“I, um, tonight’s not so good, I have some stuff I should take care of, and . . .”
“Okay, no big deal. How about tomorrow?”
“Yeah, um, well, maybe, I, um . . . Can I call you? This is just sort of a crazy week, and I get so exhausted by the end of the day I’m not terribly good company . . .” Why am I making a million excuses to not see a man I love spending time with? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I know your workday must be a bear. I’m just thinking maybe something quiet . . . You could come over for a little nosh and we could watch a DVD or something.”
I take a very deep breath. “Okay, tomorrow will probably work for that. Why don’t we do it at my place? I’ll just bring stuff home from the store for us to eat so we don’t have to cook. You can bring a movie.” I’m not ready to be with him in his apartment, on his turf. At least at my house I can use Nadia as an excuse.
“That sounds terrific. Any movie requests?”
“I’m easy, I haven’t seen a movie in ages. Whatever you want to see will be great, I’m sure.”
“Okay, then. Nine?”
“Should be fine. I’ll call you when I’m done at the store.”
“See you tomorrow, beautiful. Have a great day.”
“You too.”
“Psst. Mel . . .” I can feel the kiss on the top of my head, and I open one eye. I’m on my couch, wrapped in Nathan’s arms, and the credits are rolling on the screen.
“I missed the end.”
Nathan’s laugh rumbles in his chest. “You missed the middle.”
I stretch out of his arms, and turn to him. “I told you I get tired on weeknights. Was it a good movie?”
He reaches forward to pull me into his arms for a long kiss. “I would watch test patterns if it meant I could have you in my arms.”
I melt against him. My heart beats with equal fear and desire. He lays me back on the couch and I will myself to let him, but I can’t. I sit up.
“Nathan, I . . .”
“Shhh.” He kisses me again, and stands. He reaches out a hand and pulls me off the couch. “You go get in bed before you wake up too much to get back to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Before I slip back into sleep, I wonder if he left to protect my need for weeknight rest, or to avoid my asking him to go. And wondering if I will ever be able to choose him, to choose happiness.
After a fitful night of bad dreams, dreams of falling not flying, trying to run with leaden feet, trying to scream but no sound coming out, I drag myself out of bed and to the gym for a lackluster workout. I shower and head for the store, hoping that work will clear my head a bit. I’m checking yesterday’s receipts, trying not to think about last night, when the phone rings, and I grab it absentmindedly. “Dining by Design.”
“Happy birthday, Mel.”
My heart stops. Andrew.
“Um, thanks.”
“How are you?”
Why the fuck is he calling me? “Fine. How are you?”
“We’re fine. Thanks for asking.”
We. We’re fine. Hey there, birthday girl? Have a wound? Here’s some salt!
“Was there something you wanted?”
“There’s no need to take that tone, Melanie. I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday. To see how you were holding up.”
“Oh, I see, you assumed that I’d be, what? Falling apart? That the idea of turning a year older without you would put me into the pit of despair? I’m fine, Andrew. Better than fine. I love my life. I love my friends and my work and my new boyfriend, and I think this may be the best birthday I have ever had.”
I hate the venom shrillness in my voice. I hate that by saying these things I am revealing how much I still hurt, how tender my emotions still are. My mom once said that there are certain things that you cannot respond to when people accuse you, because every proof you offer that they are wrong makes it sound more and more like they are right.
“Jesus, Mel, it doesn’t have to be like this. I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday. To reach out. You were a very important part of my life for a very long time, I know that I hurt you, and you have every right to be angry, but this isn’t some agenda. I really did hope that we could be friends again someday. I know that I would really like that.” He pauses, and I can feel myself softening. “I know that Charlene would really like that.” Whoosh, so much for soft.
“Andrew, you were a very important part of my past. I appreciate your reaching out to wish me a happy birthday, but frankly, what makes it most happy right now is your profound absence. I don’t know if I will ever not feel that way, but I assure you that if I do decide I am ready to be friends with you, I’ll let you know.”
Andrew sighs deeply, the sound of an adult accommodating a petulant child. “All right, Mel. Whatever you want. I wish you all happiness, I do.”
