Cooking as Fast as I Can

by Cat Cora

  Over the last decade my relationship with Chris had become strained. He had always been the smartest of the three of us. In high school he tested well and had an aptitude for drawing. There was no doubt that he would end up as an architect or something equally brainy and refined. The summer after high school one of his buddies got him a good job driving a truck for Budweiser. Time passed, and he enjoyed the money and freedom, and soon it seemed a little too late to apply for college, and then he met a girl and got married, and he was thrust into adulthood. He saw me parlay my trade skills into a nice career and resented me for it, I think.

  But then Kouzzina opened, and Chris showed up to have a look around. He arrived with his family in tow, his wife, Jennifer Ann, and four kids: Morgan, Lexie, Paxton, and Hallie. He wandered in, inspected the black-and-white pictures of our parents’ wedding that I’d hung in the entryway, took in the open kitchen with its gleaming copper pots, the box-beam ceilings, and wooden floors, the whole big, busy, efficiently run enterprise, and just said, “Wow, Cathy. This is great. I’m really impressed.”

  We were in our mid-forties by then. Whatever rancor had grown up between us had dissipated. His generosity—and the fact that he’d come to the opening to support me—moved me more than I could say.

  nineteen

  When you meet Jennifer, she doesn’t really strike you as stubborn. She’s a laid-back native Californian. No hostile set of the jaw, no laser-eyed stare. She’s got a gift for going with it, hanging out, and being cool. Except when it came to Battle Nanny.

  After I was fully back at work at the end of 2009, I begged her to consider hiring a nanny, but she was having none of it. I knew she was a great mom and was an experienced nanny in her own right, but now we had four kids under the age of six. We could almost have fielded a basketball team.

  “I am a nanny,” she’d say. “Or I was. And wasn’t that the whole point of my staying home? To take care of our kids?”

  “We’re in the weeds!” I’d counter. “You’re doing a great job, of course you are, but you’re only one person. All I’m saying is that you could use a little help. We could use a little help. And I just can’t go out into the world to support us feeling as if I’m leaving you stranded.”

  “As long as I’m organized I’m fine,” she said.

  We had this argument many times. Once, as I recall, she was nursing one baby while changing the diaper of the other.

  “This is going to break us,” I pleaded.

  Finally she gave in and we hired Christiana, a Brazilian woman. To this day I can’t figure out whether hiring a nanny was too little, too late, or whether Jennifer “agreed” but harbored more bitterness than I imagined. I thought hiring help would ease the tensions between us, but the only thing that changed was having an extra pair of arms around the house during daylight hours. No small thing when you have four little boys under the age of six, but still.

  Some people have expressed surprise that the same thing that happens to hetero couples after a new baby enters the picture happens to same-sex couples. One statistic that doesn’t surprise me is that 70 percent of the roughly 50 percent of marriages that end in divorce include those with children under the age of seven. I wish I could report that Jennifer and I were different, that our twenty-first-century, bad-ass approach to conception and childbirth continued on into parenting, but I’m afraid we were no different from everybody else. Jennifer resented me because I got to pack my bag, get on a plane, and go, and I resented her because she got to stay home. She felt stuck and glamorized the fun and freedom of travel, and I felt shackled by the demands of being the breadwinner, forcing myself to smile, nod, and engage with the world when I’d rather be in my sweatpants on the sofa, snuggling up with my babies, reading stories.

  If we could have just switched roles for two weeks, we would have appreciated each other. She would have gotten out into the world, felt the freedom of being able to just walk along and swing her arms, to put on a T-shirt unadorned by spit-up on the shoulder or weird stains. She would have also seen that while I had some time to myself on the plane, and late at night in my hotel, the rest of the time I kept a packed schedule, racing from meeting to show to demo, with as many phone calls as possible jammed in between. Always exhausting and only occasionally enjoyable.

  After Nash finally settled in we never regained the rhythm of our relationship. We were exhausted, hormonal, and stressed. We were grateful and happy we’d fulfilled our dream of creating a beautiful family, but we were both running on fumes.

