The dog was my grandmother’s, and she was at my parents’ and then at my sister’s, which wasn’t so great for my sister or the dog, so now she’s with me.
Do you have a dog? I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing. I let her sleep on my bed last night—is that kosher? Lady slept on the bed in Lady and the Tramp, so it can’t be that bad, right? (Though come to think of it, they also gave Lady a bit of doughnut dipped in coffee, and even I know that’s not dog kosher. Oh well …)
The restaurant’s going fine. There are so many things to keep track of that it can be overwhelming sometimes. And tomorrow’s my appearance on Portland Sunrise …
So your trip out—do you need me to pick up you up at the airport?
J
Dear Juliette,
You’ll have to let me know how your time goes on Portland Sunrise! I’ll be praying for you.
Thanks for the airport offer. I’m getting in late, and I’ll be renting a car. Much appreciated, though.
Yes, we had a dog in the house throughout my growing-up years. I wish I could have a dog here, but with the hours right now, it wouldn’t see enough of me for me to not feel guilty. As far as having a dog on your bed, there’s no harm there as long as you don’t mind. Lady and the Tramp is a good place to check in. Except for the fact that they didn’t have a securely fenced yard. Also, feeding a dog doughnuts is a bad idea. (Dogs don’t need wheat—their digestive tracts aren’t designed for grains.) So maybe Disney’s not the best place to pick up pet-ownership tips.
Work’s been crazy. I’m working on publishing a paper with a journal, and I want to get it out before flying west. Will it happen? I don’t know.
Given the choice, I’d fast-forward to that flight. And I really don’t like flying.
Looking forward to seeing you.
Neil
People who love to eat are always the best people.
—JULIA CHILD
There was only a little sun out when I arrived at the Portland Sunrise studio. Too little. If I’d left the apartment when I’d planned, there would have been even less, but as it was, I was fifteen minutes late with no sign of a parking place and with a gnawing panic in the pit of my stomach.
I’d grown up in Portland—I was a seasoned parker of cars in impossible spaces. But that morning I found myself parking six blocks away and walking uphill in shoes I’d thought were cute but now seemed ill advised.
Three days before, I’d received a call from a production staffer letting me know what time they wanted me there (early), what not to wear (red), and what kind of necklace to choose if I wore one (large).
I dressed for the day in a vintage-looking emerald-green dress from Anthropologie, pairing it with a pearl-and-wire collar necklace I’d picked up at a shop in the Alberta Arts District. My shoes—which would never show up on camera unless I propped my feet up on the kitchen counter—were brown, piped at the edges with bright yellow, and rubbing awkwardly at the bridge of my feet with every step. Hill-hiking shoes they weren’t. I could have worn Converse sneakers and not a single viewer would have been the wiser.
Once I made it inside the building, a harried-looking production assistant showed me to the studio kitchen, where we’d film the segment. “It’s live, of course,” she said. “But if something goes wrong, just roll with it. Our viewers love it—makes them feel like they’re watching a blooper reel live.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Just whatever you do, don’t look at the camera.”
I nodded with a fake authority. “Sure.”
It was a nice kitchen space, though small and clearly not designed for actual cooking. The producer and I had gone back and forth over what kind of demonstration I would do—it would be a short segment, no longer than seven minutes. With Memorial Day looming, we finally settled on hand pies, perfect for picnics and easy outdoor entertaining.
Today’s hand pies were rhubarb with mascarpone, and strawberry with basil. Both were special in their own way, each tasting like summer.
I’d brought my own pie pastry, not trusting whichever journalism student-turned-intern got stuck with the task to make a sufficiently elastic dough for my needs. I set my dough on the counter to reach room temperature before following the production assistant to the greenroom.
The greenroom, where visiting talent waited before their turn on the air, was eclectically shabby. The couch was covered in orange-print fabric that looked to be about forty years old. The walls were covered in framed concert posters featuring musicians such as Paul Anka, Brandi Carlile, and the Decemberists, and a signed photo of Weird Al.
In addition to the wall art, there were several vases of dusty, eclectic silk flowers and a pot of equally attended succulents.
I touched up my lipstick before taking a seat on the couch, away from the mirror. Maybe it worked for starlets, but the last thing I needed was to be staring at my own face.
Sometime later, a knock sounded at the door—I’d been summoned. I followed the production assistant to the set, where I met the producer, the director, and the hosts.
The next fifteen minutes passed in a strange, out-of-body blur. After being transfixed by the curled glory that was Waverly Harper’s hair and the blinding whiteness of Dean Jessup’s teeth, I answered their questions while trying to ignore the hulking black monster that was the studio camera.
How did anyone not stare directly into that thing? It was like facing a bear and looking away.
Prompted by Waverly’s and Dean’s questions, I launched into my spiel on hand pies, how delicious and simple they were to prepare and serve.
I demonstrated how to make dough and then rolled out my prepared dough before showing them how to assemble the hand pies.
