A Homemade Life

by Molly Wizenberg

  You can imagine, then, the depth of my displeasure when Brandon suggested, one day not long after we started dating, that we make a salad of shredded red cabbage. I gasped.

  “But with lemon juice and garlic and grated Parmesan? It’s so good!” he chirped.

  Apparently, it was a formula he came up with in college. He liked to approach the dining hall, he says, as though it were a grocery store of sorts, taking a little something here and another something there and assembling them into a meal. Such was the case with the cabbage salad. His dining hall had a salad bar stocked with particularly pert shredded cabbage, and one day he served himself a big heap. Then he reached above the sneeze guard to a basket of decorative fruits and pulled down a lemon. He used a dinner knife to saw it in half, and then he squeezed it over the cabbage. He added a drizzle of olive oil, decent shakes of salt and pepper, and, from the pizza station, a spoonful of shredded Parmesan. The resulting concoction, a sort of Italian-style slaw, became his dining hall routine. And it’s been a recurring element in his repertoire ever since.

  Needless to say, this was a problem, especially on top of his dissing of Springsteen. It was rough going for a while.

  Then he told me the story about Clarence Clemons, the saxophonist for Springsteen’s E Street Band. Once, when Brandon was sixteen and on a trip to Boca Raton to visit his grandparents, he went to a blues show and wound up chatting with the band. They mentioned that they’d left their saxophonist back in New York and asked him, just like that, if he might want to play with them the following night, when they would be the opening act for Clarence Clemons, who was touring solo at that point. Brandon said yes, and so it was that he came to open for the esteemed Mr. Clemons.

  This might, I told myself, be the closest I ever get to Bruce Springsteen. I had to give Brandon and, by extension, his cabbage salad, another chance. He was worth it. Anyway, there’s only so long you can stand between a man and his eating habits—and, incidentally, his ugly striped shirt with the stretched-out collar. And his old green sweater with the holes in it. And just so you know, you also cannot make a man notice when the bathtub needs to be scrubbed, or when his side of the bed has started to look like a small graveyard for books and dirty socks. For his part, Brandon would like to add that you cannot, after a certain hour, stand between a Molly and her bed. You also cannot beat her at cards without her getting grumpy, and you cannot convince her to go out for drinks after dinner, because she prefers to have them before. We teach each other all kinds of things.

  Anyway, one day at the farmers’ market, when I saw a basket of red cabbages, I bought one. It was an especially petite, midwinter specimen, and with the help of our sharpest knife, Brandon quickly reduced it to a pile of purply ribbons. Then he poured equal parts olive oil and lemon juice into an old jam jar, along with a dose of fiery garlic for good measure. He tossed the whole mess together with a palmful of grated Parmesan and a few turns of the pepper grinder, and we sat down to the simplest of winter dinners: a loaf of crusty bread, a plate of cheeses, and red cabbage salad.

  I was amply prepared to despise it. For the sake of saving face, I almost wish I could tell you that I did. But I didn’t despise it at all. In fact, I ate a second helping. The cabbage was surprisingly sweet and crisp, as it is at the peak of its season, each shred plump and dense. Flecked with shards of Parmesan and black pepper, bright with lemon and garlic, it made a lip-smacking salad, one worthy of being eaten by the scoopful.

  Sometimes, when we’re sparring for the last shred in the serving bowl, I don’t even care about Springsteen. And that, you know, is saying a lot.

  RED CABBAGE SALAD WITH LEMON AND BLACK PEPPER

  cabbage is at its sweetest during the colder months of the year, making this pretty salad a good one for winter. Be sure to choose heads of cabbage that feel firm and heavy, with smooth, tight leaves. Remember, too, that small heads often taste sweeter and milder than their larger siblings, so for this salad, they’re your best bet.

  You will probably have a bit of dressing left over, but it’s easy to dispose of. For a quick lunch, I like to use it to dress a can of drained, rinsed chickpeas, which I then top with some shredded Parmigiano-Reggiano.

