by Una LaMarche
And then I got pregnant.
Long before I became a mother, I was, as my Sonoma County aunt is fond of saying, “a lover of the grape.” When I learned of my fecundity, I panicked, and not for the normal reasons, like the fear that all women have upon conception that they will end up looking like a fully inflated Violet Beauregarde until the end of time. No, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep the baby a secret. Not drinking would be a dead giveaway to my friends, so I continued to hold stemware at parties, feigning sips, because to abstain among anyone who had seen the old, half-a-bottle-a-night me in action, the jig would immediately be up.
My pregnancy, of course, was mostly booze-free. I thought this would be an ordeal, with some kind of terrifying, Trainspotting-esque withdrawal sequence in which I sweated and keened and tried to carve my way into a box of wine with a Bic pen. Both my general practitioner and my midwife assured me that the occasional drink—even a few ounces of wine every day!—would be fine, but surprisingly I found that my cravings for egg salad sandwiches and watermelon eclipsed my nostalgia for riojas and tempranillos. I harbored abstinence-induced fantasies of glugging a delicious, fat glass of red as soon as I went into labor, for relaxation and pain-killing purposes, but since it ended up starting at six a.m., the first contractions promptly followed by retching over the side of the bed into a Citarella bag, I did not, in the end, feel like a drink.
That all changed by the time my son was about two months old. Once I had adjusted to the constant sleep deprivation and completed the Mensa application that is the unassisted donning of a Moby Wrap, I felt ready to take a happy hour test run.
I started with an adventurous outing—by which I mean something that involved pants with a button, washing my hair, and taking the subway: meeting a friend, who in my former life had been a favorite drinking buddy, at a downtown bar at five p.m. I ordered a glass of wine and single-handedly demolished a bowl of complimentary potato chips with the vacuum power (and approximate grace) of a Flowbee. Nothing abnormal there. But as the dinner rush started and people filled the bar, I received some lingering glances. Because on my lap, buried under the potato detritus, sat my kid. He was relatively quiet, especially given the noise, but seemed out of place attempting to gnaw on the craft beer taps. My friend was proud of me, and even bragged on Facebook that she’d lured Sam out to his first bar. But I was self-conscious.
“People judged me,” I reported to my husband when I got home, still pleasantly relaxed from my drink, which was prominently displayed on my leg from when Sam had grabbed at the stem, sending precious droplets sloshing.
“I’m sure they weren’t judging you.”
“No, they did,” I insisted. “It was like that line, from Sweet Home Alabama.”
He blinked. “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”
“‘You have a baby . . . in a bar,’” I said, approximating Reese Witherspoon’s Tennessee twang. Jeff furrowed his brow.
“Well, I mean . . . you did.”
“You’re missing the nuance of the delivery!” I shouted, and I stormed off to get back into my maternity jeggings.
A few weeks later, I learned that a German beer hall in my neighborhood hosted weekly “playdates” in the midafternoon, before patrons employed by larger and presumably more continent bosses got out of work. I showed up at two thirty on a Thursday to find colorful mats covering the floors and fellow nursing moms nursing liters of pale beer cross-legged as their infants flailed beneath them.
The atmosphere seemed friendly enough, until a sour-faced twentysomething bartender approached and had me sign a sobering waiver promising never to let my child touch anything outside the boundary of the play space and swear upon pain of expulsion to use the changing table—inexplicably located in the men’s room—for diaper duty. I got that it was health code stuff, but the contract still seemed awfully formal. That, coupled with the fact that there were no drink specials, left me cold. So I turned to my last resort: playgroup.
Every week or so I was meeting with a small klatch of other moms and their babies at one of our Brooklyn homes. E-mails were usually exchanged the day before to plan the potluck menu.
I’m picking up some hummus and carrot sticks! one would write.
I’m trying some no-bake energy balls I saw on Pinterest! another might chime in.
One week, the host was going through a personal crisis, so I jumped at the opportunity to drown her sorrows. If only you were a drinker, I would bring a bottle of wine for “snack,” I typed, adding a winking emoticon to communicate that I was totally kidding, ha-ha, unless . . . she was into it.
