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

by Morris, Amelia

  Now is a great time to start cooking the pasta: Drop the dried spaghetti into a pot of lightly salted boiling water. Stir occasionally while you continue making the sauce.

  Put the sauce back on low heat and bring it to a light simmer. Add the heavy cream. (You can substitute with half-and-half or even whole milk if you already have one of them on hand, but heavy cream works best.) Drop in the grated Parmesan and the Gruyère. Stir as the sauce is brought back up to a light simmer and the ingredients are completely combined. Season with salt and pepper. Turn off the heat.

  Once the pasta is al dente, strain it, add it to the pan, and toss to coat it. Plate into pasta bowls and finish with a sprinkle of grated Parmesan cheese. You’ve got lemon pasta.

  Amelia prefers that I serve it next to something green.

  Chapter 27

  Neither Magnificent nor Abominable

  Just when the rest of the world seems to be cooling down, Southern California heats up. September is always one of the hottest and driest months here, and thus when we’re most susceptible to wildfires. So when it finally cools off sometime in late October, when there’s a hint of moisture in the air, it feels like a miracle. Fall has arrived, aka, soup weather.

  And in case you haven’t noticed by now, I love soup. I love making enough of it so as to ensure there will be some for the next day and, best-case scenario, the day after that as well. I love building it, putting it together, layering the flavors, adding salt pinch by pinch. It’s not demanding. You can take your time. You don’t have to have multiple burners going on. There’s just the one pot, simmering away, only getting better with time.

  And in a way, this is how my twenty-ninth year feels: stress-free and souplike, my life bubbling with potential.

  My days off from the store typically come midweek, and on these precious mornings, I wake up early. I have a fairly large bowl of cereal, drink sugary and milk-enriched coffee while reading or Interneting, and then, for the next couple of hours, I revise the novel. In the afternoon, a nearby gym offers a one p.m. yoga class, which I start frequenting mostly because by one p.m., I’m ready to leave the house for a bit. After class, I grocery shop and then return home to a simple lunch of avocado mashed with lime and salt and pepper on top of baguette slices, perhaps followed by an apple and a few squares of chocolate. After lunch, I do a little more work. If it’s approaching Sunday, the day I post on Bon Appétempt, I might work on the week’s post. I might also screen-print some tote bags or T-shirts, as I haven’t entirely given up on that side business. And then, around five or six, depending on how my work is going, I pour a glass of wine and begin prepping dinner. (In the winter months, I make soup so often that Matt will start to pitch other ideas. “What about that curry you made once? That was fantastic.”) We eat at the coffee table, watch a few episodes of whichever HBO show we’re currently renting, and are in bed by ten o’clock.

  It’s so simple but so rewarding that even though I complain to my mom about not being able to come home for the holidays because of work, and she responds with, “Have you thought about applying for teaching jobs?” I’m quick to brush her off.

  “I need to finish my novel first.”

  Not only am I loath to take on a job that might steal time away from writing, but to be honest, I’m a bit proud of my artist lifestyle, of how I’ve prioritized what’s important to me. Someone once told me that the actress/writer/comedienne Amy Sedaris waited tables well into her thirties and even occasionally did so after she’d “made it.” I hold this piece of secondhand information close to my heart.

  At the same time, however, I’m not exactly contently waiting around for my life to change. After Bon Appétit and Saveur magazines feature Bon Appétempt on their respective sites, I reach out to some of the staff there—pitching them ideas for columns I could write. They don’t say yes, but they don’t say no either. They tell me to keep the ideas coming.

  In April, when a culinary essay I’ve written about baking with my ninety-two-year-old grandma is summarily rejected by every place I pitch it and/or send it to, I decide to post it on my blog, thinking that at least that way it’s out there. At least that way it’s not going to be stuck on my computer’s desktop for the rest of its life.

  But surprisingly, the essay gets a lot of attention from my readers. It even wins “Best Culinary Essay” in Saveur magazine’s food blog awards. (And I have a line to add to my bio!)