“Good-bye, Andrew.”
“Good-bye.”
I let the phone slide out of my hand into the cradle. I take a deep breath and wait for the tightening in my chest to subside.
The noise is deafening. “Happy Birthdaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeear Mellllllanieeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Happy Biiiiiiirthhhhhhhhhhhhday toooooooooo youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!”
I lean over the enormous confection, ablaze with candles, and look around. My friends are looking at me expectantly, Nathan is smiling, and suddenly I realize that I really don’t have much left to wish for. I close my eyes. Some success for the business, just enough to give me some financial breathing room. And the continuation of this small window of happiness. I fill my lungs, and blow. All forty candles obligingly go out, and the assembly applauds.
We are at Kai and Phil’s, and they have outdone themselves. Kai enlisted the help of some culinary students for prep work and serving, and pulled out all the stops for this party, skipping the sit-down dinner in favor of endless little nibbles, sort of like tapas or a wonderful tasting menu. Champagne laced with Pineau des Charentes, a light cognac with hints of apple that essentially puts a velvet smoking jacket around the dry sparkling wine. Perfect scallops, crispy on the outside, succulent and sweet within, with a vanilla aioli. Tiny two-bite Kobe sliders on little pretzel rolls with caramelized onions, horseradish cream, and melted fontina. Seared tuna in a spicy soy glaze, ingenious one-bite caprese salads made by hollowing out cherry tomatoes, dropping some olive oil and balsamic vinegar inside, and stuffing with a mozzarella ball wrapped in fresh basil. Espresso cups of chunky roasted tomato soup with grilled cheese croutons.
The food is delicious and never-ending, supplemented with little bowls of nuts, olives, raw veggies, and homemade potato chips with lemon and rosemary. Nathan is at ease, flattering Delia and asking for her recipe for sweet potato pie, flirting with Kai and Phil just enough to prove his comfort, stopping well short of being creepy or obsequious. He chats with Nadia about her jewelry, with Janey about whether taking yoga would help with some of his joint pain. He checks in with me consistently, everything from meaningful eye contact across the room, to bringing me refills on my drink.
Kai slices the cake, his version of the banana cake I have always talked about. He has made a vanilla sponge cake, soaked in vanilla simple syrup, and layered with sliced fresh bananas and custard. There is a central layer of dark chocolate ganache with bits of crispy pecans and toffee, and the whole thing is covered in chocolate buttercream, with extravagant curls of chocolate and chocolate-dipped banana slices piled in the middle. I accept a thin slice, savoring the flavors, both of the cake, and of simple joy.
Nathan escorts me out to his car, a battered Land Rover that must be at least twenty years old, carrying my booty, since despite the fact that I was specific about not wanting gifts, my friends have ignored me completely, and there are gaily colored bags and beribboned boxes. I’m flushed with food and wine, a little bit tipsy.
“Did you like your party, birthday girl?” Nathan asks as he pulls out of the parking space and heads for his place.
“It was
perfect.” I sigh contentedly and lean back in the seat. “Thanks for being my date.”
“Thanks for letting me be your date. It was a wonderful night, and your friends are really amazing people. I had a great time.”
“Well, they all seem to approve of you as well. A rousing success all around. Pity it took being this OLD to make it possible.” I’m actually not really bothered by getting older. It just seems the thing to say.
“You still seem to have some miles left in you, from where I sit,” Nathan jokes. “I mean, SLOW miles, but miles nonetheless!”
I laugh. “Getting slower every day!”
“Hey, are you exhausted, or can we go have a drink at my place?”
“I could probably have one drink.” My heart jumps.
“Great.”
We sit in companionable silence the rest of the ride. We pull into his parking lot, and take the elevator up to his condo.
His place is exactly what I imagine, an extension of him: warm woods, leather furniture with great patina, film equipment and work materials. A huge old farmhouse table covered in papers with mismatched chairs. I hang my coat on the back of one of the chairs, and Nathan takes my hand to give me the tour. It is sort of a semi-loft, open-concept living room/dining room/kitchen, and then two bedrooms in the back. I try not to look at the rumpled king-size bed, to imagine myself in it with him. He leads me back to the living room and gestures for me to sit on the couch, and then heads off to fetch drinks. I can hear Nathan futzing around in the kitchen. I kick off my shoes, my feet unused to heels after so much time in clogs and Crocs. Nathan appears from the kitchen with two snifters of Armagnac, and curls up beside me on the couch. We sip the warming liquid as he massages my shoulder gently.
