by Dana Bate
In the light from my laptop, I watch Blake’s half-naked body rise and fall atop my air mattress, the sound of his snoring falling somewhere between a rumbling motor and a purring kitten. Somehow my knowledge of this intimate detail—that he snores, how he snores—is like finding another edge piece in a complicated puzzle. I still have a big hole to fill, but at least I have the makings of a frame: how Blake sleeps and snores and kisses, what makes him smile and makes him sad, where he goes to be alone and when. And what I know, more than anything, is that I want to find all the pieces to this puzzle—to complete this picture someday and make it whole—and I hope, oh I hope I am one of those pieces.
I roll onto my side, away from Blake, and as I do I hear him rustle beneath the sheets. He draws close and wraps his arm around me, pressing my body into his bare chest as he kisses my shoulder.
“I think I might be falling in love with you,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
I can’t tell whether he is awake or not, but I reply anyway, whispering into the stillness of the room. “Me, too.”
When he squeezes me, I know he heard, but soon he starts snoring again, and I realize there’s a good chance he won’t remember this moment in the morning. Were I sleeping next to someone else, I might worry; I might jostle him awake to validate this emotional exchange. But with Blake, I know I don’t have to. Tonight we came close to saying those precious words—the I and the love and the you—but I know for certain it won’t be the last.
CHAPTER
forty-five
On the first Sunday in January, I find myself standing in my kitchen at 1774 ½ Church Street, swirling together a mixture of butter, cream, and sugar on my tiny stove top. Tonight I am cooking dinner for Blake in my apartment, my last home-cooked meal as a nonculinary student. Tomorrow I begin my program at L’Academie de Cuisine.
My acceptance came late in the game, only a week or so before Christmas. According to Blake, the letter had been mailed to his address instead and got lost among the piles of bills and insurance notices. The program requires a long commute all the way to Gaithersburg, Maryland—a thirty-five-minute drive, or a heck of a long Metro and bus ride. Eventually I’ll rely on public transportation, but for my first week, Blake is letting me borrow his car. That he is allowing me to borrow anything of his after the supper club debacle is a testament to how much he must like me.
As I stir the pan of cream, the unmistakable whiff of roasting nuts floats past my nostrils. I panic: I burnt the pecans. Crap.
I rip open my oven door, grabbing at the sheet pan with a gloved hand. I lay the pan on the counter, shaking it back and forth to inspect every russet-colored nut. The pecans are fine, perfectly toasted, although a minute longer would have put them over the edge. Crisis averted.
I dump the pecans onto a sheet of parchment paper to cool and return to the stove, where the rest of my carrot cake filling bubbles away, its creamy whiteness giving way to a light golden brown. I could have chosen any dessert for tonight’s dinner—cheesecake, ice cream, Sacher torte, chocolate mousse—but choosing the carrot cake was a no-brainer. I’ve never made it for Blake before, and I wanted something special to celebrate his reinstatement to the Dupont Circle ANC. Besides, everyone loves my carrot cake. Everyone.
Blake found out last week that the Dupont Circle Advisory Neighborhood Commission had read my letter and requested to meet with him to reconsider his resignation. They took a vote, and aside from one crotchety commissioner, they all voted to reinstate him as the commissioner for Ward 2B07. Truthfully, I think they were just happy they didn’t have to find a replacement, since Blake’s opponent moved to Maryland after the election. But either way, Blake is back and in the clear, with no stigma attached to his name—other than dating me, of course.
The good news is that the health department has decided not to fine me for holding an unlicensed restaurant out of Blake’s town house. Someone from the Food Safety and Hygiene Inspection Services Division sent me a curt letter in the mail, my first and final warning to terminate the operations of The Dupont Circle Supper Club immediately, and so—for now, at least—The Dupont Circle Supper Club is no more. Not that I needed an official warning. The memory of Blake’s kitchen ablaze will provide all the restraint I need for quite some time.