  By June, I have another draft of the novel that I feel is ready to go out to agents. I write up a query letter—which is literary-speak for an e-mail or letter in which you try to sum up your novel and yourself in the shortest and most blockbuster-y way possible, e.g., Will and Margot is the story of brother and sister, Will and Margot Hazelton. Will is a grand chess master who has recently fallen from grace; Margot is a happy newlywed… or is she? And as for me? I’m the author of an award-winning food blog!

  The very first agent I submit it to requests an exclusive of the manuscript, which means that I’ll give her two weeks with it all to herself before sending out to other agents. I realize it’s a long shot.

  Or do I?

  Three months later, I’ve received nothing but rejections, some kinder than others, but rejections nonetheless. By then, it’s September again, only this time I’m turning thirty. Of course, I knew this milestone was coming, but all summer long, with my novel floating out there in the ether, I still had this palpable level of hope. At any moment that summer, I could have received an e-mail from an agent declaring that he or she wanted to represent me. All summer long, my life had the potential to change, just like that.

  I’m not one for throwing birthday parties for myself or having Matt throw one for me. I’d rather go out to a fancy dinner just the two of us. But you’re turning thirty, two of my friends kept telling me, finally convincing me to take a mini getaway with them to Palm Springs, an easy two-hour drive from Los Angeles, to celebrate.

  The trip is fun, but with these two friends, who rest in the socioeconomic brackets at least three or four tiers above me, and who have never worked a day of retail in their lives, it’s easy to lose myself. On the way to Palm Springs, we stop by the designer outlets, and I watch as they spend six hundred and twelve hundred dollars, respectively, at Marni. I know this is not normal behavior, but I’m overcome, and in a moment of partial stupidity and partial resentment of my so-called choice to be a struggling writer, I buy a one-hundred dollar necklace, which as I’m being rung up I quickly tabulate equates to six hours of work at the store, before taxes.

  Speaking of the store, September also marks my third anniversary working there, which means that I’m up for my yearly review, the process for which involves me giving five examples of my strengths and weaknesses in five different categories—from “Customer and Company” to things like “Show and Earn Respect.”

  I know that every job has a review process, that I’m actually quite good at my job, and that, all things considered, my job isn’t half bad. But when I’m in the comfort of my own home filling out the review sheet, and forced to transform my general familiarity with a cash register into a paragraph on my adeptness with our specific point-of-sale operating system; or how I tend not to care about getting to know my customers into two hundred words on how I can work harder to build long-term client relationships, it’s difficult to stay positive. It’s difficult to see the job as my day job, as something I’m doing temporarily to support my art.

  All I can see is: Amelia Morris, retail associate for life. And further highlighting this is that at the same time I’m prepping for my review, the company is overhauling their website, and they need photos and titles of every staff member.

  Up until this point, the Internet has been a place I can represent myself the way I want, whether that’s with a beautiful overhead shot of blueberry cobbler, in which the blueberries have melted into a deep navy blue color and the mix of butter, oats, and flour, a crisp golden brown, or in a video of me flipping a giant Swiss potato pancake in th
e pan to the tune of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” In the vast world of social media, I share the best photos of myself, delete the worst, and don’t even bother to list my job at the store at all.

  But soon an image of my smiling face labeling me as a “sales associate since 2009” will live on the Internet. Soon, the jig will be up.

  On my first day back at the store after my birthday trip, I’m asked if I can pack up and ship the giant dinnerware order someone sold a few days ago that has been lingering in the back room ever since. Why no one else had the time to pack it up in my absence, I’m not sure, but at least in the back room no customers can bother me.

  I get to work. I place thick pieces of corrugated cardboard in between the plates. I tape the stack together with thick masking tape. I find a suitably-sized box, fill the bottom with packing material, nestle in my stack of plates, cover it with more packing material, give the box a shake, add more packing material, and then—and this is my least favorite part, the one that requires the most effort—I must close the box. See, it shouldn’t be easy to close the box. You want those plates to be stuffed in there. And in order to keep the box closed before I can tape it down, I have to use the weight of my knee, which frees up my hands to tear off a piece of packing tape. This is where I always start to break a sweat, and today is no exception. It’s a big order, complete with serving pieces, cutting boards, and glassware. I’ve got at least seven or eight more boxes ahead of me.

