Apron Anxiety (10 page)

I
have rug burn.

In the first six weeks of living in our unbelievably cool apartment in D.C., which is on the second floor of an enchanted corner brownstone, I have dragged a dozen huge, heavy rugs—shags, sisals, and stripes—from every store imaginable, tethered them to the straggly-gold Jeep I bought us from Craigslist, and hauled them up to our living room, where I lay down the padding, unroll the rug, and mumble to myself, “Close, but not quite—damnit.” Then I pull it all up, roll it all together, go down the stairs, into the Jeep, and straight back to the store, where they already think I’m a lunatic with some version of architectural OCD.

The floor coverings aren’t the only thorn in my side. The entire apartment, as sun-drenched, bohemian, and beautiful as it is, is a bitch to furnish. The rooms are quirky, curvy, and easily cluttered, and the minimalist in me wants to murder the original contractor.

“Strong as an ox,” as my mother would say, I’ve single-handedly carried a few couches up and down the stairs, too, shuffling heavy objects all day long, until the Crate & Barrel Outlet escorts me out, or my left arm dislocates, or I stub my
toe so bad that I tell an oversize credenza to kiss my ass. And then I head home to our love-pad-in-progress, with its misshaped rooms that reject
all
clean lines, and wait for Chef on whatever yellow-velvet or caramel-leather midcentury chair I’ve decided that I can actually live with that day. I’ve always needed my home to feel exactly right, but I’m being extra crazy with C Street. The furniture gives me some purpose and helps me temper a certain nervous energy that’s crept up from behind.

My life with Chef happens between 11:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m., except on Sundays. This isn’t much time, but if love is measured in quality not quantity, our romance is as rich as ever. The second Chef comes home, he switches from local personality to cozy homebody. Because he’s bone-tired, dinner is designated to me. And by dinner, I mean sandwiches. For three months straight, we eat sandwiches every night that we’re home. (Sometimes we have cereal.) I stock up on smoked turkey and Swiss cheese, and Chef requests foreign and porky meats like mortadella and sopressata, which I research, find, and buy. I’ve learned the difference between salumi and salami, and I know that spicy mustard is a must. Mayo makes its appearances, against my will, and sometimes Chef brings home interesting-looking chutneys, which he teaches me to slather on ciabatta, and lay with sharp cheddar. And chips. All kinds of chips. Chef has a potato chip problem.

When I present us with the sandwiches, he’s always so appreciative that it makes me feel like the winner of
The Next Food Network Star
. He offers subtle suggestions like taking the time to really toast the bread instead of rushing the process and popping the slices out before the ding, or using fresh basil the next time I opt for Brie. I gladly process his constructive criticism and get a little better with each baguette.

We always eat in front of the tube, in the dark, with as many
body parts entangled as possible, every ligament fitting together perfectly. We love our shows—mostly on Showtime and HBO—and we usually watch them (with breaks for fooling around, ice-cream sessions, or making tea) until three o’clock in the morning. We fall asleep feeling like two of the luckiest people in the world.

And then the sun always rises, and our rushed, unruly mornings begin. The alarm goes off, the phones start ringing, or one of Chef’s business partners comes knocking on the door to get him somewhere that’s not with me. I turn on some music and quickly make us coffee, which he drinks in the shower. When he gets out of the shower, I turn up the volume and he
gets down
in his towel while I roar with laughter. Unlike me, Chef is an awesome dancer. We kiss, as he dresses himself in ripped Dickies and whatever T-shirt smells best; he reads his e-mails, morphing into a crackberry addict; and then he hops on our fluorescent green bike—which I secretly bought at Kmart, but he thinks is vintage—and rides off into a fifteen-hour day in the weeds. Being “in the weeds” is a restaurant term for an insane kitchen situation where a chef is busting his or her ass with no end in sight. It’s all I really know about Chef’s work: he is always in the weeds.

