegranate juice
6 tablespoons packed light brown sugar
3 teaspoons cinnamon
For the meatballs
Olive oil
3 pounds ground lamb
2 medium yellow onions, grated
3 large eggs
1½ cups crushed crackers (I used Carr’s poppy and sesame crackers, but any kind is fine)
6 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 tablespoons fresh rosemary, finely chopped
1½ teaspoons lemon juice, from 1 lemon
1½ teaspoons fennel seed, crushed
1½ teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
Pomegranate arils
Preheat the oven to 450°F.
For the sauce: In a small saucepan, add the pomegranate juice, brown sugar, and cinnamon. Simmer over medium-high heat, reducing the juice to roughly 1 cup. This should take about 20 minutes. When reduced, set the sauce aside.
For the meatballs: Grease the bottom and sides of an 8 × 8-inch baking pan with olive oil and set aside.
Place the ground lamb in a large bowl and add the onion, eggs, crackers, garlic, rosemary, lemon juice, fennel seed, salt, and pepper. Using your hands, mix thoroughly.
Form the meatballs into 1½- to 2-inch balls. Place them in the pan.
Roast the meatballs in the oven for 5 minutes. Remove them and brush on two coats of the pomegranate sauce. Return the meatballs to the oven and roast for an additional 15 minutes, or until they are sizzling and well browned.
Remove the meatballs and let them cool. Before serving, drizzle with the remaining pomegranate sauce and sprinkle with the pomegranate arils.
If making a day in advance, let the meatballs cool completely, then cover and refrigerate. Reheat the meatballs at 350°F and apply the arils as a final touch.
If there are leftovers, the arils can be combined with the meatballs and refrigerated as one dish.
Nigella’s Fusilli with Toasted Pine Nuts and Feta
SERVES 12
I first tried this pasta from Nigella Lawson’s Nigella Kitchen (Hyperion, 2010) for purely superficial reasons. Nigella has great style, and she is my kind of woman, a real vixen. So if she revered an earthy pasta with spinach and pine nuts, then surely I would, too. And I did! But watch out: this is the kind of dish you can really gorge on. Once I saw how roasty and fragrant the pine nuts were toasted, I got into the habit of toasting all my nuts, which, drizzled with a little olive oil and some sea salt, are a delicious, warm snack or party food on its own.
Salt
½ cup pine nuts
4 teaspoons olive oil
2 yellow onions, sliced
2 pounds frozen chopped spinach
4 garlic cloves, finely minced
2 pounds fusilli or penne pasta
16 ounces feta cheese, crumbled
8 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
In a large pot, boil the water for the pasta. Once it comes to a boil, add a fistful of salt to the water.
Toast the pine nuts in a small, dry skillet over medium-low heat for about 5 minutes. Be careful because they will burn easily. Put the toasted nuts in a bowl and set aside to cool.
Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Sauté the onions, letting them soften without taking on any color, about 10 minutes.
Give the bag of spinach a few good whacks to break up the pieces. Add the garlic and spinach to the pan. Keep stirring, breaking up any more large chunks of spinach and allowing it to melt.
Meanwhile, cook the pasta according to the package’s instructions. When finished, reserve a cup of the pasta water before you drain the pasta.
Add the feta, toasted pine nuts, and some of the pasta water to the spinach mixture, allowing the feta to melt a bit. The sauce will be a bit chunky with the feta. Add the pasta and Parmesan to the sauce, and more pasta water if the sauce seems dry, tossing everything well to combine.
Spoon the pasta into bowls and serve with extra Parmesan at the table, if desired.
Luscious Chocolate Clusters
MAKES 24 CLUSTERS
I have never met a cluster that I wasn’t madly, passionately in love with. I’ll eat them for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or dessert. These rich, rocky mounds of chocolate bliss originated with my great-great-aunt Edith Pava, whose son, Thurman Pava, became a chocolatier and founded Rosa’s Fudge in Massachusetts, now sold all ov
er the country!
One 12-ounce bag semisweet chocolate chips
1½ cups raisins
1½ cups walnuts, roughly chopped
Line a cookie sheet with wax paper.
Melt all the chocolate chips in a double boiler. If you don’t have a double boiler, fill a small saucepan with water and bring it to a boil. Reduce it to a simmer and set a heatproof bowl on top of the pot. Proceed with melting the chocolate, stirring frequently, until smooth. Remove from the heat.
While the chocolate is still warm, incorporate the raisins and walnuts.
