Watch Whale Wars
Laughing out loud, all I can think about is how damn adorable he can be. The strangeness of the situation is temporarily stunted by my everlasting crush on him, despite all that we’ve been through.
I love it.
Nothing changes.
However …
There is no room for me on that blackboard.
I make myself a cup of tea to calm the nerves that have snuck up on me with that last revelation. Just as I have made my own friends, and pushed ahead on my own path, so has he. But his new life is literally spelled out here. It’s something I wasn’t prepared for, even in rainbow chalk. Enhancing the in-your-face experience, seeing our possessions from C Street inside these new, unfamiliar digs is rattling. Every dresser, bar stool, oil painting, and pillowcase once echoed of such hope. I had shopped and agonized over every little design detail that now girls who dot their “i’s” with hearts get to enjoy. I remind myself, over and over, that it’s just stuff.
The silence of the empty loft intertwined with all these awakenings makes me feel more vulnerable than I ever expected, so I take out my computer and play the National to calm down. I’d happily lose myself in the kitchen if he had anything in his fridge but cider beer (since when does he drink that?). I text Chef that I’m sort of freaking out. He texts back, “Take a bath, Lyssie. Be home soon.”
There are no soaps or suds, so I soak myself in scorching hot and clear bathwater, listening to my music, and reminding myself that I am grounded and poised, that I’m the special one, and that I’ve come too far to fall apart now. When he walks in the door at ten o’clock, exactly when he said he would, I am fresh out of the bath. My hair is wet and brushed and I’m wearing a pair of fuzzy, green sweatpants that we always used to fight for at night.
“You’re here! My love is here! My Lys is here!” he says lifting me up in his arms and spinning me around. He inhales the scent of my just-scrubbed-and-lotioned body, like it’s his secret field of lavender, the way he would every night back when things were nice. He looks handsome as always, my guy. A little rounder in the stomach, a little harder in the eyes, but he’s gorgeous, as he always has been. If only we could freeze-frame this moment! Chef makes sure to tell me that he rented the loft knowing how much I’d love the bathtub. “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Go erase those stupid girls’ names.”
It’s just before midnight, and we are both in need of food.
“How do you have nothing to eat?”
“Because you always took care of that for me.”
“I did?” I know I’m fishing, but it feels so good to hear.
We make our old trip to 7-Eleven, walking just a few blocks away, down the streetlamp-lit Maryland Avenue, holding hands, and I fill him in on the C Street gossip from the day. At the store, I grab a loaf of Wonder Bread, a stick of butter, and some sliced American cheese; he gathers a pint of coffee ice cream and a six-pack of Coke. “Voilà, the celebrity chef and the food writer,” I say, as he kisses my cheek at the checkout counter. He looks so happy. We both do. The Ethiopian cashier says it’s lovely to see us again.
We stay up till four o’clock, lying on the couch, talking, kissing, and watching our favorite TV shows. Just before I allow myself too much happiness, I bring up Boston. A small part of me thinks he might have recalibrated things so that he could, in fact, make the trip with me, but that didn’t happen. Before anything erupts, we wisely switch gears. We watch the first few episodes of the new season of American Idol, rewinding and playing back our favorite high points of the performances. We eat several rounds of grilled-cheese sandwiches, taking turns at the stove. He tells me for the hundredth time that the secret is to cook them longer, but over lower heat. “Oui, Chef,” I say. “But in the future, I prefer to work with Comté more than Kraft Singles, okay?”
Sometime around six o’clock in the morning, I fall asleep on his lap, and when I wake up around noon, we’re both in his bed. His alarm, his phone, and his e-mails are going off, and if he doesn’t get his ass to work for the lunch rush, I know that soon the doorbell will be ringing, too. I remember this. When he gets out of his under-a-minute shower, I blast that song “Jai Ho” from Slumdog Millionaire and make him dance until his towel falls off. We crack up laughing. With all the fighting, I had forgotten about our magnificent morning dance parties. The best memories had dissolved first.