Waverly and Dean asked me questions, which I knew logically that I’d answered, though I couldn’t remember a word I’d said. My hands shook as I worked the dough. I reminded myself to smile because I knew that I wasn’t and that smiling was probably the right thing to do.
As I moved and talked and worked, my stomach churned uncomfortably. I could barely look at the food. I placed the finished pies in the “oven” and retrieved the completed ones for the hosts to eat with me.
Eat. I had to eat. Could I?
If Grand-mère could move to America as a widow and successfully run a pastry shop on her own, I could eat pie on local morning television. I squared my shoulders and took a bite while Waverly and Dean happily munched away.
The pie tasted like sand to me, absorbing the remaining moisture from my mouth. “The fruit is bright and pairs so well with the buttery pastry,” I croaked.
And then it came to an end. Waverly and Dean thanked me before turning to the camera—the hulking menace—and saying something about … something. I wasn’t even listening.
The director cut to commercial. Waverly complimented my necklace, Dean shook my hand, and I was whisked away from the set by yet another production assistant.
After a ten-minute walk, I was safely back inside my car, a depleted husk of a human being.
And I still had to go to work.
I stopped back by home just long enough to change my shoes and then left for the office.
Marti whooped when she saw me. “It was perfect!” she said, wrapping her short arms around me in a hug. “Wouldn’t have changed a thing. You were so natural. And your column? The Internet traffic has tripled. Good work!”
I thanked her and continued to my desk.
“You made it!” Linn cried when she saw me. “How did it go?”
“I still think I might throw up,” I said as I sank into my chair.
“We all watched from the break room—you looked great, you sounded great. Very natural.”
“I don’t know how,” I replied, my voice flat. “I was terrified.”
Linn nodded sagely. “Well, it didn’t come through that way, and you haven’t thrown up so far. That’s the important part.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I guess.”
�
��Are you going to do it again?”
“Good heavens, I hope not,” I told her, before opening my latest article and digging into the familiarity of work.
My phone started ringing the second I started my lunch break. “You were wonderful,” my mother said, sounding happier than I’d heard her for weeks. “Your dress looked wonderful on camera, so much better than that Waverly woman. And your pastry looked perfect—I’m so proud of you. Your grandmother would have been too.”
My heart squeezed. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Those hand pies looked really good,” Sophie said when she called moments later. “I’m glad you told that Dean guy that premade dough is a bad idea. All those additives and stabilizers. Did you have fun?”
“It was an experience,” I told her.
Alex sent me a congratulatory text. Chloé called after she’d watched the segment on the DVR, squealing over the experience of seeing me on TV. My dad called from the restaurant after the lunch shift ended, telling me how proud he was and how authoritative I sounded.
Caterina sent me an e-mail ranting about how long it was taking the studio to upload the day’s episode onto the Internet.
I responded to each conversation and missive as graciously as I could; I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it had been the worst morning of my life within recent memory. By the end of the day, the video clip had been posted on the front page of the food section’s website. Lots of clicks, lots of comments, and all I wanted was to go home and go to bed.
Instead, I left work an hour early to supervise the workers installing the range for the new restaurant. Though I took my laptop, I still didn’t get the work done that I wanted to, so I had to use the late-night hours to complete my latest column.
The following Monday, Nico, Adrian, Clementine, and I gathered in the newly refurbished kitchen to begin work on the menu.
Nico and Adrian brought the groceries, bags and bags of supplies, every food group represented. Clementine parsed through the goods, setting aside the eggs, butter, fruits, and vanilla beans, dipping into her own stash of Valrhona chocolate.
“Saw your segment on Portland Sunrise,” Adrian said. “You looked good.”
“Thanks,” I replied as I organized dry goods on shelves.
“I was sorry to hear about your mom and her cancer,” he continued. “How is she?”
“Hanging in there, doing treatments,” I answered. “She’s a strong lady.”
“I’m praying,” he said, before getting to work with the ingredients.
I wondered later what he’d meant. Was he a man of faith, a believer? Or was he the sort of person who threw out spiritual-sounding platitudes? Only time would tell, though I reasoned that if I really wanted to know, I could ask Nico.
While Nico, Adrian, and Clementine worked, I busied myself with the front of the house. Alex had delivered the chairs from D’Alisa & Elle the day before, and I spent the next half hour dragging tables around and arranging the chairs around them.
Strains of friendly banter floated toward the front; I smiled. It would be a happy kitchen, the kind where everyone competed a little but gave a lot, where the camaraderie created strong friendships and better food. The strains of Barcelona, R.E.M., Caro Emerald, and Mumford & Sons provided the soundtrack to the work.
I ached to be there, in the midst of it. To be working with my hands, tasting, choosing.
But my job was to make the whole thing work, to make sure the front of the house complemented the food, to make sure that the whole thing ran smoothly. And anyway, my place was at the newspaper.
Wasn’t it?