  I had everything I’d ever dreamed of—an interesting and thriving career in the culinary world, a beautiful wife who was both friend and lover, four healthy children, a house overlooking the ocean in the prettiest city in the nation—and yet I’d never felt so depleted. I beat myself up about it. How could I be so tired when this was surely the happiest time in my life? One night I was in my hotel room, having sought temporary relief in the little bottles found in the minibar, and played a game with myself, trying to think when I’d been this exhausted. I came up blank.

  My mission had been to be the best chef, the best restaurateur, the best Iron Chef, the best boss, the best wife, the best mother, the best Cat—and it was killing me. I’d gotten to the place I found myself because I was convinced I was iron, but clearly I wasn’t.

  I would drink myself into a teary stupor, lie on the bed hugging the pillow as if it were my baby, and cry. At first my milk would leak when I thought about Nash, but then too much time passed when I was unable to feed him and my milk dried up.

  Sometimes, if the minibar wasn’t as well stocked as I needed it to be, I went down to the hotel bar to hang out with the crew, or if I was filming Iron Chef, my sous chefs. One drink became four became five.

  In early 2010 I received a phone call from Father Alex Karloutsos, head of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, asking if I would accept an invitation from the White House. The President and Mrs. Obama were hosting Greek Prime Minister George Papandreou at a Greek Independence Day celebration, and they were hoping I would be available to cook for a party of 350 dignitaries and guests.

  “Of course! Absolutely. Sign me up!” In my memory I was shouting like a demented person. Which I pretty much was by then.

  I was given permission to bring Zoran, now almost seven, as my guest. I also brought two Greek American sous chefs from Kouzzina to help prep. I was delirious with gratitude and honor. I got teary-eyed thinking about my grandpa Pete opening his diner in Greenville all those years ago, choosing to call it The Coney Island because it was the most American name he could come up with. I wish I could reach back in time and tell him the news, that his own granddaughter would one day be cooking for the president.

  I gave up precious sleep to labor over the perfect menu, which would have to be the Menu of my Life.

  Cold Plates

  Salt-Roasted Beet Tartar with Skordalia on Crostini

  Basque-Rubbed Grilled Chicken Thighs in Lettuce “Gyros” with Sumac Onions and Avocado Tzatziki

  Olive Oil Roasted Eggplant with Peppers, Tomatoes, and Capers

  White House Arugula, Pomegranate, and Spicy Cashew Salad with Lemon Vinaigrette

  Greek Salad with Toasted Garlic, Heirloom Tomatoes, and Banyuls Vinaigrette

  Chickpea Fritters with Romesco Sauce and Cornichon

  Oysters on Ice with Cucumber Ginger Mignonette with Lime Dust

  Hot Station

  Toasted Sesame Meatball Skewers (Beef and Pork) with Harissa Yogurt

  Fishermen’s Stew (Scallops, Shrimp, Clams, Mussels, Fish) with Ouzo Butter

  Baby Lamb Chops with Feta Chimichurri Sauce

  Crab Cakes with Roasted Garlic Yogurt with Dill Pollen

  Mini Pastitsio with Béchamel and Roasted Tomatoes

  Crisp Spanakopita “Spring Rolls” in Baked Phyllo, with Herbs, Spinach, and Feta

  Black Truffled Orzo with and Spring Herbs

  Desserts

  Rolled Pistachio Baklava

&nb
sp; Loukoumades with Honey Drizzle

  Kourabiedes Greek Wedding Cookies

  Finikia Honey Glazed Nut Cookies

  Mini Chocolate Pudding Cakes with Chantilly and Fresh Berries

  The morning of the event I met Cristeta Pasia Comerford, the White House executive chef. She had taken over the job after Walter Scheib, my old Iron Chef nemesis, had resigned in 2005. We hit it off immediately. We were both petite women who’d stumbled into first female White House chef and first female Iron Chef respectively. Cristeta also had an Iron Chef battle under her belt. She was paired with Bobby Flay, and they fought Emeril Lagasse and Mario Batali in Battle White House Produce (in which they prevailed, 55–50). She gave me a quick tour of the surprisingly small kitchen she normally worked in, and the bigger navy kitchen where I would be working that day.