He gets dressed against the clock, forgoing the toothbrush, and admits that he feels bad that he’ll be gone all day. He doesn’t have to explain himself. Not anymore. Before he bolts, he asks if he should make us a dinner reservation at one of D.C.’s new restaurants. I know he means well, and that he’s striving to be on his best behavior, but I also know that in all likelihood, he’ll get too busy to book us a table, or won’t make it out on time. I don’t want to be disappointed, or for him to feel like he’s failed us. That part of our story has played itself out.
“No, sweetie,” I say. “I’ll cook.”
When he leaves for work, I make a pot of coffee and dive right into his cookbooks. I remember touching them for the first time with such trepidation. Now, it’s like seeing old friends. I contemplate knocking his socks off. Maybe I’ll try a whole fish? A French onion soup? Some braised oxtail? My mother’s brisket? And for dessert, all modesty aside, I’m capable of anything! A three-layer fondant cake? Homemade cannolis? As I busily mix and match recipes, I crack the windows for some fresh air. A neighbor next door is practicing the violin and it sounds so pretty. Standing in my bra and underwear, I look outside and to the sky. It’s the end of May and already quite muggy out. It feels like a thunderstorm is buffering in the air. I stretch out on the olive green rug (which once took me six weeks to find) and notice that the loft could use some calla lilies. And then I hear the sudden pitter-patter on the window ledge and realize exactly what I need to make: Rainy Day Rigatoni, from our Greece trip. Bellissimo. I know this recipe by heart, probably because it lives there.
As I prepare to fetch my ingredients, I decide to take the dish a little further, to show some new moves, with a fresh topping of sheepshead ricotta cheese that I’ll mix with olive oil and sprigs of mint. If I make enough, we can first put it on some toasted crostini, drizzled with the superb honey that we smuggled into the United States directly from a “bee lady” in Greece. (The bottle was too sticky to move to New York with me, so Chef has had full custody.) I decide against making my own pasta even though I’m up for the challenge—but why deal with the mess when we have the pasta man at Eastern Market? Tonight is about relaxation. Life, and dinner, must go easy on us.
Chef has a couple Heath Bars on the counter, so for dessert, I devise a plan to make a chocolate Health Bar trifle. It’s a brainless concoction, an act of “baking down,” but so what? Chef has also had custody of our wide, voluptuous, big-boned glass trifle bowl, and I’ve missed her.
The menu is perfect: Rainy Day Rigatoni and the Simple Trifle. We’ll sit crisscrossed on the couch, sharing one big bowl of pasta, then an even bigger bowl of trifle, our feet entangled, our phones off, and enjoy the remaining back-to-back episodes of American Idol. Oh la la.
I take the twenty-minute walk over to Eastern Market through the pretty rows of brownstones and cherry-blossom trees. The rain has pulled back, but it’s dark and moody—the weather of dewy skin and frizzy hair. I am wearing one of Chef’s sweatshirts over my tank top and shorts—the hood smells like French fries, earth, hustle, and him. I pull it to my face and deeply inhale, the way he did with my body straight from the bath last night.
At an old bookstore that I stumble past, I see a framed quote in the window from Wuthering Heights: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” I take a picture to remember the words, but then I erase the image from my phone. It’s been a long, hard, and painful ride in realizing that love is not enough. Why toy with something that makes me believe that maybe it is? Instead, I keep his broken Boston promise in the forefront of my mind. I would Super Glue it there if I co
uld. Because that’s our truth.
But damnit, I can’t help myself. Shuffling my feet through sticks and petals, I’m drifting in and out of conversations with myself that go something like:
“Just stay.”
“Why? To have a few weeks of bliss and then another atrocious breakup?”
“Maybe we’re meant to be.… ”
“You were miserable.”
“But all relationships are hard.”
“It didn’t work before and it won’t work now.”
When I first moved to D.C., Chef sent me to Eastern Market to buy us some chicken breasts, but as soon as I walked into the souklike room, I was so discombobulated by the food selections that I felt weak and faint, walking home defeated and empty-handed, except for a lemonade I bought from some kid’s stand. A sad sight! Almost three years and dozens of trips to the market later, being among the creameries and potato sacks is second nature.
