Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

  “Really? I like her. A lot. She’s all about time-saving ideas and easy, healthy, delicious meals.”

  “Didn’t realize you were suddenly on her payroll. My apologies.”

  “No, no, she’s totally cool and so real. She worked hard to get to this position; she wasn’t some starlet who read for a part. She was knee-deep in the food-service industry and fought her way up.”

  “Not impressed.”

  “How about this, then? Did you know she has a pit bull, too?” I quickly revise my I Dig Any Famous Pit Bull Advocate stance, which previously gave passes to Rosie Perez, Vin Diesel, Michael J. Fox, and Jon Stewart, because I simply cannot support Fletch’s interest in Miss Titter McHighbeams. “Anyway, I figured since you’re working hard temping, I’d start helping out with meals.”

  “That’s sweet, Fletch, but I wouldn’t classify what I do as ‘working hard.’ I mean, today I handled a very important project that involved super glue, Magic Markers, and a tube of sparkles.”

  “Did you get high on marker fumes again?”

  I flush with the shame of my secret Sharpie addiction. “A little bit. But my buzz wore off. I can still cook pork chops just fine.”

  “Um, Jen, about the pork chops…they’re nice and all, and of course I like them, but I’m just saying it might be interesting to have something else once in a while. If I eat any more hog I’m going to grow hooves and a curly tail.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer something with a side of nipples then?” I say out of the side of my mouth.

  “What?”

  “I said I also like to save nickels by making all kinds of pasta dishes.”

  “Yes, and each involves tomato sauce, ground beef, and Parmesan. There’s not a whole lot of variety going on here, and we need to expand our repertoire. I like how Rachael takes simple ingredients and quickly cooks a great meal. Today’s program gave me some ideas and I’m going to make dinner tonight. Why don’t you sit down and relax?”

  I grab a glass of wine and plant myself on the couch, idly scanning the channels for something slightly less breast-acular. It feels weird not to be standing around on sore feet in the kitchen right now. Correction, it feels kind of good. Like, kind of really good.

  You know, I always cook and I completely hate it. If Fletch wants to help, I should probably encourage him, not stifle him. Maybe he’ll want to help when we have parties, too? How awesome would it be to have a gathering where I actually get to interact with my guests rather than slave over the stove in a sweltering kitchen?

  Honestly, my life would be a lot easier if I weren’t tied to meal preparation five or six hours each week. That’s, like, 250–300 extra hours a year. Gosh, think of all the things I could accomplish with that kind of time. I could write a screenplay or learn a foreign language. I could take up knitting. I bet by my three hundredth hour with needles and yarn, I’d be churning out kick-ass sweaters. And, really, the mayor of Chicago totally encourages small businesses, so if I knitted cool stuff, maybe the city would give me a loan and I could set up a twee little shop on Damen Avenue with all the other boutiques and sell my rocking knitwear? And I’d have books there so I could read on the job and I’d call my shop Lit One, Purl Two. And I’d develop such a following that all the celebrities would wear my stuff and they’d be on the red carpet telling Joan Rivers, “Of course I’m wearing Jen Lancaster. Because she? Is totally the Cashmere Queen of Chicago.”

  Wait a sec—what on earth is he making that uses oatmeal and sun-dried tomatoes?

  Huh. So that’s what chicken sautéed with bumblebees and paper clips tastes like.

  So far this week we’ve had white chili that I can only describe as “pointy,” a shrimp stir-fry that burned a whole layer of skin off my lips, and broiled oven mitt.4 On the upside, I’m not dieting, but since Fletch has taken over the kitchen I’ve lost five pounds.

  I’m probably going to hold off on the loan application for my knitting store, though.

  I can’t say I’m impressed with Rachael Ray yet. I believe she encourages good men to do bad things with innocent foodstuff. I confirmed this with my female friends. They all hate her, but their husbands adore her. Either it’s her constant Nipplepalooza or she emits some sort of high-pitched sound that only dogs and straight men can sense? What’s worse is every time I hear the opening theme to her show, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my gag reflex triggers a little. As for the whole thirty-minutes aspect of her meals? Yeah, in your dreams, maybe. Fletch’s last thirty minutes spanned almost two hours and dirtied up every pot, pan, and plate in the joint.

