A Homemade Life (22 page)

W
hen Brandon moved to Seattle, he brought a lot of New York with him. He brought the pink checked shirt that only he can wear well, his favorite old leather jacket, and a pair of red sneakers that look like part of a Spider-Man costume. He brought a bottle of hot sauce, a dented aluminum bowl that he uses for tossing salads, and a set of fancy skillets and saucepans scrounged up at T.J. Maxx. He also brought a deep-seated need for pizza, the kind that only an East Coaster can know. A couple of months after he arrived, I came home from running errands to find him jury-rigging the oven in our new apartment. He wanted, he explained, to make it climb past its factory-set ceiling of 550°F to something closer to 800. He'd taken an old white T-shirt, wet it under the faucet, and draped it over the thermostat prong, hoping to trick the oven into preheating longer and hotter. I came home shortly after the oven hit 700 and the T-shirt started to singe, filling the kitchen with an odor not unlike burnt hair. Sometimes I do miss those long-distance days.

But it is nice to have him around. Before Brandon moved to Seattle, I liked my city quite a bit. I thought I would probably stay here for a while, although I wasn't sure. But when he joined me, I fell in love. When you want someone to like your city, you go to great lengths to show him all of its best features, which has the unintended but very
welcome side effect of making you feel pretty smitten with it yourself. We went to Gasworks Park and watched the seaplanes come in on Lake Union. We sneaked wine into Golden Gardens, a strip of public beach on Puget Sound, and watched the sailboats come and go. We rented a rowboat and paddled around. We walked to the farmers' market on Sunday morning and spent way too much money on wild mushrooms. We had time now for that kind of thing, for everything.

 

When Brandon moved to Seattle, he made more friends within the first three months than I had in four years. He spread like wildflowers, in every way. I guess I could have been jealous, but since he shares them all with me, I can't complain. We may not have any proper family particularly close by, but we have a family of friends, which I am just as happy with. Especially because they're the kind of family who will come to dinner on short notice and don't even mind that last night's dishes are still in the sink.

Take our friend Olaiya, for instance, whom Brandon met about two months after he moved here, when he was working at a local restaurant. Olaiya was hired shortly after he was. Like Brandon, she had just moved to Seattle, only instead of New York, she was coming from Brussels, where she had lived for four years. Before that, she lived on the East Coast, and before that, she grew up in Wichita, Kansas, which means that, like me, she is, or was, a girl of the Great Plains. She is also a very, very good cook. Often, on nights when none of us is quite sure what to eat for dinner, she comes over and we take turns staring at the refrigerator until something materializes. One night, to go with a dinner of burgers from the grill, she roasted some sliced cauliflower until it was caramelized and then doused it with a sort of salsa verde, a lime and olive oil dressing spiked with garlic, cilantro, and jalapeño. It was so good that we wound up scooping the last crispy bits of cauliflower from the bowl with our fingers. She is a keeper.

Then there's Sam, a New Jersey native who arrived in Seattle by way of Poland (he likes a circuitous route) around the same time that
Brandon did. They met in late August, when Brandon was cutting back his schedule at the restaurant to start school again, a PhD program at the University of Washington. Sam was hired as his replacement. On his first day of work, Brandon was in charge of training him, and they hit it off right away, swapping the kind of stories that guys from Jersey like to tell. That afternoon, when Brandon came to pick me up at work, he brought Sam. We drove him home, and Sam told me about a book he'd been reading by Verlaine, I think, or one of those other French poets I'd had to study in college, and I remember thinking,
Hmm, that's very interesting.
And also,
Hmm, that sounds like torture.
I soon learned that Sam consumes books the way most of us consume food, which, though I do prefer to eat, is a quality I much admire. He is one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. He also makes a mean bowl of tabouli and the best sweet tea this side of the Mississippi. He and Brandon invented a ritual called Roadhouse, whereby we sit on Sam's back porch, drinking tea and listening to old country and blue-grass on the turntable. Before Sam, the only country music I knew was what I had heard in Oklahoma as a kid, and I hated it, but I now have a soft spot for Merle Haggard and Gram Parsons. I think it was the sweet tea that did it.