I scoop the cake filling into a bowl to cool, toss my apron onto the counter, and gather together my bags for the Dupont Circle farmers’ market. I haven’t been in weeks, ever since the fire, but today I plan to pick up the ingredients for our dinner. If past experience is any indication, I will buy enough food to feed the entire House of Representatives.
When I arrive at the corner of Twentieth and Q, the Dupont market is already in full swing, although not as swinging as it was a few months ago. The winter market caters to the die-hard fans, those who won’t be kept away by freezing temperatures or a little snow, and so the usual deluge has slowed to a thin but steady stream of regulars.
I take my customary practice lap, scouting out the best-looking celery root and potatoes and pricing out the Brussels sprouts and kale. The winter sky hovers above me like liquid mercury, silvery and bright, casting shadows around the dozens of colorful tents.
“Hannah, Hannah, bo bana!”
Shauna calls to me from beneath her green-and-white tent, smiling widely as she rubs together her gloved hands. I skip up to her tent and lean across the ice tray to give her a hug. “Long time no see,” I say.
“Where have you been? It’s been, what, almost a month?”
“Life got … complicated. But I’m back! And I need two petit filets.”
“Take your pick,” she says, pointing to the corner of the ice tray. “We have a few packages.”
I scan the tray for two suitable filets, which I plan to sear and serve tonight with a red wine reduction, celery root puree, and roasted Brussels sprouts. I grab two filets, along with some chicken breasts and a packet of bacon, and hand them to Shauna. “That should do me for now.”
Shauna grabs her calculator and tallies up my goods. “A lot less than you used to buy,” she says. “Scaling back?”
I chuckle. “Something like that.”
“Yeah, well, keep an eye on those flames tonight, huh?” She winks. “Kidding, kidding. But remember, whenever you decide to—ahem—throw some sort of underground party again, I’m here for all of your butchering needs.”
“Finest pork in America, right?”
Shauna raises an eyebrow. “Damn straight.”
We load the meat into one of my bags, and I stop by a few more stands to load up on celery root, potatoes, kabocha squash, butternut squash, and Brussels sprouts. By the time I finish, my load rivals the weight of a small rhinoceros.
Standing in the gated area of the market, I shuffle toward the opening facing Massachusetts Avenue, never fully lifting my feet off the ground. Every few steps I drop the bags on the pavement, shake out my arms and begin again. I’m fairly certain I’ve already pinched a nerve in my neck, and at any moment, my left shoulder might dislocate.
“Need any help?”
I whirl around and find Blake standing in front of a table of mushrooms, wearing a thick jacket and a pair of gloves. The winter cold has stained his cheeks and nose the color of bing cherries.
I rest my bags on the ground and wipe my brow with the back of my hand. “What are you doing here?”
He laughs as he comes close. “I know you, Sugarman. When you said you were heading to the farmers’ market this morning, I knew there was no way you’d buy anything less than your body weight in food.”
I survey the bags around me, all overflowing with squash and tubers. “Am I that transparent?”
“Not transparent. Consistent.” He eyes my bags. “Wow, you really went to town, huh? That one squash is as big as you are.”
“Almost—but not quite.”
“And not nearly as cute.” He grabs me by the waist and pulls me in for a kiss, his thick hands resting on my hips. “Here, let me help you.”
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Blake grabs three of the bags, the heaviest ones, and I throw the last over my shoulder. We walk toward Massachusetts Avenue, flanked on either side by tents and open crates. Ahead of us, a dozen or so people push past each other on their way through the wide gate.
“So where to, Sugarman? What’s next?”
Around us, the market bustles with activity—the guitar player on the corner and the people walking their dogs and the couples sharing croissants as they laugh at each other’s jokes. The city pulsates with energy on every corner, the same energy that has swirled through its veins for weeks and months and years, and yet somehow it all seems more alive because of the person standing next to me.
“Home,” I say. “Take me home.”