  Complicating matters further, my sister-in-law just gave Fletch one of Rachael’s cookbooks.5 Since he swears these recipes are foolproof I decide to give him (and her) another chance.

  And then I see him pull out a Dutch oven and a hunk of…something.

  “Honey, what is that?”

  “Salt pork.”

  I mentally digest this for a moment.6 “I thought they stopped making salt pork once refrigeration was invented.”

  “Nope.” He begins to hum along to White Zombie on his iPod as he chops his vegetables. I also didn’t know we owned a Dutch oven. When did we get that? Is that one of the weird things he put on our Williams-Sonoma wedding registry? I eventually deleted it because it was full of $350 toasters and $250 garbage cans when we were completely broke, but not before people bought a few of our less pricey7 items.

  Then Fletch murmurs something about “succotash” and I predict a gastronomic shipwreck of Titanic proportions.

  Fearing local Native American tribes are going to (a) catch wind of these ingredients, (b) naturally assume such a menu is part of a Thanksgiving celebration, circa 1621, and (c) scalp us when they taste Fletch’s current culinary atrocity, I err on the side of caution and sneak upstairs to call Pizza Hut.

  Fletch is dicing extension cords and cotton balls to add to his vile witches’ brew when the doorbell rings.

  I answer the door with a couple of twenty-dollar bills in my hand, pay the all-too-familiar deliveryman, and set the boxes on our breakfast bar.

  “What are you doing? I’m making dinner right now!” he exclaims.

  “I know you are, sweetie. The pizzas are for just in case.”

  “You’ll toss those pizzas in the trash when you taste this.”

  “Of course I will,” I condescend. “Because Rachael isn’t the devil at all. She’d never sing her siren song every night from five to five thirty p.m., making you crash against the dinner rocks since I wasn’t wise enough to lash you to the mast. Or maybe she’s part of a conspiracy to help devoted husbands starve a couple of pounds off their chunky wives.”

  “Okay, if you don’t love this meal, I promise I will never watch 30 Minute Meals again.”

  “Deal.”

  He opens the lid of the Dutch oven to show me its gelatinous contents.

  “Honey,” I ask, “is our supper supposed to be purple?”

  Rachael Ray?

  So banned in this household.

  The Blue Line train isn’t running this evening because some unfortunate person stepped in front of it. All the folks who normally take it from Lake Street to LaSalle are being shuttled on the number 56 bus.

  After watching three full number 56s pass me at my normal stop, I realize that unless I want to wait an hour, getting home on the bus is not an option. I figure I can take a cab but then remember I gave Fletch my last $10 to get coffee on the way to his meeting, and no money equals no taxi. I call Fletch to pick me up, but he doesn’t answer, so I assume he’s still with clients.

  So what do I do when I find myself downtown with no money?

  I walk.

  Twenty blocks.

  Uphill.

  In the rain.

  With a broken umbrella.

  In a pair of heeled sandals that are crippling when strolling a mere five paces to the copier.

  All the way home.

  When I finally get to my front door, I find Fletch s
prawled out on the couch, unaware of the blinking message light, enraptured by Rachael Ray.

  I don’t know if the person who stepped in front of the train committed suicide.

  But I guarantee you someone’s going to die.

  It’s been a few months since Fletch went cold turkey on Rachael Ray. I’m finally at the point where I can hear him open the drawer where the pans are kept without my wanting to hide under the bed while dialing 911.

  I’ve just finished reading two hours of Internet conspiracy theories on whether Professor Snape truly turns evil in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince—neatly proving that given an extra three hundred hours per year, I would not use them wisely—when I hear excessive banging coming from the kitchen.

  No.