I hit send.
Seconds later, a reply came from one of the other members: So glad you said it—I’ve been dying to suggest a little boozy playgroup but didn’t want to sound like the alchy mom!!
That Wednesday we cheered impishly as we popped a bottle of Prosecco. If David Attenborough had been narrating the scene, he might have observed, The American stay-at-home mother, unable to keep social engagements after five p.m. with any reliability and shamed out of bringing a stroller to the local cocktail bar, finds comfort in tippling away during daylight hours with others of her species. In my prebaby life, daytime drinking might have signaled a problem; now, it seemed the only acceptable time. Oh, well, I thought, tipping back my glass as Raffi recited the colors en español. When in Rome! Which was the most depressing thing I could have said, since Rome has the Coliseum and the Sistine Chapel and spaghetti carbonara, and I was sitting on a urineproof plastic pad, wet spots blooming on my T-shirt as I ate peanut butter mixed with oats in sticky globs the size of horse testicles.
Eventually, that playgroup disbanded and I reverted to my prebaby drinking ritual, which involves zero travel and one hundred percent more television, math I can really get behind. Now most nights after Sam falls asleep I have a glass of wine while very quietly watching Masters of Sex on my computer, with headphones. It’s a party, I’m not gonna lie. And when I feel that tug of doubt that shadows pretty much every moment of motherhood but especially the self-indulgent ones, the voice that wonders aloud in my ear if maybe I’m not being a little irresponsible, and that maybe instead of illegally streaming explicit Showtime dramas and getting tipsy I should be fermenting my own Play-Doh or learning how to make a pancake that doesn’t look like the Elephant Man, I tell it to hush.
Because I am a grown woman who has learned how to hold her drink, and care for her child, who has a closet floor full of unsullied purses—unless you count dried banana—and a glass that is metaphorically, and also hopefully literally, half-full. At least most of the time.
Gratuitous Foodity
Lately I’ve noticed a troubling trend. Whenever I ask my husband to fetch or prepare food for me I have to give him orders that make me sound like a disgusting, down-market version of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.
On coffee
“Put in a lot of half-and-half, okay? More than you think anyone would want. Try to achieve a cup of half-and-half with a subtle coffee flavor. And don’t skimp on the sugar. Give me four packets, and if they only have the big pour containers, turn it upside down and count to ten, and make sure no lumps are obstructing the opening.”
On sandwiches
“I want more mayonnaise than the FDA advises a single person to consume at one sitting. Put on an amount that makes you recoil and then add another teaspoon. Also I want the cheese layer to be thicker than the meat layer by a ratio of two to one.”
On fries
“It should look like you’re making a Carrie diorama, only the people are fries and the blood is ketchup. I want the splatter to reach all four corners of the container. They should need to call in Dexter.”
The hard truth is that I can get away with being a truly revolting eater because I’m thin. It’s not fair, but it’s a fact: if you’re a small person, you can shove all manner of junk in your face and people will t
itter and say, “Oh, where does it go?” like you’re adorable for trying to eat a whole ham in one sitting. For some reason our culture has decided that a thin person eating a six-foot sub is cute, while a heavy person doing the same thing is a slob and should be fat-shamed until he or she learns to live on steamed salmon and wilted spinach seasoned only with his or her own bitter tears. So I have made it my mission in life to disgust people with my food choices, until they are forced to persecute me, too.
I saw a tweet from The Tyra Banks Show the other day that asked, Do you folks have any “BFF’s: Best Food Frenemies”?!
Oh, sweet fancy cupcakes, yes, I thought, smizing with my epiglottis.
First of all, since you asked, Tyra: nachos. With everything. Suspect-looking ground beef, black beans, gobs of sour cream and guac, melted cheese, jalapeños . . . I like the chips to take on a mushy, wilted consistency so that I can eat my nachos with a spoon.