STRAWBERRY AND BASIL HAND PIES
For the crust:
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup whole-wheat pastry flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 tablespoon powdered sugar
1 cup unsalted butter, sliced and chilled
1 egg, lightly beaten and chilled
3 to 5 tablespoons ice water
For the filling:
3 cups fresh strawberries, preferably small and organic, hulled and sliced
1½ tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1½ tablespoons honey, more if the berries are on the firm side
½ teaspoon basil leaves, minced
½ teaspoon lemon zest
Squeeze of lemon juice
After assembling:
1 to 2 eggs, beaten
Sparkling or demerara sugar
To make the pastry:
Whisk the dry ingredients for the crust together in a medium-sized mixing bowl.
Add the chilled slices of butter and work into the dry ingredients with a pastry cutter (or use a food processor). Cut the butter in, or pulse, until the mixture looks like small peas.
Add the egg and mix with the pastry cutter. Add the ice water a tablespoon at a time, cutting and scraping until a dough forms. The dough should feel just a little tackier than a standard pie dough.
Shape the dough into two equal disks, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and allow the dough to rest in the refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours.
To make the filling:
Place all the filling ingredients, save the basil, in a large saucepan—an enameled dutch oven is perfect for this—and give everything a good stir.
Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the sugar melts, the berries soften, and the juices have thickened—about 5 to 8 minutes.
Remove from the heat and sprinkle the basil over the top. Stir and then cover, and allow to cool. If you’re going to assemble the pies much later, refrigerate the mixture.
Assemble the pies:
Preheat oven to 375°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
Place a small handful of flour on a pastry cloth and spread it around. Working with one pastry disk at a time, dust the top and bottom with a bit of flour to prevent sticking.
Roll the dough out with a rolling pin in single-direction strokes (center to back, lift, center to back, rather than back and forth over the dough) until the dough is about ⅛-inch thick.
With a sharp paring knife, cut dough into circles about 6 inches in diameter. You can use a teacup saucer as a guide, but just know that they might come out smaller, depending on the saucer. If you have enough dough, roll your scraps together for another circle. (If not, brush the scraps with butter, dust with cinnamon-sugar, and bake separately from the pies to make piecrust cookies.)
Repeat with the second disk of dough. In a small bowl, beat the egg for the egg wash.
Spoon about 1½ tablespoons filling into the rounds—you don’t want to overfill. Dip your finger—or a pastry brush—into the egg wash, and brush the egg around the edge. Carefully fold the pie closed into a half-moon shape, running your finger over the edge to seal it shut. Crimp the edge with a fork, and then use the fork to poke a few holes in the top to vent.
Coat the pie all over with the egg wash, and place on the baking sheet. Sprinkle with sugar. (You could also sprinkle a little coarse sea salt, if you wanted.)
Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, rotating the baking sheets halfway. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Makes about 12 pies.
You have to be a romantic to invest yourself, your money, and your time in cheese.
—ANTHONY BOURDAIN
Between all my work at the newspaper and work at the restaurant, the weeks flew by. The producer at Portland Sunrise called to thank me for my appearance and asked if we could schedule another appearance.
The date she asked for turned out to be the Friday when Neil would be in town.
I couldn’t turn it down—with all the publicity from the appearance bolstering my column and the rest of the department, Marti would be livid if I pleaded anxiety and backed out.
My nerves were not calm when the producer informed me that the Friday episodes were filmed before a live audience. But I agreed to the appearance on the condition that I could procu
re an audience ticket for Neil.
Maybe he wouldn’t use it. Maybe we wouldn’t hit it off. As his visit approached, so did my apprehension. What if he didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like him?
What would I do if we didn’t like each other in real life? Because the uncomfortable reality remained: I had grown very attached to the version of Neil who arrived in my e-mail inbox.
I wanted to go shopping, wanted to find something new that I felt fabulous in, but time I used shopping would have been time not working, and I intended to have as much writing saved up as possible to maximize my time with Neil.
Instead, I searched my closet for a navy swiss-dotted sundress and paired it with one of Grand-mère’s cotton cardigans, a raspberry-hued number with beading at the neck. The sleeves were too short, but I figured folding them up would make them three-quarter length enough to pass muster. I also found a set of beaded hair combs the same shade as the sweater and set those aside to use.
The Wednesday he flew in, he sent me a text.
Just landed! Bought an umbrella at the airport. Looking forward to seeing you :-)
My fingers shook slightly as I texted a reply.
Glad your flight landed safely! Sorry about the umbrella—it does rain in Tennessee, doesn’t it?
See you Thursday!
When Thursday rolled around, I was undeniably jittery. At around T minus four hours, Clementine fixed me with her gaze.
“Okay, what is going on?”
I stopped mid–nail polish swipe. “Nothing. Just needed a fresh coat.”
Clementine sat down beside me. “Uh-huh. So you finally agreed to go out with Adrian?”
“No! And what do you mean, finally? He’s never actually asked.”
“Probably because you’ve worked very hard to make sure he knows you’re not interested.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 16