  It can’t be. With much trepidation, I tiptoe down the stairs and look over the half-wall railing.

  I see pans.

  I see pots.

  I see trouble.

  Slowly, I inquire, “Whatcha doing?”

  Fletch grins. “I’m making meat loaf!”

  “But on the grill, right?”8 A long pause ensues. “Fletch?” Another pause while Fletch busies himself opening multiple shrink-wrapped packages of raw meat. “Fletcher! We had a deal! After the last fiasco, you promised the fire department you’d never cook indoors again.”

  Sheepishly he admits, “The recipe was rated highly on FoodNetwork.com for being both delicious and easy.”

  “Food Network? You mean home of Rachael Ray? Have you been watching her again? If you recall, you lost your viewing privileges after I was forced to consume Lucky Charms for seven consecutive dinners because you followed her weekly meal plan.”

  “This isn’t her recipe.”

  I begin to wonder if I don’t owe Rachael and her bodacious tatas an apology. The last few things he cooked/ruined weren’t her recipes, either. As an American male, Fletch is generally opposed to reading directions, so maybe his culinary abortions have just been user error? Then it dawns on me there’s a lot of meat on the counter and I begin to add package weights in my head.

  “Fletch, do you realize you have nine pounds of meat here?”

  “That’s what it calls for.”

  “And that doesn’t seem excessive?”

  “Nope.” He drinks a Coke and bobs his head in time to some awful Ministry song.

  I read the grocery store receipt. “Forty-five dollars’ worth of meat? And that sounds normal to you? For one dinner?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let me see this.” I grab his recipe card. “‘Will make three five-pound loaves.’ Sweetie, we’re never going to eat fifteen pounds of meat loaf.”

  “Hmm, I guess that is a lot. Maybe I’ll just make a third of the recipe.”

  “Ya think?” I grab a seat because if there’s going to be carnage—and there will be—I may as well have a good view. I watch as he begins to work a heaping mound of ground turkey, beef, and Italian sausage. “Whoa, you’re getting it all over the counter! It’s slopping out the sides! Why don’t you use a bigger bowl?”

  “This is the biggest one we have.”

  “Good thing you’re not making three loaves. You’d have had to mix it in the bathtub.” I feel my lips begin to pucker in distaste as he tosses in a bunch of nontraditional meat loaf components. “What are the Doritos for?”

  “It’s one of the ingredients.”

  “And the uncooked bacon? And mustard seed? And molasses? And the bottle of old Rasputin beer, which, if I recall, made you throw up?”

  “All part of the Loaf, baby.”

  “I accidentally broke a juice glass earlier. Want me to go through the garbage and find some shards for you?”

  “Respect the Loaf.”

  “Stop calling it that—you’re making it sound all porno. Anyway, does it concern you that you have a counter full of raw meat and not one of the furry little carnivores who live here has even come near it?”

  “Your taste buds will thank me.”

  “You are adorably delusional.” I pat him on the cheek. He slaps a gigantic wad o’ meat9 into the roasting pan and glances at the recipe.

  “Huh. It says here to shape this into a tube so it cooks consistently. I never knew that. That’s probably why the ‘meat gator’10 I tried to make didn’t turn out.”

  “And you wonder why your presence in my kitchen causes me to want prescription drugs?”

  “Pfft. I’d stake my reputation on tonight’s meat loaf.”

  I grab my keys off the counter. “Yes, well, best of luck with that.”

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Where?”

  “To the grocery store.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I don’t have enough money for pizza and nothing scares me more than the thought of running out of Lucky Charms.”

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: do you like me? circle y or n

  Settle an argument here—

  Yesterday at my temp job I met a woman from one of the company’s satellite offices because I’m going to assist her with a part-time project. I noticed she was wearing the exact same piece of jewelry as me.

  Upon seeing her wrist, I may or may not have exclaimed, “Hey! We can be bracelet buddies!”

  Fletch says no one over the age of eight would say something like this. (Like, ever.) However, I disagree. Who’s right?

