Bon Appetempt: A Coming-of-Age Story (with Recipes!)

by Morris, Amelia

  When Matt calls me after the meeting, it’s by far the most excited I’ve ever heard him.

  “They kept saying things like ‘When we buy the show—’ and then they would talk about the process of shooting the pilot and casting the characters,” he tells me as I’m driving home from school. “They still want us to make it more ‘Disney,’ but I know this is it. I know they’re going to buy it. OK, Geordie’s calling me. I gotta take it. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

  We hang up, but I’m so excited I overshoot the house and do a few victory laps around my neighborhood blasting the radio, singing along, and slapping my hands against the steering wheel à la Jerry Maguire.

  I can’t believe the timing. Matt selling this project now would more than justify our stupid setup during these past two years, paying two different rents and flying from ILM to CLT to LAX and back again. If Matt sold this project now, it would mean that I hadn’t been completely lying all of the times I explained the practicality of our current living situation to friends and family—how we were doing what was best for our careers in the long run and how we had the rest of our lives to be together. Because in reality, there was nothing practical about it. In reality, we were taking a gamble; we were going for broke, not thinking about what our lives would be like if we lost.

  By the time I’ve taken my orange polenta cake out of the oven and given it fifteen minutes to cool in the pan, it’s almost midnight. All I have left to do is flip it out onto a plate. By now, Alison is home from her date and standing by for moral support. I place a plate on top of the cake pan and tell her everything I’ve done wrong so that we can be on the same level, expectations-wise.

  But when I flip the pan, I can feel the weight of the cake shift in one fluid movement. And when I pull the pan away, a round cake with parchment attached remains on the plate. I peel back the shiny brown paper and there are my orange slices, embedded into this circular frame. I look up at Alison. Both of our faces reveal the same level of disbelief.

  “A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity,” Rilke writes in Letters to a Young Poet.

  And while it seems a bit strange to refer to my orange polenta cake as a work of art, in a sense, it does feel that way. At the very least, it feels necessary, important. It shouldn’t have worked out, but it did. And though I may not realize it at the time, in this way, it becomes a subtle testament against cynicism and for hope; that you can go about everything wrong and still end up with something beautiful.

  At the next meeting with Disney in May, the energy has shifted. They’re not going to buy the show. It’s still too off-brand.

  But, hey, they like Matt and Geordie and would love it if the two of them could come up with some more ideas for other shows, some ones with the Disney brand more in mind.

  “Sure,” they say. “We’d be happy to.”

  A VERY PRETTY ORANGE CAKE

  Adapted from Gourmet Magazine and Andrea Reusing’s Cooking in the Moment

  Makes one 9-inch cake

  For the caramel orange layer:

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  2 tablespoons water

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into bits

  4 smallish Valencia oranges

  For the cake:

  ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature

  ¾ cup granulated sugar

  2 large eggs, at room temperature

  ⅓ cup semolina flour

  ⅔ cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  To make the caramel orange layer:

  Lightly butter a 9-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with a round of parchment paper.

  Bring the sugar and water to a boil in a small heavy saucepan. Stir with a wooden spoon until the sugar has dissolved. Let it boil, but instead of stirring, take the pan by the handle and swirl it every so often so that the caramel colors evenly. You want it to be a medium amber color, though don’t stress too much if it goes darker (it’ll still taste great). Turn off the heat and add the butter, swirling the pan again until it’s incorporated. Then carefully but quickly pour the caramel into the cake pan, tilting it so that it’s evenly distributed. Set aside.

  Grate the zest from two of the oranges and reserve for the cake batter. Cut off the remaining peel, including the white pith, from both oranges, and cut each into ¼-inch-thick slices. Arrange these cross-sections in one layer on top of the caramel sitting in the cake pan. Depending on the size of your oranges, you will probably need one or two more oranges so that the entire bottom of the cake pan is filled with slices. (This way when you flip the cake, it will look supremely beautiful.)

  Preheat oven to 350°F with a rack in the middle.

  To make the cake:

  Beat the butter and sugar in an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment until it’s pale and fluffy. While the mixer is running, add an egg. Wait for it to be incorporated before adding the second egg. Add the reserved orange zest.

  In a separate bowl, mix together the semolina flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the flour mixture, a little at a time, to the butter mixture and mix until all of it is incorporated.

  Scoop the batter into the pan on top of the caramel layer and orange slices. The batter will be pretty thick, so using an offset spatula or back of a spoon, spread it out to the edges of the pan. Bake for 22 to 26 minutes, until the cake is golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool for 5 minutes before flipping out onto a cake plate. Throw away the parchment paper. Ta-da! Isn’t it pretty?

  Eat while it’s warm or at room temperature.