I swiftly purchase my ingredients from the pasta man, the cheesemonger, the butcher, and the Chinese produce lady. I gather little bundles of rosemary, oregano, and thyme. I tell her that I recently read in a book that according to Chinese superstition, cutting your noodles symbolizes cutting your life span. She nods her head and throws in a parsnip. I ask if she happens to have sage, and she throws that in, too. Walking home with my market bag, I stop by a local bakery to buy some brownies for the trifle, and I try to stop talking to myself. Instead, I vow to stay in the moment and enjoy making us dinner. Because there will come a day when he won’t be mine to feed.
After unloading the groceries and prepping the sauce, I go through all the e-mails I’ve ignored over the past two days. (I am in the moment, but the moment is 2011.)
New York magazine has a full-time job opening at Grub Street that they want to discuss. I’m sure they’re only informing me of this as some type of courtesy, knowing how much I love freelancing for them. But there’s no way they’d really consider me. Would they?
A local news channel is looking to interview some food bloggers about the state of the Manhattan restaurant scene. “Stagnant or spectacular? You tell us,” writes the producer.
Liz at People wants to take me to a private Robert Pattinson premiere party: “Let’s dress up and drink champagne, chérie.”
A friend had submitted my name to attend a press trip through the Italian countryside, exploring the wineries and farmlands of Siena, Tuscany. Finally, a confirmation note that I’m officially in!
My sister met a doctor. My mother found A Streetcar Named Desire for a quarter. My father dropped off mail and stuck some banana bread in my freezer.
Alexi is wondering what I’m doing on Monday night.
And the best news of all: Beth is pregnant. They decided to try on New Year’s Eve. “We left your party filled with so much love, that we decided it was time!”
I write to everyone promising to be back in New York soon. Then I book a return ticket for tomorrow.
Turning off my e-mail, I tie on the apron and crank up “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele. It’s my new favorite song and I put it on repeat. Chopping my onions and eggplant, I dice to the beat. En route to the olive oil, I find a rhythm to my step. Tearing off the rosemary and thyme, I’m making up the lyrics and belting out the words. Reaching for the crushed tomatoes, I stick out my ass and swirl my hips. Flipping on the stove top, I shimmy my shoulders and swing my head. I am cooking without a recipe, singing without the words, and dancing badly by myself.
As the sauce simmers, I throw together the trifle, layering the brownies, Cool Whip, crumbled-up Heath Bar, and sliced strawberries. It’s so processed and wrong … yet right! I cover the top with a paper napkin and stick the fat lady in the fridge.
Just like the old days, Chef texts me a “15-minute warning,” though, surprisingly, it’s only 8:00 p.m. But I’m ready when he is. The sauce has been cooking for several hours; the salted water for the rigatoni is boiling. The apartment smells like the best trattoria in Europe. There’s no table to set because that’s never been our style, but I light a few candles and scatter them around all our old stuff, and on our sophisticated centerpiece, otherwise known as a flat-screen television.
All I have to do now is take off my apron, which hasn’t really prevented me from splattering sauce everywhere, including on my earlobes. Sure, it’s a simple pasta, and he’s no longer my fiancé, and by this time tomorrow I’ll be back in New York City, but as I ruffle through what’s left of my clean clothes, I just have to put on the nude minidress.
When a wide-eyed Chef opens the door to his apartment, he doesn’t know what to breathe in first. He excitedly peeks at the sauce, and then under my dress. It never took much to wow him. I tell him to get comfy and prepare Idol as I plate our dinner. First the rigatoni, then the sauce, then the ricotta, and then the mint. The smell! The nostalgia! It’s exactly the effect that food should have. We dim the lights and dig in. We both take seconds and thirds, swallowing huge forkfuls, and wiping each other’s faces.
Then we make tea and turn our attention to the trifle. It’s so naughty and so divine, and of course, we both end up with it smeared all over our faces.