  (And do you think this woman is going to start speaking really slowly to me?)

  * * *

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: lilly pulitzer saves the day

  Hey, girls,

  I can’t decide if I’m xenophobic and jerky or just superobservant and careful.

  Observe:

  A couple of Middle Eastern gentlemen got on the bus today about halfway between my office and my house. Normally I try to stay in my own little world on public transportation because eye contact only encourages the crazies. However, since they were standing right at eye level, I couldn’t help but notice them wearing big elaborate backpacks, army-surplus-type clothing, and both messing around with what looked like cell phones in their pockets. They appeared nervous and were holding one-day CTA passes.

  Deciding they seemed hinky, I gave them both a big smile to gauge their reactions. Normally I’d expect grins in return, especially since I was wearing the world’s cutest pink-and-green-checked wrap skirt. (You can’t not smile when you see someone in a skirt like that, especially since it’s actually reversible and there’s a darling green floral print on the other side that flaps open and you can see it when I walk. Plus, I’ve lost a decent

  amount of weight from Fletch’s cooking and I don’t look so much like a fat person anymore. Now I’m like an aging-but-still-kind-of-has-it-ex-sorority-girl-who-would-be-truly-lovely-if-onlyshe-could-lay-off-the-chocolate-croissants. And really? The skirt was bangin’, yo.) Anyway, I smiled at them and they looked back at me with cold, hard eyes. The only expression I saw was a flicker of contempt.

  So, I immediately pulled the cord and got off the bus, even though I was a mile from my house. Obviously the bus went on its merry way without incident and I had to hoof it home in ninety-degree heat and kitten heels.

  Point? Here’s what I’m struggling with—I hate the fact that my paranoia made me automatically assume those men were up to no good. It’s unfair that a whole lot of good people in this country are being scrutinized by assholes like me just because of their ethnicity. Most likely these guys were simply tourists and I should be thanking them for visiting my fair city.

  On the other hand, a bus passenger in London had this exact same feeling two weeks ago and exiting the bus early saved his life.

  And I’ll be damned if I was going to get exploded in that skirt.


  Conflicted,

  Jen

  * * *

  Jen Hollywood

  If my life were a movie, in the scene where I finish writing my book you’d see a montage of fireworks and popping champagne corks, ticker-tape parades and indigenous people all over the world leaving their mud huts and dancing up and down while cheering.1 As I lay down my pen and switch off my computer, the score crescendos with the “Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner” song.2 The skies open up and God himself beams down a golden light to illuminate the mailbox where my bundled, precious manuscript is to be deposited. As I kiss the package, wish it luck, and insert it in the slot, the “Hallelujah Chorus” sounds.

  Returning home, my loving mate3 sweeps me into his arms to congratulate me and then whisks me off somewhere fabulous to celebrate properly. When we’re done dining and toasting, this would be an appropriate time for a gratuitous sex scene, unless we’re being directed by Quentin Tarantino, in which case we go shoot a bunch of vampires instead.

  Unfortunately my life isn’t a Hollywood movie—the only thing my loving mate does upon learning of the book’s completion is ask if I’m going to start cleaning the house again because the bathroom is downright hairy. And when I e-mail my manuscript to my editor, instead of turning off the computer, I log on to Monster.com because I’m going to need to work for the next nine months before the book is published, what with my overwhelming passion for living both indoors and in the city.4

  Fletch reminds me if we want to move to the suburbs, we could survive nicely on his income while I attempt to get freelance writing jobs, but I’m just not ready. Someday I’d love a big rolling lawn and snappy riding mower and convenient access to strip malls with their giant parking spaces, but right now I much prefer being in the center of all the action…even if 99 percent of the time I’m lounging on the couch watching Veronica Mars.5 Simply having the option to run off and do something urban and exotic at a moment’s notice is satisfaction enough. (Plus, the average home prices in the John Hughes–movie suburbs where I’d want to live start at $1,000,000—totally out of the question.)