“So are you stuffed to the gills?” he asks.
“I’m sated, but not stuffed. It is the key to life, recognizing that nothing is forbidden, but that nothing is your last meal either, so you taste everything once, but don’t gorge as if you are getting ready to hibernate. Actually it is really nice to leave a party and not feel uncomfortably full for a change!”
“Good to know. Stay here.” He gets up off the couch, and heads back to the kitchen. I shift to a cross-legged position and massage my aching feet. Nathan reappears with a plate, upon which is a lopsided mass of brown.
“I stole the recipe from your recipe box when I was over the other day. It seems to have sunk in the middle, and the frosting is lumpier than I planned, and it is probably inedible, certainly no match for that gorgeous thing Kai made, but I didn’t want you to not have this on your birthday.”
I look at the plate, the cake almost a replica of the very first one I made as a kid, leaning to one side and concave in the center, frosting chunky in places, with crumbs peeking out.
“It’s perfect,” I say. And it is.
“Good morning.” Nathan is propped up on one elbow, looking down at me.
“Good morning. Are you watching me sleep?”
“I am indeed.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
He leans over and kisses me. “Very well indeed. Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Coming right up.” He gets out of bed, and I watch him go, still in the jeans he wore last night, button-down shirt untucked and wrinkled.
I stretch and stand up myself, trying to pull the wrinkles out of my dress. I catch a look in the large floor mirror propped against Nathan’s bedroom wall and shake my head. I am forty years old. And last night a wonderful man actually baked me a cake, which despite being sort of homely, was really delicious. We talked and talked and he kissed me, and when I started to pull away he asked me to stay. To let him hold me. Said he wanted to wake up to me.
And I spent the night mentally fitful, afraid to fall too deeply asleep, afraid that if I gave myself over to sleep I might give myself over to other things and hating how much that frightens me.
“Breakfast, milady,” Nathan says behind me. I turn and see him standing with a tray, two mugs, and two pieces of cake.
I smile at him. “Breakfast of champions.”
“This is either a treat or a punishment, but if you really liked the cake, then it will be good, and if you didn’t, it’ll teach you to never lie to me about my cooking!”
“I know better than that! My grandmother always used to tell this story about my dad. . . . When he was little he used to go to Decatur to visit a friend of his, and the family had this great housekeeper who cooked for them. Anyway, apparently the first time he went to visit, she made a big coconut cake for dessert. And to be polite he said he loved it, even though he really doesn’t like coconut at all.”
“Let me guess . . . every time he went to visit?”
“Yep, coconut cake.”
Nathan laughs. “So this?”
I reach my hand out. “Definitely not coconut cake.”
He hands me a plate. I ignore every part of me that tells me that cake for breakfast is a slippery slope, and take what is offered me. It seems the least I can do.
BRISKET
When we did braising in culinary school, the chef instructor asked us each to bring in family recipes connected to our culture, so that we could discuss this ancient technique for tenderizing tough cuts of meat. There were recipes for pot roast and coq au vin and osso bucco and lamb shanks and stews. Kai brought in a recipe for short ribs in sweet soy that he got from his Japanese grandmother. And I brought in the family recipe for brisket, which got rolled out every Jewish holiday, the rich meat falling apart, soaking in tomato gravy, better on the third day than most meals are on the first.
“Close the damn oven, Teensy, you’re messing with the mojo.” Kai snaps the oven door shut with his foot, and then smacks my butt with a spatula.
“No respect for the boss around here, I swear to God!”
Kai looks over at me and makes the universal sign of the drama violin. “Look, you were the top of the braising class, as you are quick to point out to me at the drop of a hat. And you were the top because of that there brisket, so for the love of all that is holy, stop fussing and let it do its magic. You still have to do the orecchiette salad, the sweet-and-sour slaw, and the butternut squash is almost ready to come out of the other oven. The party isn’t even for two more days!”