If this night were a snapshot of our real life together, I would never have left the next day. I would have stayed in that sexy loft with my scruffy chef until we were both a hundred years old.
But after a while, you learn that just because you can curl up on a couch, share a bowl of perfection, watch some Ryan Seacrest, and feel nothing but primal love and lust, it doesn’t mean love will endure when real life enters your domain.
You learn that life is bigger than a splendid kitchen, and a claw-foot bathtub, and a concert violinist playing Tchaikovsky next door. Although that is quite wonderful, I have to say.
You learn that happiness is yours to find, whether it’s through a nonwedding on a borrowed rooftop or a sing-along with wackos in Washington Square Park.
And even if you’ll never understand why anyone would want bacon in their ice cream or vinegar on their watermelon, you learn that you can still pull up a chair to the food universe, because there’s really room for everyone. Even if you order gnarly chicken curry at a glittery French café.
You learn that there’s nothing bad about feeling safe and there’s everything good about inner stillness; and above all, just because you’re an extraordinary person who deserves extraordinary love, it can’t come at the expense of everything else that makes you whole.
The next day, Chef’s alarm goes off at the crack of dawn. He is flying somewhere for a TV shoot and the car is picking him up at 5:30. I pretend to be asleep, ignoring him while he rushes to get dressed. We do not need another hard good-bye. He kisses my forehead and whispers, “You don’t have to go back to New York, Lyssie, my love.” I playfully pull the sheets over my head, mumbling that it’s way too early and to leave me alone. Then I cry quietly into the mattress. He knows to exit before we both come undone.
When he’s gone, I fall in and out of sleep for a few more hours. Around eleven o’clock, I get out of bed and start cleaning up a little. I shake the crumbs off my apron, wash our dirty dishes from last night, and pile up the cookbooks. All of these seemingly inconsequential kitchen-related objects have so much meaning. They remind me of where I’ve been and where I’m going.
My culinary journey has, of course, turned into so much more than a love story. But sometimes I wonder if I’m still in the kitchen as a way of keeping my connection to Chef alive. But even if he is at the seed of every dish I’ll ever make, and cooking is my way of feeling close to him without actually being with him, I can live with that. After all, everyone cooks for matters of the heart. We’re all in the kitchen because it fulfills a longing inside, whether it’s for grace, survival, a renewed sense of self, or just the thrill of it all—these are the stories that get us there, keep us there, or sometimes take us away. But without the people who have moved us, pushed us, left us, maybe even hurt us, then really, it’s only food.
I call a
car service to pick me up at noon, and just before it arrives, I take a piece of chalk to the blackboard and make him a new to-do list:
Buy bubble bath
Eat leftovers
Dance daily
Love hard
Lock your front door
The taxi is beeping. My bags are packed. I gaze back at this glorious space with all his chef coats and parking tickets and remains of us. I float to the kitchen, to the wooden spoon I once held like a convict and the cake plate I’d bring to our stoop. And then I grab the brown paper bag with the fresh rosemary, oregano, thyme, and sage, and the hoodie that smells like pommes frites, and I go home to everyone.
Rainy Day Rigatoni
SERVES 6
It drives me crazy when chefs say things during food demos like, “This dish is made with love.” That doesn’t help beginner cooks like me at all, and it just sounds fake. However, this pasta, adapted from Giulia Melucci’s book I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (Grand Central Publishing, 2009), truly is made with love. At least for me. Chef and I both make Rainy Day Rigatoni in our respective homes now, and we always call and text pictures in the process. I hope we can do that forever. On a less melodramatic note, this sauce works well with any pasta and is delicious hot or cold. Even though the ricotta cheese topping isn’t essential to the meal’s success, it’s worth making just to have in the fridge for the next day—or to serve as an appetizer with grilled bread and a drizzle of honey.
Ricotta topping
2 cups sheep’s-milk ricotta
1 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon dried oregano, on the branch if possible
2 to 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Rigatoni
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for finishing
½ medium yellow onion, chopped
Apron Anxiety Page 22