Take a heaping tablespoon of the chocolate mixture and spoon onto the cookie sheet, leaving 1 inch between the clusters (they’ll spread).
Refrigerate for 1 hour or until set. Gently remove the clusters from the cookie sheet and transfer to a plastic bag or tin. Refrigerate until serving.
Filthy Fizz
SERVES 2
This is such an easy, elegant cocktail, and it seems to have an aphrodisiac effect, too. Prepare your inner siren.
Prosecco, chilled
Campari, room temperature
Raspberries, optional
Fill two champagne flutes halfway with Prosecco. Finish them off with a splash or two of Campari. Float a raspberry in each glass for extra style. Let loose, drink up, and have fun.
12.
Market Fresh
No matter how hard I try, after a few months together, my chemistry with Benjy is just not there. In fact, the decrescendo is happening rapidly. We’re starting to distinctly annoy each other, or so it seems, and I feel it’s time to cut our losses before anyone gets too hurt. So just before Valentine’s Day, I ask Benito Bagel to join me at the dive bar where we had our first date.
I try to make the breakup as quick and painless as possible, telling myself that he’s just as likely to be done with me. But because I’m nervous, and because I truly respect him, I get myself too worked up and my delivery is off.
“I’m thinking this has gone as far as it can go,” I start off, sounding nasty and coldhearted straight out of the gate, instead of tender but direct, which was my intention.
When he looks at me with sheer shock, I dig myself into a deeper hole.
“You know, I’m letting you off the hook. We can just be, like, over.”
He abruptly stands up, looking horrified and extremely offended, raising his right hand like a first grader who needs the bathroom, and says, “I would like to go now, please.” Before I can begin to redeem myself, change lanes, actually behave like a compassionate human being, he leaves me stranded in the corner booth sooner than our Blue Moons can arrive. I end up drinking both beers and never hear from him again.
I suppose I thought we both saw the same subtext of our relationship: it wasn’t true love—or even trudging in that direction—at least not for me, and perhaps naïvely, I assumed not for him. Looking back, I did drag him along while I tried to rebuild, but at the time I thought I was just giving dating another shot. I’ll always be grateful for my sweet stint with Benjy. What I learned from our short time together was how nice it feels to be with someone who is simply kind, honest, and dependable.
On Valentine’s Day, just a week after my ungraceful breakup, I take my first spin class at SoulCycle since leaving New York for Washington over two years ago. I’m so excited at the prospect of putting on my spandex and spin shoes that I’m barely mindful of the potentially gloomy holiday. The 7:30 class that usually has a waiting list is close to empty tonight. It’s just me and a few other upbeat, well-toned singletons that, as unattached New Yorkers, would rather be productive than pathetic. We all share a collective “Never let ‘em see ya sweat” mentality. Well, unless you’re about to burn off eight hundred calories in under an hour.
Our teacher’s name is Rique, and he’s a full-blown sex bomb. In fact, when the lights go down and the music goes up, the first song he plays is “Tonight (I’m Fuckin’ You)” by Enrique Iglesias. And we’re off. The beat is transforming, Rique is turning us all on, and the room is as electric as I had remembered. Even if I’m wearing a sports bra instead of a lace bra, and riding a bike instead of a boyfriend, this intoxicating, unventilated room is the only place I want to be tonight. For forty-five minutes straight, I spin my ass off. I spin like never before. And I spin the last of any feelings I had for Benjy right out of me.
After class, my legs throbbing in the best possible way, I walk a few blocks to Whole Foods in Union Square. At nine o’clock on Valentine’s Day, it’s prime dinner-reservation hour. Dozens of lovestruck couples are strolling by me—girls in flippy blowouts and boys in popped, pin-striped collars. I can’t help but notice all the roses in hands and sparkles on faces. But I am happy for the lovebirds, eating their prix fixe romantic meals wherever Yelp tells them to, and going home to be spanked thanks to Victoria and all her secrets. Good for them.
The only action I’m getting tonight is in the apron. It’s a great night for a test kitchen under the bridge, so I’m steaming mussels for the first time, if all goes well. I don’t even know if I like mussels, to be honest, but everyone keeps saying they’re the perfect home-cooked meal for an easy, intimate dinner (should I ever have another worthy candidate). Benjy introduced me to a few new dishes and cuisines, whether I liked them or not, and I’m trying to keep the food-venturous momentum going. Mussels aren’t exactly alligator schnitzel, of course, but they’re not a move in the wrong direction. Any recipe that includes the term “debearding” seems unusual enough for me.