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

  ¼ teaspoon pressed garlic

  1/8 teaspoon salt

  1½ pounds red cabbage

  ¼ cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

  Freshly ground black pepper

  First, make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and salt. Set aside while you prepare the cabbage.

  Pull away any bruised leaves from the outside of the cabbage, and trim its root end to remove any dirt. Cut the cabbage into quarters. Working with one quarter at a time and using a large, sharp knife (my mother, who also loves this salad, swears by a serrated bread knife), slice the cabbage as thinly as you possibly can, as though for coleslaw. Slicing it very thinly is crucial; if you slice it too coarsely, it won’t absorb the dressing as well. Ideally, no sliver should be thicker than ¼ inch. Discard the white cores.

  In a large serving bowl, toss the cabbage with a large spoonful or two of the dressing. Add the Parmigiano-Reggiano and toss to distribute evenly. Taste, and add dressing as needed. Season generously with pepper, and serve.

  Yield: 4 servings, as a first course or side dish

  BONUS POINTS

  Experimentation is not my strong suit. This means, on the one hand, that I’m every D.A.R.E. parent’s dream child. I have only been drunk once, and it was at a dinner party with my mother, which hardly counts, and though I did try smoking pot one time, it was from a cheerful yellow and white pipe named Colonel Mustard, which definitely doesn’t count. But when it comes to the kitchen, my difficulty with experimentation tends to get me into trouble. It means that I am, in most cases, not so daring.

  In my defense, I come by it naturally. Like my mother before me, I’m a baker by nature: precise, obedient, and fiercely devoted to my digital scale. My mother taught me early on that a recipe should always be followed strictly the first time through, with no tweaking or second guessing. You give it an honest try, see how it goes, and then you can tinker to your heart’s content. If, of course, you’re into that. I’ve been known to throw an extra handful of chocolate chips into my banana bread, but in general, I find a deep, abiding satisfaction in following instructions.

  This concept is a source of perpetual amusement for Brandon, who might have never, had I not come along, carried out a recipe as written. While I hunch over a cookbook, hanging on every word, he’s at the stove with his fingers in the pot. If I’m reaching for a calculator, he’s sniffing the spice jars. I can make a proper soufflé, but he can turn tamarind, roasted garlic, and Parmesan cheese into a sauce that’ll make you shed a tear. If I get a gold star for reading comprehension, he gets detention, and then a MacArthur “Genius” Grant.

  It’s okay, I guess. We’re a perfect pair and opposites attract and so on and so forth. But deep down, no one likes a teacher’s pet, including the pet herself. And slavishly following instructions is only sexy if you’re cooking in your underwear.

  So I’ve been working on it. I’ve been working on experimentation. I see it as an investment not only in our relationship but also in my cooking skills. It hasn’t always been easy, but I’m getting there.

  One day early on, I called Brandon in New York to report that I’d tried a new cookie recipe, and that I’d tweaked it on the very first go.

  “Really?” he asked incredulously. “What did you do?”

  “Well, the recipe called for 2 cups of rolled oats, but I used 1½ cups rolled oats and ½ cup quick-cook!” I announced triumphantly. “And—get this—I used dark brown sugar instead of light brown.”

  He still chuckles about that.

  But it wasn’t long before I gave the genius a reason to be jealous. I made a soup flavored with vanilla bean. It doesn’t sound that daring to me now,
which I will take as a sign of my progress, but back then, it was big. Especially because I was sick at the time with mononucleosis that he gave me, I should note, after he got it from his friend Gratia, whose flute he’d been playing (isn’t that slang for something?), who got it from her German boyfriend Winfried. It was a special international strain, extra nasty, so I get bonus points.