The second he leaves the apartment, my world is silent. After a few months on C Street, I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, especially now that the decorating is done. There is no in-box to empty, no morning meetings, no breaking news, no tight deadlines, no lunch dates, no après-work appletinis. No one needs to borrow a tampon, tell me a secret, or raid my closet. As much as I adored them, I had no idea how important my girlfriends were until they weren’t around.

With hours and hours of time to kill, I Google “Best coffee shops for writers,” and find my way to “quirky cafés” that are
neither quirky nor cafés. I graze around new neighborhoods, with my laptop and notebooks, but I can’t get comfortable anywhere. Either the couches are itchy, the Wi-Fi connection won’t work, or the scones taste like sneakers. I ride the Metro—thinking of New York’s freestyle rappers, teenage runaways, and impeccably dressed women who all would enwrap me in their world for the short duration of my commute to wherever—but it’s dead air in here, dead on arrival, devoid of emotion, a snoozefest of political stiffs and school marms. Dejected, I always come home to C Street, where at least our apartment has style that the city does not.

Halfheartedly, I contact some local magazines, but my stories lack enthusiasm, and I never follow up. Between my savings account and Chef’s pathological generosity, I don’t feel the need to make serious money, and for the first time in my life, I am utterly unmotivated. The only work I really want to do is on Chef’s marketing. It helps me stay connected to him and his career in a way that doesn’t involve the kitchen. Plus, any time I’ve met a successful chef’s significant other, they say that working with them—whether it’s as their pastry chef, general manager, or marketing director—is the only way to ever see them. I take that advice very seriously. By now, Chef has a publicist, an agent, a manager, and a bunch of partners, but I push myself into all their projects, demanding to be cc’ed on everything, like I’m Chef’s CEO. I have a feeling this embarrasses him, but I just really, desperately, want to stay in the loop.

We cherish Sundays, as the restaurant is closed, which means we sleep late and Chef makes us pancakes in any rendition I desire (always with chocolate chips). In the spring, which marks four months on C Street and seven months together, we incorporate gardening into our Sunday ritual. Early in the morning, we drive to the local nursery, discussing which produce
we’ll want to eat come fall, and what flowers my purple thumb can’t kill, since I’ll be chief waterer. We load the car with dirt and shovels and spend the day planting our garden, which essentially entails me sipping spiked lemonade on the stoop, and Chef raking, digging, and planting our oregano, basil, arugula, tomatoes, bell peppers, and brussels sprouts. I play music and feed him fresh fruit, and just sit there and love him.

On most Sunday nights, we explore new restaurants in the D.C. food scene, trying to integrate ourselves into the community that has been so kind and generous to Chef. Sometimes he experiments with recipes at home. One night he serves us a Vietnamese-style whole fish but doesn’t do a thorough job filleting it because I keep making him lie with me on the couch instead. So he accidentally serves the dish with lots of little bones in it. He tries to save face by saying that’s how it’s done in Asia, but he’s busted and he knows it. In my best Padma impression, I tell him to pack his knives and go, and we both get our kicks. The fun we have on Sundays carries me through those stagnant weekdays.

For one weekend, we make plans to hit a hot spot that’s getting glowing reviews for its elegant Italian entrees and ultrachic interior, and it’s only a ten-minute drive away. The best part about these date nights is that I have an excuse to dress up for him. It feels like Chef sees me only in pajamas during the week. So, as he finishes watching an episode of
Planet Earth—
the only TV show we’re not equally addicted to—I surface from the bedroom in a short, flowy miniskirt, smoky eyes, and a spritz of Stella McCartney perfume. It’s hard to get him out of my bra and into the car after that, but I force him to behave. He drives with one hand and tickles my thigh with another.

The second we walk into the restaurant, I get a really bad vibe, which is strange because I’m not a restaurant snob. The
place looks like a hospital cafeteria, and there’s a faint smell of fish. Chef nods in agreement, making a funny expression with his gingery eyebrows. But it’s late and we’re hungry, and quite frankly, we don’t know D.C. well enough to escape to some “old faithful” yet.