  I wanted a peek at the famous organic garden, and as a White House page led us outside I heard one of the guards say into his walkie-talkie, “They’re going into the garden, have your sniper stand down.” Never did I imagine I would have an AK-47 bead on me while I was picking lettuce.

  The meal prep was the usual blur. Even at the White House, plating a lamb chop is plating a lamb chop. Afterward, two Secret Service guys, or whom I presumed to be Secret Service guys, rushed my two chefs, Zoran, and me into a back room. They shut all the doors, glanced out the windows. Suddenly, the president and First Lady were there. Zoran reeled back, wide-eyed. They were so tall and beautiful, the president in his perfect dinner jacket, the First Lady in a gold ball gown that made her look like a goddess. We all shook hands. After thanking me for my service, he opined that the grape leaves were superb. She favored the lamb chops.

  Perhaps my greatest joy that day was the presence of my parents, whom I was permitted to invite to the reception. The night had been a triple treat for them: as Greek Americans, as the parents of the chef, and as true southern yellow-dog Democrats who’d worked to elect the president.

  twenty

  In 2010, a friend of ours in Santa Barbara introduced us to hot yoga. Every class was ninety minutes long, the same twenty-six postures held for ninety seconds each and repeated twice in a controlled climate of 105 degrees and 40 percent humidity meant, I guess, to make you feel as if you’re practicing yoga in India during the monsoon season. Jennifer and I went a few times and it was all right. A little boring for my taste. I felt loose and relaxed after class, if a little stupid from the heat. And this is coming from a girl who survived summers in Mississippi.

  Jennifer began going regularly, three times a week. She urged me to join her for classes, but that style of yoga is all-consuming, and demands a degree of dedication I didn’t possess. I was now traveling close to two hundred eighty days out of the year, had four children under the age of I can’t even remember at this point, and a marriage that needed some TLC. Plus, the pressure to stay in shape and well groomed at all times, in the event a call came from a talk show or I was invited to be a guest judge that would require me to hop on a plane with twenty-four hours’ notice and be presentable in HD. Tony Bourdain can travel the world looking haggard and snaggletoothed, Mario Batali can show up in his scuffed clogs and carrying twenty-five extra pounds, and Gordon Ramsey can look wrinkly and exhausted, but female chefs are held to a higher standard. That standard being a starlet on the red carpet. All of which is to say, I could barely squeeze in my own workouts, which were by necessity short and efficient.

  But Jennifer loved it. She’s always enjoyed yoga, and hot yoga challenged her in a way other classes didn’t. For a month or so things between us improved. Before, she’d been reluctant to leave the boys with our nanny, Christiana. I was relieved that she’d found something that gave her a reason to get out of the house, something out in the world that captured her interest. I bowed down before her fierce and competent mothering, but I believed it would be good for her to find something that was hers and hers alone.

  After a few months, she began going to class five days a week, then seven. Then twice a day. Her teachers cautioned her to take it easy. Three hours a day of yoga in 105-degree heat could be bad for your health. People regularly passed out from heat exhaustion. Jennifer already had so much on her plate. She ran the household, paid the bills for my business, and took care of our four little boys. I worried that it was too much.

  The next time I came home from a business trip, I had no memory of where I’d been—like dinner service and Iron Chef battles, all the events, conferences, seminars, festivals, appearances, consultations, panels, and talks were becoming a blur. I returned to find Jennifer sitting on the floor in shorts and a tank, stretching her legs. My heart gave a good thump just seeing her there, I loved her so. She was talking to her mom on the phone, deep in conversation. I took my suitcase into our bedroom, busied myself unpacking until she was finished with her call. I wanted to be with her, to reestablish our connection right that minute.

  After she hung up I took her in my arms, suggested we get a sitter, go out alone together to do something, anything. “We haven’t been out on a date in months and I’ve missed you.”

  She looked at her watch. “Actually, I wanted to hit that evening class. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Jennifer was drifting away, further each day. One day, she asked if we could talk. Oh, honey, yes. Let’s talk. Let’s get it all out into the open. Anticipating her apology, I was readying my own. I needed to work less, drink less, and be there for her and the boys.