  It was November of the first year we were dating, and I was in the mood for soup. That I was in the mood for anything is pretty impressive, I think, since I was so sick and exhausted that, most days, I came home from work, sat on the couch, and cried. I contemplated walking down the street to a café for some lentil soup or split pea, but there was a butternut squash on the counter, and squash soup sounded good. My mother has long made a wonderful version with apples and onions and curry, and just thinking about it made me feel better. So I shuffled into the kitchen and took stock of the pantry, where I found that I had only pears, not apples, and that my curry supply seemed to have been depleted on Brandon’s last visit.

  Then I remembered a soup I’d eaten in a restaurant a few weeks earlier, before all the night sweats and crying on the couch. It was a butternut soup with pear and vanilla bean, pale gold and frothy with cream. It was utterly galvanizing. I could do it. Yes I could.

  So, using my mother’s recipe as a guide, I got to work. I substituted pears for the apples, skipped the curry, and instead, I slit open a vanilla bean. Then I put it into a pot with some half-and-half, warmed it on the stove, and let it steep until it smelled like an old-fashioned candy store. When I stirred it all together, the soup and the steeped half-and-half, a ghost of steam rose from the pan, lifting with it the loveliest scent. It was earthy but delicate, sweet but savory, astoundingly appealing. I felt as though I’d just discovered a new constellation, or a sack of gold coins in my bedroom closet. It was momentous.

  I’m not sure what I did next, but I’m pretty sure I went back to the couch with a mug and spoon and sat there for a long time. I may have also fallen asleep. But then I called Brandon to gloat.

  “Hot damn,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the soup or the cook, but I took it as a solid endorsement.

  BUTTERNUT SOUP WITH PEAR, CIDER, AND VANILLA BEAN

  shortly after I first made this soup, Brandon called to report that he’d gone to the Union Square Greenmarket, and that he’d bought fifteen pounds of squash, which he was now in the process of lugging back to his apartment, 109 blocks north.

  “Will fifteen pounds be enough,” he asked, panting, “for that butternut soup with vanilla bean?” I howled. As it turns out, there is something to be said for paying attention to ingredient lists and recipe instructions. Victory is mine.

  If you don’t like the idea of seeing vanilla seeds in your soup, feel free to strain the infused half-and-half through a fine sieve or cheesecloth before adding it to the soup. Also, keep in mind that this soup is even better on the second or third day.

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  One 2 pound butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes (about 4 generous cups)

  2 firm-ripe pears, peeled, cored, and cut into 1-inch cubes (about 2 cups)

  1 medium yellow onion, peeled and coarsely chopped

  1 cup apple cider or unfiltered apple juice

  4 cups vegetable or chicken broth

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup half-and-half or cream

  1 vanilla bean

  Finely chopped fresh chives, for garnish

  Heat the oil in a Dutch oven or small stockpot over medium-low heat. Add the squash, pears, and onion and stir to coat with oil. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onion is soft and transparent and the pears are starting to fall apart.

  Add the cider and bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the broth, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer the mixture, partially covered, for about 30 minutes, until the squash is tender.

  Using a blender or food processor and working in small batches—don’t fill your blender jar more than one-third full; hot liquids expand—purée until very smooth. Return the soup to the stockpot and add the salt. Continue to cook, uncovered, over medium-low heat, until the soup has reduced to about one-half to one-third of its original volume. Stir occasionally. The final consistency is up to you; when it reaches a thickness that seems right—not too thin, not too thick—it’s ready.

  While the soup is reducing, put the half-and-half in a small saucepan. Using a sharp knife, split the vanilla bean in half from tip to tip. Using the back of your knife, scrape the tiny black seeds out of the pod. Scoop the seeds and the pod into the saucepan with the half-and-half, and warm it over low heat, swirling occasionally, until it steams. Do not allow it to boil. Pull it from the heat, remove and discard the pod, and whisk to break up any clumps of seeds. Set aside.

  When the soup has reduced to your desired thickness, stir in the infused half-and-half. Taste, and adjust the seasoning as necessary.

  Serve, garnished with a sprinkling of fresh chives.