  Chapter 22

  Reconsidering the Oyster

  My first time shucking an oyster is a thrilling experience. I’ve got my plastic-handled oyster knife embedded into the hinge of the oyster and am applying a steady pressure. Before I started, I was most concerned about slipping and stabbing the palm of my other hand—the one holding the oyster—but a few YouTube tutorial videos later, I realize that brute force isn’t what’s going to open this thing up; what’s more important is the leverage-gaining, twisting motion, like jiggling a key out of a lock, only the lock is horizontal and my grip is a bit stronger. And then, just when I think I’m not going to get it, there’s a satisfying release and clicking sound, like that of a heavy cast-iron trunk popping open.

  I continue the same jiggling motion with the knife going around the circumference of the oyster until the top shell comes completely off. And there it is—the glimmering white and gray, translucent and opaque, oblong-shaped being surrounded by its own clear liquor. I bring my nose down to it and breathe in the familiar smell of seawater, or what Alice Waters calls “the vitality of the ocean.”

  And yet, before I tilt my head back and gulp it down, I suddenly have a moment’s panic that it’s a bad one, that I could very well get food poisoning and end up sick for the rest of the night.

  It’s strange, because just a few weeks ago, I ate oysters on the half shell at a restaurant and experienced zero moments of panic; not even a nanosecond of worry that the shucker of the oyster hadn’t washed his or her hands recently.

  So what gives? Don’t I inherently have my own interests at heart much more than a complete stranger would? Wouldn’t it be much more natural for someone who shucks oysters all night, five days a week, to let a bad one slip through the cracks than for me, someone who is shucking a dozen for herself by herself, to do the same?

  Why then do I suddenly doubt myself?

  Matt’s and my second westward drive across the country is similar in route (I-40 for most of it) and destination (Los Angeles) but different in the feel of it. This time the trunk and backseats are full of stuff. This time we stick to the highway. We don’t stop off in Vegas. We don’t smoke cigarettes. This time it’s not a joyride. It’s better to keep moving, lest we leave ourselves enough time to stop and consider that once we arrive, we are going to be exactly where we
started four years ago—namely, two more unemployed aspiring writers living in Los Angeles.

  Matt has officially been jobless for a year now. The money saved from his well-paying gig at the Internet start-up is gone. We’re now surviving on his unemployment checks, sporadic assignments from his temp agency, what’s left of my student-loan money, and the occasional eBay sale of a designer purse or clothing item my mom bought me and I never wore. For the past four months, he’s been volunteering at Cedars-Sinai, the nearby hospital, with the notion of possibly going back to school to become a physician’s assistant or registered nurse, but apart from that and the occasional meeting with Disney to discuss new show ideas, Matt has nowhere he needs to report. As for me, once I’ve settled back in town, my only respite from our 1920s, basically un-air-conditioned apartment comes in the form of long hikes up into the Hollywood Hills.

  In my yearlong absence, our apartment has become a bit cluttered and a bit bachelor-y. And when you’re spending twenty-one to twenty-two hours of your day in your home, it’s difficult not to want to fix it. (And if you’re a writer procrastinating writing, well, there’s no better time than the present!) So, in an effort to de-clutter our apartment and with the promise of Swedish meatballs for lunch, I convince Matt to go to IKEA with me to pick up some storage boxes.

  Only before we actually leave, I overhear Matt on the phone with his dad engrossed in a discussion about launching an online pet/baby supply store. The theme I’m picking up on is that this is a good idea because people spare no expense when it comes to both their pets and their children.

  Matt and his dad are very close—talking to each other daily—and very similar. They both come up with big ideas and are not afraid to delve into them with optimism, enthusiasm, and exhaustive detail. They discuss everything: books, stocks, the Pittsburgh Steelers, and yes, speculative ventures. Of course, the main difference between the two of them is that Matt’s dad is a lawyer and can theoretically afford to embark on potential side businesses, whereas if Matt wanted to truly go into the online pet business, it would be a major career decision and making our rent would depend on its short- and long-term success.

  Usually I love Matt’s enthusiasm, but this morning, I don’t. This morning, I’m pissed off that he hasn’t been able to find a job for a year now and because our apartment is so small that when he has these animated conversations, I can hear every word. This morning, I’m wondering if this is how he spent his days while we were living apart. This morning, I’m convinced we’re not even living in the same reality. I mean, am I the only one of us actually looking for a job?

  The fight that ensues is the biggest of our entire relationship. It starts in our apartment, moves location to the sidewalks of West Hollywood, takes a brief intermission, is rekindled on the drive to IKEA, keeps going for the entire winding floor plan of IKEA, including, of course, the marketplace section downstairs, and persists for the duration of the drive home. Topics discussed include the idea that Disney or any other company may never pay him for writing; that if that’s the case, he needs to decide what he wants his day job to be, realistically and in both the short and long term; and if that’s nursing, then he needs to look into applying to actual programs instead of continuing to volunteer blindly once a week; and if it’s not nursing, well, what? And last but not least, that maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married after all!

  That night, still upset, I exile myself to the living room. Matt tries to give me the bedroom, but I am dead set on depriving myself and hurting him as much as possible in the process.

  But by the middle of the night, my anger has finally subsided. I crawl into bed and tell him I’m sorry for everything I said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I get it. I’ve let everyone down.”