  She said she’d been giving it some thought, and decided she wanted to become a hot yoga instructor. I thought that sounded terrific—until she said it would mean leaving for a nine-week intensive course. Nine weeks away from home?

  We then proceeded to spend many hours and thousands of dollars in the office of the world’s most patient couples’ counselor, hashing out this single issue. I talked until my throat was as raw as my nerves.

  “When the kids are a little bit older you can do this. Just wait a couple years. Hot yoga will still be there!”

  Her response? To go home and shave her head.

  Actually, that’s not quite how it went. I was traveling—again—and she called to tell me that while she understood she was going to be forced to delay her dreams even as I got to live out mine every single day, she wanted to make a change, to do something to feel lighter and freer.

  “Go for it,” I said. At this point, I was well aware I had to pick my battles. If any woman could pull off the bald look, it was Jennifer. She has a beautiful face and head shape, high supermodel cheekbones. She said she wanted to be free from her hair. I said fine, be free.

  Not everyone was so sanguine. A few years earlier I’d hired a manager, William. Right about the time Jennifer shaved her head, O, The Oprah Magazine called and said they wanted to do a Cat Cora and family photo spread. They wanted to send a crew to shoot at the house.

  “How in the hell are we going to do that when Jennifer just shaved her head and she looks like a cancer patient?” William said. “Do you think she’d wear a wig?”

  I laughed until the tears were running down my cheeks. “William, that is a phone call you’re going to make. I am not touching that one. You want to call her and invite her to wear a wig for an Oprah photo shoot, you go right ahead.”

  Indeed we appeared in the pages of the magazine as a family in an article entitled The Family That Eats Together. Jennifer did not wear a wig.

  We limped along for several months, something we could do because when we were at home together there was always someone who needed changing, feeding, rocking, bathing, singing to, playing with. During the few rare moments of inactivity, Jennifer would go to yoga and I would crack open a bottle of wine and get caught up on work. This became our habit. Our connection had withered to the point where the only things we had in common were the kids and the same house key.

  Did I blame myself? Yes indeed. I’d known it would be tough, being responsible for the care of four very active, very little boys day in, day out, but I’d tried to make it up to
her. I’d gotten a gig doing cooking demos aboard a high-end cruise ship that would enable us to travel. In 2007 we’d traveled, as a family, to Egypt, Jordan, and Mumbai. The next year we went to Easter Island. We spent every Halloween at the Disney Resort in Orlando. One thing I was missing, of course, was that Jennifer had to have her own life, had to accomplish something for herself. My bestowing another glorious vacation upon her did nothing to address the issue. She had to find something that was just for her.

  I did everything I could think of to try to hang on to my marriage. Tapped into my spiritual base. Got a lot of therapy, with Jennifer and without. Prayed my head off day and night; tried to be more open, less judgmental. Cried. A lot. Talked to my mom. A lot. Did yoga (not hot yoga). Meditated. Exercised. Drank more wine than I should have.

  My urge to drink every night bothered me a lot. I wasn’t blacking out or getting smashed, but I did seem to require a few glasses of wine or a cocktail or two before dinner, then a glass of wine or two with dinner, every night, or every other night.

  I began attending a twelve-step program not far from my house, a 5:00 p.m. meeting that attracted everyone from polished businessmen and businesswomen in their five-hundred-dollar shoes to homeless folks who hadn’t seen a shower in many days. The diversity appealed to me. We were part of a community, and we were all there to get to a truth of some kind, whether it was to hear a story you could relate to or one that scared you straight. For some people, the coffee and pastries were their only meal of the day.

  I was still drinking while going to meetings. I know this sounds contradictory, but I wasn’t alone. Most of the group was sober, but some were like me, desperate to replace the urge to drink and self-medicate with enlightenment while not ready to commit to the twelve steps. I kept coming back, hoping it would help me slow down, or help me go from three or four glasses of wine to one nice glass with dinner. I hoped it would help me learn how to drink occasionally without having to think about it.