As I search for my ingredients, I look around the market at all the single shoppers who tonight will be reading recipes instead of Hallmark cards, and reveling under the light of the refrigerator bulb instead of a candelabra. The Goth girl in front of me will be making a tofu pad Thai, it would appear; the divorced dad is planning a filet mignon for one. I feel the struggle in the air, which I appreciate, and as I create all their stories, I wonder if they have figured out mine. (Then again, have I?) I am proud to stand in the organic aisles with the likes of secret mistresses, chronic commitment phobes, sexually deprived, out of luck, independent and codependent dumpers and dumpees. They might not have suitors, but they have spirit.
In the long checkout line, I’m surprised to see a random food writer friend approaching as I stretch my sore limbs. His reviews can be merciless, and depending on the restaurant, he’s either blacklisted or beloved. We became friends several years ago, back in the Us Weekly days, long before Bolognese and bouillabaisse were how anyone paid their rent. I tell him I’m experimenting with mussels. He tells me he and his girlfriend are taking a break. He delicately asks what happened in D.C., explaining that no one really understands the story of our breakup. I tell him it’s not so black and white, but if it’s all off the record, I can try to explain. A minute into my monologue, and six Bridget Joneses before checkout, he interrupts me.
“The problem is, Alyssa,” he says with seriousness, “you never caught on to the secret.”
“What secret?” I ask, terrified, knowing he’s a hawk.
“The secret is that you were the special one.”
Whoa. In all my conversations about Chef with my best friends, family members, and wise editors, I’ve never had a more poignant moment. Hovering over my garlic and parsley, wearing fleece and pom-pom socks, alone on Valentine’s Day, I feel deeply liberated by his words.
There has always been a part of me that’s avoided too much deep self-reflection on the downfall of Chef and me. I can recite all of our fights, all of our issues, and all of the mistakes, from which there would be no return, that he and I both made. But I’ve never been able to identify what was at the core of our ultimate contamination. And here it is, plain and simple: my identity was compromised; the sentiment of being “less than” made me feel ugly and made me act erratically. Yet all along, I was the special one. I see that now; I feel that now. But if only I had known then.
“Lys, there’s one more secret,” he calls as I walk toward the cashier.
“Those aren’t mussels. They’re clams.”
Ah, crap!
By ten o’clock, I am home preparing an impossibly easy, yet very elegant meal (of actual mussels) that takes no more than ten minutes. First I give the little suckers their facials, the “debearding,” then they all go into a bath of butter, wine, and garlic. Presto! Dinner is ready, my favorite playlist is singing softly, and I eat my Valentine’s Day moules quietly and contemplatively. I get into bed and watch a couple of TV shows saved on the DVR. I fall asleep alone, stretched out, well fed, entertained, and enlightened.
AS WINTER turns to spring, I get busier than ever with cooking, baking, entertaining, dining out, and writing about it all. Some foods like speck (a speck of what?) and offal (which I misspelled as awful when transcribing an interview) still throw me off, and I am as awkward with chopsticks as I am with, say, doing the moonwalk. Yet I see myself constantly evolving, almost without trying. I now use words like “anise” to categorize the black licorice flavor I love so much in foods like fennel, drinks like ouzo, and of course, candy like Good & Plenty. “Sassafras” describes soft drinks and sweets that remind me of root beer; I say “custard” instead of “pudding,” “squid” instead of “calamari,” “crème fraîche” instead of “Cool Whip.” Sandwiches are no longer sandwiches but tartines, and such tartines often bestow homemade pickled radishes, plum chutney, and the tolerable cousin to my nemesis, mayonnaise, which I can finally spell and pronounce: “aioli.” I am turned on by turnips, offended by overcooked eggs, and can finally deliver the word “cockles” without cracking up.
Rapacious vernacular aside, there are many acquired tastes that I don’t think I’ll ever actually acquire, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Sardines make me quiver (and not in the good way), and the avant-garde lard trend is a huge gross-out. Any food too spicy, raw, or fleshlike is not going to happen—search me, you won’t find them, no matter what food crime I’m committing. My Jewish-girl aversion to pork, in general, is another massive violation of the gourmet code of behavior. So chances are I’ll never be a gangster eater—no pig butt or fish eyeballs for me, please—but I make no apologies and still consider myself largely culinary-spirited. Like most things in life, it doesn’t have to be so all-or-nothing.
Apron Anxiety Page 19