So we sit down graciously and I try to wipe the sour look off my face. But I’m let down. Our date nights are precious to me and this place is a bummer. I can’t seem to laugh it off or let it go. The music in my head has come to a screech.
This is what Washington thinks is cool? Really?

When our waiter comes to our table, he reaches over me to pour some water and I get a whiff of the world’s most pungent body odor. The stinky pit really sets me off. More than anything, it reeks of the disappointment I’m finding
everywhere
I turn in this town. There’s not enough Right Guard in the world to fix that.

And then I start to hyperventilate; I am derailed. Chef looks really frightened. I’ve started to bawl my eyes out. He’s never seen me lose my cool like this … and over B.O.? He apologizes to the staff, cancels our order, and delicately takes me outside.

By now, I am laughing and crying in unison. I can’t believe what a scene I made. Chef is laughing, too, but he’s concerned. What is going on with me? We walk back to the car and he insists that I tell him what provoked my outburst. “It just felt so wrong in there,” I say, weeping. “That place pushed me over the edge.”

As we keep talking, I admit to him, and to myself, that lately I’ve been feeling a little panicky. It’s making me kind of cuckoo being home alone all day, and that as hard as I try, I can’t seem to catch a wave
anywhere
in D.C.

Until this stage in my life, I’ve always sided with Confucius on the “Wherever you go, there you are” philosophy. But
nothing
is clicking in Washington. We recently went to a White House party at a rooftop bar where everyone wore panty hose, no one voted on
Idol
, and I was impossibly invisible. Standing in line at J. Crew, I made a friend who worked for a senator, but the second she found out I had once written for
People
, she demanded I lose her number, stating, “You can’t be in politics without being paranoid.” Earlier this week, Chef and I went on a midnight stroll, hoping to get a late-night snack, a fresh pastry, or swirly soft-serve, only to come home with hot dogs and Snapple from 7-Eleven. “Wherever you go, you miss New York” is more like it.

“Nothing feels right in this city,” I say, my wet face nuzzled into his chest. “The people aren’t my type, and I’m not theirs. I mean, look at tonight, this entire city is raving over this ugly, impotent restaurant. This place wouldn’t last a second in New York,” I say, fully upset again, knowing my frustration is not
really
about the bleak restaurant, and that I’m sounding like a real brat.

“Baby, calm down. Please. You’re still adjusting …”

“No. Fuck adjusting. A paper clip has more heart than that place.” I pout, pointing to the restaurant.

“You’re right, Lys, it sucked in there,” Chef says. “But what’s this really about?”

I look gravely into his eyes and say that I’m just sad for myself because, among other things, I have no life.

My first few months in town, Chef made it a point to extract himself from the restaurant every few days to be near me, take me out, and share the occasional afternoon of doing nothing. We’d roam around the neighborhood, or grab an afternoon matinee, and make nice little memories wherever we went. Now, a mass hysteria has surrounded his restaurant. The lines are always out the door, the press is hot on his success, and D.C.
just wants more, more, more. Throw in a blossoming TV career and a jam-packed schedule of events and appearances, and he is always on the go. He can’t just “peace out” when he wants to anymore. Even our Sundays aren’t a sure thing.

“It’s not your fault, but when you’re not around, I have nothing here,” I cry. It embarrasses me to swallow my pride and verbalize this, but it just comes out.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true and you know it. I have nothing here.”

I’d never begrudge Chef for having an impeccable work ethic, and I’m not trying to make him feel guilty about it. But it feels good to let it go. He listens carefully, and cries when I tell him how rootless I really feel, and how silent my existence is every day. We keep talking, making our way to the car, and eventually to 7-Eleven for some cereal and milk. He says he understands exactly what I’m saying, and together, we sit up all night long figuring out how to make my life in Washington less of a wash.