Apron Anxiety (17 page)

A
pparently I am not the only one who ever wondered if
lemon chiffon
was a dessert or a porn star, because people are reading my blog. In fact, so many people are reading it that I’ve been asked to do a food demo at a popular event space in D.C., on a big stage, in front of a hundred people for a springtime soiree. Human beings are paying real money to see me make food. It’s almost implausible.

The event organizers and I agree on a simple, straightforward cheesecake, so I choose the recipe I grew up with, Lynn Papale’s Cheesecake, which I ate every day my freshman year of high school. I ask my mother to fax the recipe to me, to her elation, but I also implore the family not to come to Washington for the demo because it’s too much pressure, and I’d actually rather pretend it’s just not happening.

I’m on the side of incapacitated for several reasons, not the least of which is that I
just
learned what a springform pan is, and worse, I am petrified of public speaking. It’s a horrible hang-up that I have. My voice quivers, my hands shake, and I seem to forget to breathe. Leading up to the big night, I’m so nervous about baking and talking (at the same time!) in front of all those people that I can barely sleep, and I’m tempted
to call the whole thing off. But I have to do it. I wanted a voice in this city, and here’s my chance … poured swiftly into a graham-cracker crust.

Hours before the event, I am in the green room, pacing. I’m pretty sure Chef won’t make it, so I’ve ask my new friend Bella, another New Yorker who moved to D.C. for her fiancé’s career, to come along for moral support. Bella is the only friend date in two years that stuck (my sister set us up), and between her and C Street, I finally feel like I’m surrounded by strong, funny, and wise women—the fuel to my fire for as long as I can remember.

The staff gives me a five-minute warning, and I beg Bella to come onstage with me. She’s says I’m talking like a lunatic and tries to psych me up. I thank her for being my stand-in fiancé, and reluctantly head backstage. As the hostess of the evening introduces me to the crowd, “One of our favorite food bloggers, who’s not afraid to take chances and make mistakes …,” I pat down my Anthropologie apron, gather some semblance of cool, and walk toward the mock kitchen in the center of the stage. I look at the crowd, confrontationally, filled with kitchen-phobes and camera crews. There’s the celebrated food writer, Carol Blymire, waving at me! And then I see Chef. He’s in the front row with a handheld video camera. I can’t believe he came.

“I’m Alyssa, and I’m going to try not to pass out or poison you,” I begin.

Like a real train wreck, I stumble through the crust preparation, spilling the walnuts on the floor because my hands are shaking so wickedly. Then I add one stick of butter to the graham-cracker crumbs, instead of half a stick. The recipe is right in front of me, but I keep flubbing the measurements, awkwardly laughing at myself. “I guess if I were some domestic goddess, I’d have nothing to write about, right?”

My demo is definitely comical. Chef is beaming.

“Next you add, like, a shitload of cream cheese,” I say crassly, because my vision is actually now blurry from my nerves and I can’t make out the proper quantity (it’s two pounds).

Miraculously I get the mixer working, add the rest of the ingredients, and stick the clumsy cheesecake into a fake oven. I end the presentation by saying, “Don’t worry, the cheesecake you’re getting was made by real bakers, not me.” And then I remember that I wasn’t supposed to tell them that.

Following the demo, the floor is opened for questions about cooking and blogging. I offer a lot of nonsensical advice, defer to Chef for the hard-core foodie questions (“Do you guys all know my sexy and famous chef-fiancé over there?” I say, realizing a second too late how tacky it sounds), and thank the crowd for making me feel so welcomed. Everyone cheers loudly at the end and reflexively, my body curtsies. I guess my flawed presentation was kind of the point. At least no one asked for their money back.

As I soak it all in and pack up my things, Bella tells me it was a big hit. I think she’s exaggerating, but I thank her for being by my side and give her cheesecake to bring home to her man. Chef covers me in hugs and kisses, asks for my autograph, and mentions taking me out to dinner to celebrate the big debut. It’s 10:00 p.m. and I haven’t eaten anything substantial all day; I’m overjoyed by the idea. It makes me think of when my parents would take me to Friendly’s Ice Cream after violin recitals and school plays as a child.

But by the time we load the car with all my equipment, Chef’s already been called back to work. He’s leaving tomorrow for a week on an ostrich farm and he has a lot of loose ends to tie up before he goes. So I go home alone with my cream cheese–stained apron and dirty wooden spoons, shutting the door to
his car without a kiss good-bye. I take a bath, clean my ruby ring, eat a couple of bites of cold leftovers and crawl into bed.

We’ve been engaged just a few months, and have been in a relationship for over two years. I’ve learned to cook great food, bake our favorite things, and feed everyone who’s entered our life. I’ve made just enough true friends in Capitol Hill, bonded with the Boys, and reinvigorated my writing career. I’m feeling creative and inspired, and I’m even enjoying a little preliminary wedding planning. Everything is right with me, and for that, I largely thank the kitchen.

But things with Chef have changed dramatically since getting back from Greece. I learned long ago to expect very little, but these days, I expect nothing at all. Sometimes he still does sweet things like showing up for the food demo, but he
is
my fiancé … should that be so extraordinary? Usually, he’s MIA, making promises he can’t keep, or taking on so many projects that he comes home for only a few hours to sleep. We never have any time to communicate, and he’s constantly letting me down. After enough slugs of disappointment, the shine of being with Chef is wearing off.

It hurts me most when he discards my family. My parents and sister know by now that he’ll
never
stop by to say hello if he’s in New York for business, but a few weeks ago, I did get him to agree to come to Massachusetts so that my mother’s side, the Temkins—who have always rooted for us, even though Chef hasn’t made it to a big family function the entire time we’ve been together—could throw us a small engagement party. We’d sleep over at one of my aunts’ houses and make a weekend of it.