  On box four, something happens. I’m wearing my stupid hundred-dollar necklace, the clasp of which is a ribbon, and I can feel that the sweat on the back of my neck has soaked it. I take it off, saying aloud, “I’m an idiot.” (This is usually Matt’s catchphrase, but today it’s mine.) Because today I am the idiot.

  Today, I don’t feel like getting sweaty in a small, windowless room. Today, I wish I had an office job like the rest of the people in my social circle. Today, I’m supposed to have my staff photo taken, and if I’m going to be outed on the Internet as a lifetime retail associate, I would at least like to appear as a non-sweaty, somewhat polished retail associate.

  Today, all the disappointments of my life rise to the surface. If how you spend your days is how you spend your life, then I’m not a writer. I’m not an artist. I’m a thirty-year-old shop girl.

  I sneak out the side door in order to privately cry in my car for fifteen minutes before returning to finish up the order.

  In The Writing Life, Annie Dillard says of the novel-writing process, “The feeling that the work is magnificent, and the feeling that it is abominable, are both mosquitoes to be repelled, ignored, or killed, but not indulged.” I think this idea applies to life in general.

  And on days like this, when it’s hard to accept the choices I’ve made, when all I can seem to muster is self-pity, and when I cannot swat away the mosquitoes telling me that I’m abominable, I need time in the kitchen where I can get out of my head for a moment, where I can focus on something else, something positive. On days like this, I need to make soup.

  Because while I’m chopping onions and sautéing them in a bit of olive oil until they’re fragrant and soft, when I’m peeling potatoes and the skins are piling up in the basin of my sink, I can see—even if it’s only momentarily—the beauty in the effort. I’m reminded once again that success is in the work.

  CORN, CHILE, AND POTATO SOUP

  Serves 3 to 4

  2 pounds medium Yukon gold potatoes (about 4)

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  1 large onion, chopped

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  4 cups chicken broth

  ½ cup water

  1 to 2 canned chipotle chiles in adobo (see Note)

  2 avocados

  1 to 2 limes

  1 (16-ounce) package frozen corn (not thawed)

  Tortilla chips

  Shredded cheddar cheese (optional)

  Rinse, scrub, and peel the potatoes. Chop them into 1-to 2-inch pieces. Set aside.

  Heat the oil in a stockpot over medium heat. Add the onion and give it a few pinches of salt and a bit of pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is softened, 4 to 5 minutes.

  Add the potatoes, chicken broth, water, and 1 teaspoon salt to the pot. While bringing this to a boil, mince the chile using a fork to hold it steady as you chop. (Some people can tolerate chopping a chile while holding it in place with their bare hands. I am not one of those people.) Add the minced chile to the pot. Once the soup is boiling, take it down to a simmer; simmer until the potatoes are very tender, 15 to 17 minutes.

  Meanwhile, slice the avocados in half and remove and discard the pits. With the avocado skin-side down on a cutting board, slice the flesh into strips, and using a spoon, scoop out the slices into a bowl. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and cover with the juice of half a lime. Set aside.

  Using a potato masher, mash the potatoes right in the soup—just until coarsely broken up. Add the frozen corn and simmer for about 2 minutes more, until heated through. Turn off the heat. Add the juice of the other half of the lime.

  Ladle into bowls and top with a nice heaping of tortilla chips, avocado slices, and, optimally, shredded cheddar. Serve with wedges from the remaining lime.

  Note: One minced chile lends a nice smoky spiciness that shouldn’t overwhelm anyone’s palate. Two makes it pretty spicy.

