Apron Anxiety (19 page)

S
trapped to my shoulder is a mustard yellow, corduroy duffel bag filled with sundresses, shades, sweatpants, music, memoirs, and spin shoes: my emotional CPR kit. With swollen eyes and a skinny body, I have no dependable income, no organized plan, and just enough in my savings account to scrape by. For six weeks, I am relying on the kindness of my friends, Mitchell Gold sleeper sofas, and California dreams.

Sadly enough, I am in the same psychological place I was when I flew from heartbreak to LAX three years ago—injured by love, betrayed by happily-ever-after, and utterly exasperated by a handsome, magnetic man who drove me away, then begged me to stay. But I now possess a secret weapon for finding strength through pain: the kitchen. My
French Laundry Cookbook
has replaced French-kissing strangers. And I have a popular blog filled with adventures in food, not first dates. I have no idea what to do about Chef and me, but until there’s some revelation, all I want to do is hike Runyon Canyon, reconnect with old friends, touch my toes to the ocean, and above all else, rock the fucking apron.

“Take me to Ralphs” is the first thing I say to Shelley when she picks me up from the airport in her new Audi convertible
with her fluffy puppy, Phoebe, on her lap. Otherwise known as Rock ’n’ Roll Ralphs, because of the freaky crowd there, it’s the only grocery store I remember being open this late.

“Hi … love you and missed you right back,” she says, smiling.

It’s 11:00 p.m., but I need to get into her kitchen. The last few days have been so dramatic—I’m exhausted, anxious, and shaky. Shelley wants to know why she can’t just give me a Xanax. “Because cooking works better,” I say sincerely.

She’s already eaten dinner and uncharacteristically not hungry, so she impatiently waits in the car while I run into Ralphs. The aisles are filled with outrageous drag queens and juvenile delinquents.
Hello, Hollyweird
. The produce has been picked over and the butcher has gone home, so I choose the best-looking vegetables, a box of couscous, and some crumbled feta cheese with a nice, healthy Mediterranean dish in mind. I’ve made it many times for Chef and me as a fallback.

Back at Shelley’s tiny, chic West Hollywood apartment, I unload my groceries before unpacking my suitcase. I can see that she’s tired and confused as to why I’m more interested in finding a cutting board than catching up on our lives. After all, I’ve just left my fiancé and she
is
my best friend. “Just go to sleep, Shellz,” I say. “We have six weeks.”

Alone in the kitchen, preparing to roast my vegetables, Chef is in my head reminding me to chop gracefully, moving the knife in circular motions, rather than sawing back and forth, and to make sure all my cuts are even—because when I first started making this dish, some of the eggplant would wind up undercooked. It’s hard to prepare my meal without sending him pictures as I go—which has been our tradition; it’s a learned behavior, as is keeping my prep area clean.

But tonight I’m in the kitchen for myself. I lay the perfect
slices of symmetrical eggplant, peppers, and zucchini on a baking sheet, drizzle them with olive oil and sea salt, and put the tray in the hot oven. As the vegetables roast, I prepare the couscous. While everything cooks, I stretch my body, lifting my arms as far up as they can go, then bending over, pressing my fists against the floor; I extend my vertebrae, slowly twisting my waist to the right and then the left, and feeling my blood circulate. I breathe deeply and look out the window for the moon. Cooking takes the edge off in a way that nothing else can.

I wake up early the next day to several heart-wrenching texts from Chef. He accuses me of running away instead of fighting for us, that this
stupid break
is not what he wanted, and that he’s dying inside. But he can’t be too beat up. While I’m gone, he’s going away for about six weeks (almost the entire duration of my trip) to shoot another cooking reality show, something I knew was in the pipeline, but we never really discussed. He makes me promise to come back home when he’s done. I coolly respond that I’ll be there, but deep down, I’m not sure what will happen past that point. “Let’s just take it day by day,” I respond.

I pull myself together and prepare to make my first breakfast for Shelley. I contemplate making a broccoli quiche with a homemade crust, or a “sunchoke” frittata, just because I like the word, but my show-off food will be wasted on Shelley, whose password to everything from her e-mail to her bank account is “Big Mac.” As such, her fridge is stocked with the following staples: Chanel nail polish in the shade of Vendetta, the same two bottles of Veuve Clicquot she’s had for seven years, a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, dozens of half-drunk water bottles, and last night’s leftovers.

I’ll keep it simple, but I still need a few things, so I throw on
a bra, snag Shelley’s aviator shades, and open the front door to a big
buenos dias
from the California sun. I walk to a ridiculously overpriced grocery store just a few blocks away, and there I sparingly shop for fruit, eggs, cheese, butter, and a baguette. If I’ve learned anything about cooking, it’s the fortitude of a few nice ingredients. With one filled bag, I can nourish us beautifully. As I walk home, I am feeling more free-spirited than I should. My relationship is on its deathbed, and all I can think about is the best way to hull a strawberry.

As soon as I hear Shelley rumbling around her bedroom, turning on
Regis
and playing with Phoebe, I get to work on some scrambled eggs. I crack open four eggs the way I was taught—with one quick tap against the counter—and add salt, pepper, and a little cream. Ten minutes later, I serve them onto our two plates, each with a hearty piece of buttered baguette. I set out washed, mixed berries on a damp paper towel and pour two cups of orange blossom tea. I holler to Shelley, ecstatic to present our petit déjeuner. She’s taken me in, offered me her car, her clothes, and her unconditional support … this is one way I can give back.

When she sees our homemade breakfast for two, it’s like she’s witnessed a miracle. She marvels again and again, “Wait, no way—you made this? Are you serious? Oh my God!” But then she gets down to business, becoming one with her breakfast, inhaling every last bite. Observing my best friend nourished by my food is a pleasure. And I know we will have many more moments like this.

On my third day in L.A., Shelley goes to Malibu with a client and leaves me with her new car. As soon as she leaves, I scurry off to the Grove, a huge outdoor shopping mall that also hosts lots of food stands and a fabulous farmers’ market.
Touristy as it may be, it’s one of my favorite places. The second I park, I grab a soy latte at the Coffee Bean and duck into Sur La Table. With summer berries in season, I am dying to make Shelley my whole-wheat berry muffins. It’s the easiest recipe, healthy too, and it will fill the apartment with a heavenly smell for when she comes home.

To make that happen though, I need to buy a few tools—measuring cups, wooden spoons, and muffin tins. These small culinary projects placate me. I silence my phone and shut down my thoughts. My body slows in the presence of cooling racks and coffee frothers, as I bond with other home cooks searching for their own essentials. Sometimes I tell them about my blog; once, someone even bashfully asked if I was “Apron Anxiety.” She recognized me from the one picture I posted of myself frowning over a frying pan of burned rice. She told me that I made her feel so much better about her own epicurean inadequacies. I almost passed out. My whole life I thought the food scene was for food snobs, and here I am, making an impact just by being
me
.

With a few shopping bags of basics, I pull into Shelley’s detached garage, top down and Eminem up. I am so excited by my purchases that I recklessly undershoot the distance between the Audi and the wooden wall, and slam the right side of her car into the structure. “No! No!! No!!!” I scream. This cannot be happening. Half the car is severely dented and all the paint has been ripped off. Dread overcomes me. Shelley loves her car and has a real temper about things like this. In less than three days in Los Angeles, I have de-pimped her ride. With no freelance work or savings to spare, and already on the brink of a breakdown, this is the last thing I need.