Next, Tater Tots. Crispy and golden brown, drowning in ketchup. I used to be so jealous when the school lunch included Tater Tots and I was stuck with my sad whole-wheat peanut butter (no jelly) sandwich that no one wanted to trade for.
Frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts, toasted to slightly burned ooziness, served with a tall glass of cold whole milk.
Rice Krispies Treats. Not the kind they sell at bodegas; the kind you make from scratch that taste like real butter and stick to your fingers. I can’t make these anymore because I just start eating from the pan before they cool and then I get a crazy sugar high and start reorganizing my closet.
Pasta. I love pasta so fucking much I’d be the Mario Batali of loving pasta if Mario Batali didn’t already exist. If I had to cut out carbs I would want to kill myself, and I would do it with pasta. Giant bowls of linguine with fresh clam sauce, tortellini with pesto and Parmesan cheese, penne à la vodka, orecchiette with sausage and cream, spaghetti carbonara, baked ziti, rigatoni Bolognese, oozing lasagnas . . . I’m actually aroused right now. Tell the Papa John’s delivery boy to stay in the car.
Indian food, specifically rich, creamy chicken tikka masala (in keeping with my fat-laden palate, I like only developing-world food designed for American food courts) into which I dip chunks of soft, warm naan. Rice? Fuck the bowl of rice. (Sorry, Asia.)
Sushi, especially spicy salmon rolls liberally topped with that heavenly spicy mayonnaise that negates the healthfulness of the fish. (Sorry again, Asia; Japan this time.)
Everything bagels, the perfect crispy-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside New York kind, slathered with full-fat cream cheese and topped with a thin slice of lox.
An artery-clogging cheese plate—triple-crème L’Explorateur, creamy goat cheese with truffles, nutty Manchego, smoked Gouda, and extra-sharp cheddar—served with slices of crusty French bread.
Oh, whoops. I just clicked on the Tyra Show’s link and they meant friends who tempt you to eat more, not frenemies actually made of food.
Whatever, Tyra. Me and Nachos don’t need you anyway.
Ten Fictional Restaurants I Fantasize About Eating at Probably More Than Is Normal
10. Captain Hook Fish and Chips, in Fast Times at Ridgemont High
I don’t even really like fish, but Judge Reinhold dressed as a pirate seals the deal.
9. The Max, in Saved by the Bell
Not so much for the menu; more for the subtly elegant neon geometric ’80s decor and impromptu dance performances.
8. Chotchkie’s, in Office Space
Because I like finding pieces of flair in my food.
7. McDowell’s, in Coming to America
When even the janitor is wearing a plaid bow tie, you know you’re in for some fine-ass dining.
6. T.G.I. Friday’s . . . but only the one from Cocktail, where Tom Cruise throws drinks in the air
(Get Donald Glover to make quesadillas while twerking at Applebee’s and I might reconsider.)
5. Jackrabbit Slim’s, in Pulp Fiction
A boring choice, maybe, but who can resist eating in a car? (And no, McDonald’s in the backseat of our family’s 1979 Datsun trapped in 1-95 traffic does not count.) Also, in today’s economy that much-maligned five-dollar shake seems like a deal.
4. The Peach Pit, in Beverly Hills, 90210
Because I would like fries with Brandon Walsh’s dreamy eyes and white-boy flattop.
3. The Lanford Lunch Box, in Roseanne
What does it say about me that I’m basically dying to be served a sloppy joe by Roseanne? Is this as obviously sexual as the dream I had in eighth grade about sitting on a plane next to David Duchovny?
2. Ziggy’s Ice Cream Parlor, in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure
I’m 99 percent positive I could finish the “Ziggy Pig” but there’s only one way to find out. And it’s killing me a little bit inside that I can’t.
1. The Italian restaurant in Defending Your Life
Anyone who’s seen this 1991 Albert Brooks gem knows that when you’re hanging out between life and afterlife, calories don’t exist. The conceit of the running gag is that you can eat as much as you want of the most delicious food you’ve ever tasted and you’ll never feel sick or gain weight. So, yeah. That’s the holy grail of totally made-up eateries where I would face-plant into the hot buffet in my appetite-whetting dreams.