In the months before our wedding, Sam and Brandon played tennis almost every night, trading off between the community courts in his neighborhood and ours. There has never been better comedy than the two of them on a tennis court. When they serve, the ball actually bounces once before it crosses the net, and Sam does this fun hop thing when he hits the ball. They would come home sweaty and half-starved, and we'd open a bottle of something cold and throw together dinner. Our favorite meal that summer was one of the simplest: a few zucchini sliced into long strips on a mandoline, sautéed and then tossed with hot spaghetti and pesto. We called it “zucchini noodles,” for the way the long slivers of squash mimicked the shape of the spaghetti. We must have eaten it a dozen times.

 

There is an infinite number of reasons, I think, for loving someone. I love Brandon for lots of things, not the least of which is the fact that we found each other at all. But if I had to name just one reason, it would be this: because he made my home—my city and my little place within it—feel, for the first time, like home. It sounds sappy to say it so plainly, but I think you know what I mean. I wasn't lonely before he came along. I had no real complaints or grievances. Seattle was good to me. But with him, and everything that comes with him, it's so much better.

CARAMELIZED CAULIFLOWER WITH SALSA VERDE

i
've been roasting cauliflower for a long time, but until I met Olaiya, I'd never thought to serve it with a dressing. Needless to say, I've now changed my ways. This recipe needs no real guidelines other than this: be sure to make the salsa verde before roasting the cauliflower, so that it has time to sit. The garlic and lime need to mellow and meld, and you'll notice a marked difference in the flavor after about 30 minutes.

FOR THE SALSA VERDE

1 medium jalapeño, ribs and seeds removed, finely chopped

3 tablespoons finely chopped cilantro leaves

2 medium cloves garlic, minced with a pinch of salt

3 tablespoons fresh lime juice

4 tablespoons olive oil

Salt to taste

FOR THE CAULIFLOWER

1 medium cauliflower (2 to 2½ pounds)

2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil

Salt to taste

 

First, prepare the salsa verde. In a medium bowl, combine the jalapeño, cilantro, garlic, lime juice, and olive oil and whisk to combine. Add two pinches of salt, or more, to taste, and whisk well. Set aside at room temperature for at least 30 minutes and up to an hour.

Preheat the oven to 450°F.

Wash and dry the cauliflower well. Put it on a cutting board, stem side down, and slice it vertically, top down, into ¼-inch slices. You'll only get about 4 intact slices, and the rest will be a hash of cauliflower crumbs. That's okay. Put the cauliflower in a large bowl and toss with 2 tablespoons olive oil. (I find that my hands work best for this.) You want each little bit of cauliflower to get a thin coat of oil. If necessary, add 1 more tablespoon. Spread the cauliflower in a single layer on a heavy sheet pan, or if the pan seems crowded, use 2 pans. You don't
want it packed too tightly, or the cauliflower will steam rather than roast. Salt it lightly.

Bake until the cauliflower is tender, golden, and even deeply browned in spots, 20 to 30 minutes, turning once with a spatula. Salt lightly again.

Serve cauliflower hot or warm, with salsa verde on the side for drizzling.

 

Yield: 4 side-dish servings or 2 larger servings

ZUCCHINI NOODLES WITH PESTO

i
f you don't have a mandoline slicer, this recipe alone is worth the investment. We like Benriner brand, from Japan, which will only set you back about thirty-five dollars.

FOR THE PESTO

2 cups tightly packed basil leaves, washed and dried well

½ cup olive oil

3 tablespoons pine nuts

2 medium cloves garlic, minced

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup Parmigiano-Reggiano

FOR THE NOODLES

3 medium zucchini, trimmed (about 1½ pounds)

3 tablespoons olive oil

¾ pound dried spaghetti or other long noodles

Salt

Finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, for serving

 

First, make the pesto. Put the basil leaves in a large heavy-duty ziplock plastic bag. Press all the air from the bag, and seal it carefully. Put the bag on the countertop or floor and, using a rolling pin, pound the bag until all the leaves are bruised. This helps to release their flavor.