  Chapter 28

  Bringing It All Back Home

  It’s the week of Thanksgiving, and therefore, the week of our annual sale at work, when people go from being customers to panicked consumers. And maybe because the mornings have finally turned cold enough that I need to flip the heat on, or maybe because I know I have a long day ahead of me and I feel like indulging myself a little, I decide to have a piece of toasted baguette with butter and jam for breakfast, the same thing that Matt usually has.

  I change my morning routine so infrequently that when I twist open the jar of apricot jam and see bits of white, cold butter mixed in with the pale orange preserves, I’m instantly and oddly reminded of my dad. This is the way the jar of jam always looked in Saegertown. And for a brief moment, I picture him standing at the kitchen counter trying to spread squares of butter that are too substantial for the heat from the toast to melt them, before resorting to smashing them down, crushing the bread in the process. The layer of jam he smeared on top was always just as excessive.

  Meanwhile, I take a bite of my own toast and find it lacking in both components. This is typical of me. I seem to always err on the side of not quite enough. When Matt and I sit down to a pasta dinner, I tease him about his mountain of Parmesan compared to my much more sensible couple of tablespoons, but then halfway through the meal, I take a bite of his and find it undeniably more delicious than my version.

  And for a fleeting moment, I seem to better understand my father. I see him as someone who doesn’t hold back, who doesn’t restrain himself or his hardly conventional opinions (ranging from how the US government attacked itself on 9/11 to how he won’t see Zero Dark Thirty, as “everyone knows Osama bin Laden died in 2003”), who continues to smoke and maintain a cheeseburger-and-pizza-centric diet well into his sixties with seemingly little concern as to his deteriorating health and his family’s history of heart failure.

  A month ago, the future had looked promising again. A literary agent whom I queried about my novel contacted me, interested in having me put together a proposal for a food memoir loosely based on Bon Appétempt. Not to mention that for my combined birthday and Christmas present, Matt and I booked a trip to Paris for two weeks. (In order to spread out paying for everything, we wouldn’t leave until late March.)

  However, once the holidays hit, my outlook takes a turn. Once again, I struggle to see beyond my ten to six-thirty existence of “I’m sorry, but we can’t extend the sale price to you after the sale has ended.”

  Now that I’m thirty, I’ve also become very aware that I only have so many “good years” left to get pregnant. The fact that I’d like to have
two kids feels particularly troublesome, especially considering what I’ve heard my dad say in passing over the years, that though most women should be fine to get pregnant up until the age of forty, thirty-five is technically when fertility starts its rapid descent.

  During my morning search for the prized all-day parking spot within a three-block radius of the store, I begin to imagine a simpler life. Back at our apartment, after dinner, I retire early to the bedroom, streaming episodes of my favorite TV show of all time, My So-Called Life, which is set in Pittsburgh. And suddenly my vision of a simpler life has a specific setting. I begin to think about moving back home. I begin to think about the wide suburban streets I rode my bike on as a kid. I begin to think about buying a little house and getting pregnant and being able to call up my mom or Matt’s parents to see if they can swing by and watch the baby while I run a few errands.

  I think about how much fun it is when Matt and I go back to visit now, how we stay at his parents’ house—the one he grew up in and in the basement of which we shared our first kiss—and quickly revert to our teenage habits, staying up late watching movies, eating pickles and hard pretzels, and going to sleep without properly gathering our plates and putting them in the dishwasher. In the morning, before his parents leave for work, Matt is lightly scolded for leaving empty glasses everywhere and we’re left with a handwritten list of reminders: If you go out, make sure both dogs are in their crates and the fire is turned off followed by the perennial: And don’t let the cat out!

  Matt’s dad is famous for repeating himself in a way that calls attention to the fact that he knows he’s repeating himself. And we kids are famous for playing into the need to have these things repeated to us. “Why, Dad? Why shouldn’t we let the cat out? She’s clearly very curious about the outdoors,” Matt will say, feigning confusion and gesturing to Autumn, the calico cat, who spends much of her day sitting and staring through the window of the front door, her tail sweeping the floor from side to side.