“Okay, first of all, it isn’t a party, it’s a Passover Seder. Second of all, it’s a big deal, because I haven’t seen Nate’s family since D.C., and while that was a strange fluke sort of meeting, this is a real ‘meet the family’ girlfriend sort of thing. The fact that his mom even trusts me to make the main dish is MAJOR. And every family has their own style of Jew food. Some make their brisket sweet and sour and tomatoey, some make it salty and oniony. Some people make matzo kugel and some make potato kugel. And everyone wants THEIR version. It’s like Thanksgiving. No matter how good the food is at anyone else’s house, it isn’t really your Thanksgiving unless the food is the same thing you grew up with.”
“Are you people having the Thanksgiving argument again?” Delia asks as she floats into the kitchen, tying a pristine white apron around her wide hips as she moves. Delia has been coming in earlier and earlier these days, watching more carefully, asking more questions. I don’t know if she even realizes how much she is getting herself ready to leave us. She claims she is coming in early because there is a new woman in the shelter with four kids under the age of three, all of whom are constantly crying. But I know that every minute she spends in the kitchen with me and Kai takes us one minute closer to the time when she moves up and out. I’m at once grateful for her company and sad at what it hearkens.
“We aren’t having the Thanksgiving argument,” I say.
“She is never going to let me live down that stupid Thanksgiving,” Kai says.
I can’t help but take the bait. “You made prime rib!”
“It was delicious,” Kai says, shrugging.
“IT WAS BEEF! You can’t have beef on Thanksgiving, except for appetizers like meatballs or some
thing. You have TURKEY on Thanksgiving.” Last Thanksgiving I spent with Phil and Kai, since I was orphaned and separated and Gilly couldn’t make it in from London. Everything was delicious, but it was like a dinner party and not Thanksgiving. The prime rib wasn’t the only anomaly. No mashed potatoes or stuffing or sweet potatoes with marshmallows or green bean casserole. He had acorn squash with cippolini onions and balsamic glaze. Asparagus almondine. Corn custard with oyster mushrooms. Wild rice with currants and pistachios and mint. All amazing and perfectly cooked and balanced, and not remotely what I wanted for Thanksgiving. When I refused to take leftovers, his feelings were hurt, and when he got to the store two days later, he let me know.
“Look,” Kai says with infinite patience. “For a week we prepped for the Thanksgiving pickups.” He ticks off on his fingers the classic menu we developed together for the customers who wanted a traditional meal without the guilt. “Herb-brined turkey breasts with apricot glaze and roasted shallot jus. Stuffing muffins with sage and pumpkin seeds. Cranberry sauce with dried cherries and port. Pumpkin soup, and healthy mashed potatoes, and glazed sweet potatoes with orange and thyme, and green beans with wild mushroom ragu, and roasted brussels sprouts, and pumpkin mousse and apple cake. We cooked Thanksgiving and tasted Thanksgiving and took Thanksgiving leftovers home at the end of the day. I just thought you would be SICK OF TURKEY!”
The three of us collapse into laughter, Delia wiping her eyes at Kai’s fake indignation.
“You two. There is no cure for you two,” she says. “What can I do?”
“You can shred the cabbage if you want; I’m doing sweet-and-sour slaw,” I say, catching my breath.
“Oh, good, that’s a new one I don’t know,” she says, washing her hands at the prep sink.
I guide Delia through the slaw: green cabbage with fennel and green apple and a light dressing of rice wine vinegar, sugar, lime juice, canola oil, and caraway seeds. Kai mashes the butternut squash with applesauce, nutmeg, grains of paradise, and cinnamon. I work on a light pasta salad that I have been playing with, orecchiette pasta with white beans, chopped celery, green peas, and feta in red wine vinaigrette with fresh oregano. The case gets filled, Kai takes off, the doors get opened, and we begin to serve customers. While Delia takes a phone order, I head into the kitchen and take the brisket out of the oven. It is mahogany brown and juicy, and perfumes the kitchen immediately, the scent wafting out into the store.
Good Enough to Eat Page 10