  And for the first time ever, I see Matt cry.

  It’s a horrible feeling, to know that you’ve made the most optimistic, cheerful, joyful, and sweetest man in the world cry.

  And yet at the same time, I feel like I’ve been heard. At the same time, even if it’s only for a moment, I see through Matt’s optimism. For a brief moment, I see that he’s just as scared as I am. I see how this past year has affected him, how I wasn’t here to bear witness to his struggle to find work and, consequently, his slow loss of faith in his ability to do so, and how all of this led to the kind of low-probability schemes I overheard him discuss with his dad that morning.

  But mostly I feel like we’re finally on the same page—that he agrees the last thing we need are more big ideas. Between the two of us, we now have two completed short films, three feature-length scripts, one script for a kids’ show, one shot, edited, and produced pilot episode of a narrative urban fishing show, five short stories, three nonfiction essays, a manuscript for a coffee-table book, an almost-finished novel, and a trunk filled of unsold I-stomach-LA T-shirts. We need fewer ideas and more jobs, preferably ones with health insurance.

  Beginning when I was a kid and continuing well into my college years, whenever I told my mom and grandma that I was going to do something differently when I grew up that potentially required having more money, e.g., “When I grow up, I’m not going to drive two miles out of my way to save three cents per gallon on gas,” and/or, “When I grow up, I’m not going to buy twelve cartons of Philadelphia cream cheese just because they’re having a buy-one-get-one sale at the grocery store,” the two of them always responded with the same three words: “Marry well, Amelia,” typically followed by deep-belly laughter. The older I got, the more sexist and annoying I found it.

  “You know, maybe I won’t have to marry well. Maybe I’ll enjoy a lifestyle that affords me the ability to purchase full-priced cream cheese on an as-needed basis all on my own. Did you ever think of that, ladies?”

  Yet it isn’t until this summer, the summer of Matt’s and my second round of dual unemployment in Los Angeles, the summer I make Matt cry, that I realize how much I’d bought into the marry-well mentality.

  Ever since we moved to Los Angeles, I had been relying on Matt to succeed. I had been waiting for his writing career to bloom so that I’d have the time and money for my writing career to bloom. While we were living on separate coasts, I barely inquired about his job search, because to be honest, I didn’t want him to get a real job. I wanted him to sell his monster script or the kids’ TV show. I wanted the big ideas. And what’s worse is that I didn’t just want his writing, his art, to save him, I wanted it to save me too.

  Like the difference between trusting a professional to shuck my oysters and shucking my own oysters, it was easier for me to believe in Matt’s talent than my own. It was easier to put the pressure on Matt to carry the family than to put that pressure on myself.

  That summer was one of the hottest and worst of my life. And yet I’m so thankful for it. Because afterward, once we’d taken the pressure off Matt’s art to save us, we realized we could save ourselves.

  In Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke famously implores his young poet: “I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.” Well, in my version (Letters to a Young Home Cook), I would beg the reader to try her hand at shucking an oyster and then to slurp it down in one go. There’s nothing quite like it: the effort, the reward, the ocean!

  RAW OYSTERS ON THE HALF SHELL

  Serves 2

  12 live oysters, rinsed and scrubbed

  Plate or platter with a bed of crushed ice on top (or, alternatively, a refrigerated plate or platter with a thick bed of kosher salt on top)

  Hot sauce (optional)

  Lemon wedges (optional)

  “He was a bold man that first eat an oyster” is the Jonathan Swift quote that opens M.F.K. Fisher’s Consider the Oyster. And while I would agree with Mr. Swift’s sentiment (though not necessarily his syntax), what I’m most impressed by is the fact that this first man managed to pry it open without watching
a YouTube video tutorial beforehand.

  When it came time for me to shuck my first oyster, despite all the directions I read, it was really the videos I watched of other people shucking them that gave me the confidence to give it a go myself. That said, here’s my written advice for you first-time shuckers.

  Place the oyster on a flat work surface, facing up (flatter side up and rounder, bowl-like side down) and with the pointiest part (the hinge side) toward you. Using a thick folded dishtowel (or wearing a protective glove), hold down the oyster with one hand. With the other hand, place your oyster knife into the hinge.

  With pressure, start twisting the knife up and down, up and down. Keep doing this until you hear the hinge pop open. Once you’re in there, go around the perimeter, making sure to scrape the top shell with the knife in order to free the oyster from where it has attached itself. The top shell will come clean off once it’s free. The oyster should look opaque and wet and smell like the sea.

  Next, sweep the knife under the oyster to loosen it from the bottom shell. (This way you’ll be able to gulp it down.) Nestle the oyster in its shell onto the platter of crushed ice, trying your best not to spill any of the precious oyster liquor.

  Last, you are bound to get some shell fragments in the oyster. Just clear the ones you can see and try not to stress too much about the ones you find in your mouth later. (At least that’s what I do.)

  They’re delicious on their own, but also good with a dash of hot sauce or a squeeze of lemon on top.

  Chapter 23

  There’s No Cream in Pasta Carbonara