The next morning, at the ripe hour of 6:15 A.M., Blake and I stumble out of my apartment and walk toward his parking space at the corner of Eighteenth and Church. We spent the night together, as we have for the past two weeks, his arm wrapped around me throughout my fitful sleep. Normally after a meal of that size and caliber, I would have slept like a baby, but ahead of my first day of culinary school, I barely slept at all.
He wraps his arm around me as we approach the corner and rubs my shoulder. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be great. I know it.”
I give my hair a twist, tying it into a knot on my head. I’ve followed L’Academie’s instructions to the letter: hair up, no jewelry, wearing casual clothes and a pair of kitchen clogs. My chef’s jackets will be waiting for me when I arrive, as will my black-and-white checkered pants, scarves, hats, and copies of our textbooks for the year: a 1,224-page reference called On Cooking, and Le Répertoire de la Cuisine, a guide to the cuisine of French cooking legend Auguste Escoffier, written by his student Louis Saulnier and containing some six thousand dishes. I still can’t believe this is actually happening.
When we get to Blake’s car, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me tight. I lace my arms through his and press my head against his chest, listening to the thump-thump of his heart, strong and steady like a metronome. I close my eyes and squeeze Blake tighter, wanting this feeling, this closeness, to last forever. But I have a thirty-five-minute drive ahead of me, and so I pull away and kiss him softly on the lips.
“Time to go,” I say.
Blake gives me another squeeze and then hands me the keys to his car. I hop inside, toss my purse onto the passenger’s seat, and stick the key into the ignition as I lower the window in front of Blake’s smiling face.
“I’ll talk to you tonight,” he says. He leans in and gives me one last kiss. “Good luck.”
I stare into Blake’s eyes, which shine like polished silver in the early-morning light. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
He grins. “Sure you could have. You just needed a little push.”
I smile and, turning away from Blake, peer through the front windshield. Today it begins. A new chapter. A fresh start. A long-awaited commencement. My future is uncertain—full of potential pitfalls and failures, full of possible heartbreak and loss—but it is, nevertheless, mine. My future, and no one else’s. I can’t say I have any idea what awaits me at L’Academie de Cuisine, but there’s no way to find out but to dive right into the mud pit of the unknown and wiggle around until I’m good and dirty. Today is when it all starts, and I can’t afford to waste another second.
I blow Blake a kiss, raise the window, and put the car into gear. Then I step down on the gas pedal, and I drive.
Recipes
Old-Fashioned Braised Brisket
Adapted from Kelly Alexander
Serves 8
As Hannah Sugarman knows, the number one rule of brisket making is to make the brisket a day in advance. It’s always better the second day. If you don’t own a Dutch oven or a pot big enough to hold the brisket, you can sear the meat in a big frying pan and then transfer the meat and vegetables to a roasting dish or casserole and cover with aluminum foil.
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon ground black pepper
1 tablespoon paprika
2 teaspoons oregano
1 5-to 6-pound brisket, trimmed of some of its fat
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
3½ cups low-sodium chicken stock, store-bought or homemade
1 14½-ounce can diced tomatoes
2 bay leaves
3 medium yellow onions, peeled and thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
Preheat oven to 350°F. Mix together the salt, pepper, paprika, and oregano in a small bowl. Rub the spice mixture all over the brisket.
Over medium-high heat, heat the oil in a heavy, ovenproof pot with a tight-fitting lid, just large enough to hold the brisket snugly. Add the brisket to the pot and brown on both sides, about 10 minutes per side. Transfer the brisket to a platter and pour off the fat from the pot. Return the pot to the stove top and add the stock, tomatoes, and bay leaves. Bring to a simmer, scraping up any browned bits stuck to the bottom of the pot. Return brisket and any accumulated juices to the pot and scatter the onions and garlic over the meat in an even layer. Cover the pot, transfer to the oven, and braise for 1 hour. Uncover the pot and continue to cook the brisket for another hour.
Push some of the onions and garlic into the braising liquid surrounding the brisket. Put the cover back on the pot and return to the oven, continuing to braise the brisket until it is very tender when pierced with the tip of a sharp-pointed knife, up to 2 hours more (for a total of 4 hours). You can check after an hour to monitor its progress; your knife should slide into the center of the brisket easily when the brisket is done.