  Yield: 4 to 5 servings

  HERBIVORES ONLY

  I guess it’s a product of our time, or a generational thing. Or maybe it’s just a matter of pheromones. Whatever the reason, I keep falling in love with vegetarians. Lucas was one, and a vegan, even. He had the bumper stickers to show for it. We used to share pints of soy ice cream on his corduroy couch, and for his birthday I baked him an entirely dairy-and egg-free chocolate cake. And before he came along, I had a wicked crush on a vegetarian rock star, which isn’t quite love, but it still counts. And once, in college, I asked out an outspoken vegetarian in one of my classes. He was very handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and wavy auburn hair. I told him about a bar I knew and asked if he wanted to have a beer. He was too busy, he replied, but could I remind him in a couple of weeks? Remind him. Can you imagine? I really needed a beer after that, and a lobotomy. So that counts, too.

  I spent nine years in the vegetarian camp, from age sixteen to shortly before my twenty-fifth birthday, so I guess I’m predisposed. I have dated a couple of meat-and-potatoes types, just to see what it was like, but fate has it that my love is meant for herbivores only. One could argue that my sample size is too small for statistical significance, but now that I’ve met Brandon, I don’t intend to make it any bigger. It’s significant enough for me. In the nearly three decades since his birth, Brandon has not once eaten meat, but his palate has ventured further than that of many omnivores, mine included. If push came to shove, I’d take Brandon over a plate of sausage any day, and I love sausage more than almost anything.

  Maybe it’s a result of my own years as a vegetarian, but when we eat together, I don’t feel as though anything is missing. We eat a lot of eggs, and interesting cheeses, and those tiny French lentils, the green ones that are good with vinaigrette. I do occasionally wish there were another meat-eater around when I make a roasted chicken, but it’s a relatively minor problem, as these things go.

  Plus, Brandon once showed up at my door with a quarter pound of a very rare type of cured pork, and nothing makes a girl feel googly-eyed like getting pork from a vegetarian. Especially if he’s just visiting, only for ten days, so the gesture is especially poignant. And even more if, over the span of those ten days, he makes her a batch of pita, a vat of hot sauce, ten canelés, two lunches of Thai green papaya salad, rocky road candy with homemade marshmallows, a quart of milk chocolate ice cream with cocoa nibs, cilantro chutney, sticky tamarind sauce, and the finest chana masala ever to flirt with her lips. There’s no reason to ever look elsewhere. Or to leave the house again, except for groceries. It would be a shame to squander precious time on things like seeing friends, eating in restaurants, and fresh air. Brandon is all a person ever needs. That, and his chana masala.

  Brandon is certainly not the first person to make chana masala, and he doesn’t have any particular pedigree, ethnic or otherwise, to lend him an air of authority in Indian cookery. But he does hav
e a very precise palate, and that carries him a long way. I may be the more orderly of our couple, but next to his palate, mine is a proverbial bull in a china shop, rubbing clumsily against a rabble of spices. I chew and swallow, but he concentrates, teasing apart layers of flavor. He claims it has to do with his training in music: that learning to listen closely for notes, to parse a piece of music, gave him a fine-tuned ear that, apparently, had a trickle-down effect on his tongue. I don’t know. I just know that when he starts surveying the spice rack, I set the table, sit down, and watch.

  What happens is a kind of dance, I guess you could say. He hops around, cabinet to stove to cutting board to cabinet, tasting and tweaking and tasting again. It’s all very cute, as long as you don’t interfere. In the case of the chana masala, the dance begins with a pot of onions, cooked until they teeter on the edge of burnt. I’ve heard that my father’s mother, when describing how to make one of her recipes, would always start by saying, “First, you brown an onion,” and if that’s true, she and Brandon would have been fast friends. After the onion comes a small but spirited parade of spices, a tin of tomatoes, and some cilantro, cayenne, and chickpeas. Then things simmer for a little while, during which time you can safely enter the kitchen to do some dishes or kiss the cook, which will cause him to wrinkle his brow and mumble about cumin. It’s a show worth paying admission for.