Put the pounded basil, olive oil, pine nuts, garlic, and salt in the bowl of a food processor. Process to a smooth, creamy consistency, stopping once or twice to scrape down the bowl with a rubber spatula. Transfer the mixture to a medium bowl, and stir in the Parmigiano-Reggiano. Set aside.

Put a large pot of salted water over high heat.

While the water heats, prepare the zucchini. Using a mandoline slicer fitted with the julienne blade, carefully slice the zucchini into long, skinny noodles, each the width of a strand of spaghetti.

Warm the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the zucchini “noodles” and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender but not mushy, 5 to 8 minutes.

When the pot of water boils, drop in the spaghetti. Cook until al dente. Using a pair of long-handled tongs—or, if you have one, a wire strainer with a long handle, also called a “spider”; that's what works best—scoop the pasta directly from the pot into the skillet of cooked zucchini. Doing it this way, rather than draining the spaghetti into a colander, means that each strand brings with it a little bit of its cooking water, which will loosen up the pesto and help it to form a nice sauce. Add ½ cup of the pesto and toss the mixture well to ensure that each noodle—zucchini and spaghetti alike—has a thin, even coat of sauce.

Serve immediately, with additional salt and lots of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano at the table.

 

NOTE:
You will likely have some pesto left over, but in our house, that's never much trouble. Just cover its surface with a sheet of plastic wrap to prevent oxidation, and store it in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.

 

Yield: 4 servings

Y
ou're ready to marry someone, I figure, if you're willing to go into debt with him. It may not be a terribly romantic way of gauging things, but it's as good as any. Buying a house or a car or a fancy television is not as quaint as falling asleep in his arms or soaking together in a bathtub filled with bubbles and rose petals, but it's a serious commitment, a way of promising to continue to love each other—at least for the term of the loan.

When Brandon and I bought a car together, we'd already been engaged for a year, but in some ways, it felt even more affirming than the white dress waiting in my closet, the wedding bands in their velvety boxes, and the invitations in the mail.

Not that it was an easy decision. Our old car, or rather,
my
old car, a used two-door that my father had bought for me when I was sixteen, had suddenly reached the point in its lifespan when its total worth was approximately that of a head of cabbage, but it required about a thousand cabbages' worth to keep it running. I didn't want to get rid of it, but we had to. So we parked it on the street out front, called the American Cancer Society, filled out the donation paperwork, and waited for the tow truck to come.

In the meantime, we contemplated just how badly we really needed a car. Maybe we could live without one. We could save money. We
could be ecologically correct. We could be
progressive!
People in New York and Paris don't need cars, we told ourselves, and maybe we didn't either. The Seattle bus system is a little less efficient than the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, but we have friends without cars who make do. We thought we'd give it a try.

And to tell you the truth, in a small, dark way, I wasn't sure we were
ready
to buy a car. We'd never put our names side-by-side on any sort of legally binding document. If we were to call off the wedding, our names would still be there together, legally bound, even if we weren't. We decided we should take some time to ride the bus, just to make sure.

This, however, was late May. The flowers were in bloom, and so were the trees, but Seattle, being the Rainy City it is, wasn't quite on the bandwagon. When it comes to summer, Seattle tends to hang from the tailgate for a while, bumping along, dragging its heels, until finally—sometime around July 4, usually—it decides to climb on board. This particular May, every time we went to leave the house, it started raining. It was in this hostile climate that Brandon and I considered our newly carless situation. For the better part of two weeks, while we dutifully checked bus schedules and stood at our chosen stops, it rained. It rained almost constantly. Every time we stepped out the door, there it was.
Drip drop, drip drop.

One Sunday afternoon in the midst of all this, Olaiya called to invite us to dinner. We had a few hours before we would need to catch the bus, and I was in the mood for baking, so I offered to bring dessert. We had a bag of pistachios sitting on the counter, and I'd been thinking of turning them into a cake. And apricots were coming into season. We had some in a bowl on the table, and they were still a little sour, but with some heat, they would sweeten up nicely. A cake, I decided, would be the perfect place for them. So while the rain beat against the window-panes, I flicked on the oven and got to work.