I feel like this list was a really good use of our collective time, don’t you?
RECIPE SECTION
(This was important to include so that the book cover can feature the words “Recipes Inside!” This is my second-favorite food-related advertising phrase, after “Pudding in the Mix!” and I think it will help sales if this ever ends up shoved next to the stack of Prevention magazines by the checkout at Super Stop & Shop.)
Sacrilicious Expired Easter Cake
Directions
1. Buy frozen Sara Lee pound cake. Serve with whipped cream and strawberries, then return to fridge in questionably loose Saran wrapping.
2. Approximately two weeks later, gingerly lift bricklike remains of cake from aluminum container. Arrange in center of plate.
3. Using expired whipped cream, make a mound in the center of the cake and two football-shaped ears at the top.
4. Find raisins. There are always raisins somewhere—check your carpets and the bottom of all your (non-vomited-in) purses. Use smidges of whipped cream to affix raisins in and above center mound in approximation of eyes and nose.
5. Before you put it away, dispense whipped cream directly into mouth. (Whipped cream never really goes bad, plus at least you’re not doing something more dangerous, like whippets.)
6. Did you bake a cake in the last three years? Then surely you have some dusty tubes of congealed icing somewhere in the pantry! Drag those suckers out, and use to make nose, eyebrows (optional), mouth, and inner ear.
7. Use icing to write tender Easter message to Jesus (alternative idea: “What’s up, Doc?”).
8. Present to horrified Catholic relatives.
Serving suggestions: Actually, you probably should not eat this.
Tootsie Roll Log Cabin
Where Satan lives, obviously.
Directions
1. Take giant bowl of Tootsie Rolls, unwrap while watching premiere of The Real Housewives of Wherever and drinking wine.
2. Stack them haphazardly, like Pa Ingalls might have done, if he had also been drunk. Drink more wine.
3. Attempt to stick Twizzler roof on with honey. Realize this is a bad idea. Drink more wine, and fetch sewing kit you have never used for anything other than attempting to fasten Twizzler roof to Tootsie Roll log cabin—Mom did always say it would come in handy!
4. Pin Twizzlers to cabin. Present to husband. Beam when he asks, “Is it a . . . turd yurt?”
5. Eat, as you are compelled to do with all failed arts and crafts projects. Dodge pins to avoid tongue piercing.
&nb
sp; One of my favorite varieties of news stories is People Getting into (Nonfatal) Physical Fights over Trivial Things. My favorite subcategory of that oeuvre is People Getting into (Nonfatal) Physical Fights over Food. And if I had to choose a favorite sub-subcategory, it would have to be People Getting into (Nonfatal) Physical Fights over Food That Costs Less than Four Dollars.
Lucky for me, there are literally countless instances of this phenomenon in America, also known as VH1’s Most Awesomely Baddest Country on Earth, and hungry tempers seem to flare most frequently in the winter. They should rename February Don’t Touch My Food, Bitch month. (I’m sure Black History will understand.)
While perusing news on the subject, the biggest lesson seems to be: do not frequent fast-food drive-throughs after dark, especially in Waco, Texas, or anywhere in Massachusetts. But I’m more interested in the intimate battles set in private homes, in which one person steals from another person’s private stash. For example, the case in Staten Island a few years ago in which a sixteen-year-old kidnapped her boyfriend’s daughter after he smacked her . . . for eating the last Hot Pocket. Yes, that’s a class B felony with a sentence of one to three years in prison . . . in the name of Hot Pockets. If I ever run for office and Sean Hannity asks me on national TV why I love America, that is the story I’m going to tell.
But I think my all-time favorite Physical Fight over Food That Costs Less than Four Dollars was when a Florida woman threatened her roommate with scissors, hit her with a board, and then knocked her to the ground and beat her because the roommate had fed a box of her Thin Mints . . . to the assailant’s own hungry children.