Remove brisket from the pot and place in a 9-by-13-inch baking dish. When braising liquid is cool enough to handle, remove the bay leaves and puree in a blender or food processor, or with an immersion blender. Pour the pureed liquid over the brisket, cover the dish with aluminum foil, and refrigerate overnight.
A few hours before serving, remove the brisket from the refrigerator. Take the brisket out of the baking dish, wiping off any sauce, and place on a cutting board. Slice the brisket across the grain, then transfer slices back into the baking dish. Let stand at room temperature for 1 to 2 hours, covered.
Preheat oven to 350° F. Cover the baking dish with aluminum foil and place in the oven for 30 to 45 minutes, until the liquid is bubbling and the meat is warmed throughout.
Pretzel Bread
From Sherry Yard
Makes 8 pretzels
DOUGH:
1¼ teaspoons active dry yeast
½ cup warm water
1¼ cup buttermilk
2 tablespoons light brown sugar
¾ teaspoon sugar
1½ teaspoons vegetable oil, plus more as needed (I use olive oil)
2 cups bread flour
1½ teaspoons salt
SIMMERING LIQUID:
2 quarts water
¼ cup amber beer
¼ cup baking soda
¼ cup packed light brown sugar
TO FINISH:
vegetable oil
2 tablespoons coarse sea salt
Make the dough: In a 16-ounce measuring cup, dissolve the yeast in the water and let it sit for 5 minutes, or until cloudy. Add the buttermilk, brown sugar, sugar, and vegetable oil and mix well.
Place the flour and salt in a bowl. Add the liquid mixture and knead until smooth.
Brush a large bowl with vegetable oil. Scrape out the dough and place in the bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and let it sit at room temperature for 1 hour.
Line 2 half-sheet pans with parchment paper and brush with oil. Lightly oil your work surface and your hands. Remove the dough from the bowl and press into a 6-inch square. Cut into 1½-by-3-inch rectangles. One at a time, shape each piece into a pretzel. (Cover the pieces you aren’t working on with plastic.) Roll each piece out into a 24-inch-long rope. Shape into a U, then crisscross the ends halfway up, twist
them together like a twist tie, and pull the legs down over the bottom of the U. Place the shaped pretzels onto the lined baking sheets. Cover them with lightly oiled plastic wrap and allow to rise for 30 minutes, or until not quite doubled.
While the pretzels are rising, place the oven racks in the upper and lower thirds of the oven and preheat to 450°F. Cut the parchment the pretzels are on into squares to facilitate lifting and transferring the pretzels into the water bath.
In a 10-inch-wide stainless steel pot, combine the water, beer, baking soda, and brown sugar and bring to a simmer. Two at a time, lift the parchment squares and carefully reverse each pretzel off the parchment into the simmering water. Cook for 10 seconds and flip, using a skimmer or slotted spoon. Cook for another 10 seconds, and with the skimmer, lift each pretzel above the pan to drain. Then transfer each back to the baking sheets, rounded sides up. Brush with vegetable oil. Dust with coarse salt.
Bake, switching the sheets from top to bottom and rotating from front to back halfway through, for 15 minutes, or until the pretzels are chestnut brown. Be sure and check the bottoms—mine got a little toasty! Remove from the oven and serve warm.
Smoked Gouda Grilled Cheese with Caramelized Asian Pears
Serves 1
This recipe makes enough for one grilled cheese sandwich or 4 grilled cheese “squares,” but you can easily scale the recipe up to make as many as you’d like. These would also be tasty on honey-wheat bread.
CARAMELIZED PEARS:
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon sugar
4 ¼-inch-thick slices Asian pear
ASSEMBLY:
1 tablespoon butter, softened
2 slices brioche or challah, each ½-inch thick
½ tablespoon spicy honey mustard, preferably Honeycup