I whizzed some pistachios in the food processor until they turned to powder. Then I folded them into the batter, now a pale, speckled shade of green, and grated in some nutmeg for extra warmth. At this point in
the season, I would take all the warmth I could get. Then I halved and pitted the apricots, nudged a blob of honey into their upturned wells, and nestled them into the batter. As the cake baked, the apricots sunk slowly, hiding themselves from view. It wasn't what I had intended—I wanted a cake with a pretty, apricot-dotted top—but it was sort of charming. Anyway, I could hardly blame them. I wanted to burrow into that warm batter, too.

I pulled the cake out of the oven exactly ten minutes before our bus was due at the nearest stop, two blocks away. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled out a paper grocery bag, pushed a folded-up newspaper all the way to the bottom to reinforce it, and gently, suited up with my oven mitt, set the cake on top of the newspaper. Then I laid a plastic grocery sack loosely across the cake to protect it from splashes, and we grabbed our umbrellas and ran.

Have you ever tried to carry a freshly baked, still-steaming cake in a paper bag under a too-small umbrella in a rainstorm? Also, have you ever sat in front of a drunk on the bus and watched him fondle your fiancé's chin-length hair? And have you ever held a still-hot cake on your lap, now without its (soaked, torn, discarded) paper bag, anticipating that at any second, you might need to leap from your seat to avoid being fondled yourself? I have. That's all I want to say about that.

We did make it to Olaiya's, I'm pleased to report, and with the cake still intact. Despite all that it had suffered, it was exactly what I hoped it would be. The apricots had stopped their descent somewhere near the equator of the cake, and when we cut in, they revealed themselves like buried treasure. We ate half of the cake that night and left the rest with Olaiya when we headed out to catch the bus. One cake-related transportation fiasco was enough, we figured. Better not to risk another.

Instead, we huddled together in a corner of the humid bus all the way home. Then we filled the bathtub and soaked until our feet were warm again. The next morning, we took the bus downtown and bought a car.

PISTACHIO CAKE WITH HONEYED APRICOTS

b
efore you assemble this cake, be sure to taste one or two of the apricots. If they're on the tart side, you might consider doubling the amount of honey.

I like to serve this cake on its own, unadorned, but if you want to dress it up, you could dust it with powdered sugar. You could also serve it with a dollop of loosely whipped cream. For a fancier, more festive treatment, you could even try making it into a layer cake. Double the recipe, omitting the apricots and honey, and sandwich the layers with strawberry or raspberry jam that you've pressed through a sieve to remove the seeds. Coat the whole thing in whipped cream or any other frosting you like.

 

¾ cup shelled raw pistachios

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon salt

½ cup whole milk

¼ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 cup sugar

3 large eggs

5 ripe apricots, halved and pitted

1 tablespoon honey

 

Set an oven rack to the middle position, and preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 9-inch round pan, and line the bottom with a round of parchment paper. Butter the paper; then dust the pan lightly with flour.

In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the pistachios until very finely ground. Take off the lid every now and then and rub a pinch of the ground nuts between your fingers: if they feel too coarse, keep going, but if they feel fine, like sand, they're ready. Add the flour, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt, and pulse once or twice to mix.

In a measuring cup, combine the milk and vanilla.

In a large bowl, beat the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add
the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the flour mixture in three batches, alternating with the milk, mixing at low speed to just combine. Do not overmix. If any streaks of flour remain, use a rubber spatula to fold them in. Pour the batter into the cake pan, and shake the pan a bit to ensure that the batter is evenly spread.

Arrange the apricots cut side up on a cutting board or countertop. Using the tip of your finger, smear a blob of honey into the center of each, dividing it evenly among the ten halves. Gently arrange them cut side up on top of the batter.

Slide the cake into the oven, and bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. The apricots will have sunk into the batter, but don't worry: they will reveal themselves in each slice. Cool the cake in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then run a thin knife around its edge and release the sides of the pan. Continue to cool the cake until you are ready to serve it.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

 

Yield: 8 servings