Man With a Pan (33 page)

Shortly after my wife and I separated, two years ago, I began to date a younger woman who was vegetarian. “I’m not going to stop eating meat,” I told her immediately. To which she replied, “No, of course not, why would you?” (Her own vegetarianism was an inheritance, not an ethical choice: her father, who had had stomach problems, switched the family’s diet when she was eleven. She had no strong moral feelings about eating animals.) I had always been somewhat disdainful of vegetarians (and not only because they ruined my party planning). I suspected that they were probably right in some abstract way, but they often struck me as out-of-touch do-gooders: respectable but pitiable. Like the earnest twentysomethings with dreadlocks and multiple piercings who accost you in the name of Greenpeace, they’d eventually grow out of it and realize that lamb was yummy.

Nonetheless, I felt that giving up meat was the right thing to do, even if I couldn’t—and to a certain extent, still can’t—fully explain it. Reading people like Michael Pollan had made me realize how I was rationalizing my meat eating. For a while I just tried to eat less meat, but that took more effort than it saved, so finally I just stopped entirely. I found it was a lot easier to follow strict rules than to discipline myself.

The effect of switching to vegetarianism was immediate. I lost a large amount of weight (though I hadn’t been heavy) and felt much better in every way: no longer lethargic in the afternoons, no longer ravenously hungry all the time, full of strength at the gym. Most surprisingly, I didn’t miss meat at all. I enjoyed what I was eating, and I enjoyed cooking differently than I had been. The challenge of exploring new foods and flavor combinations, of treating vegetables and grains and lentils and beans as subjects in their own right, instead of mere adornments, was exhilarating.

Everyone I knew was stunned by this transformation; one friend brilliantly called it a “sexually transmitted eating disorder.” They all assumed it wouldn’t last long, certainly no longer than my relationship with the young woman. But when that ended, I felt no real desire to go back to eating meat. It was working too well for me to want to change. I still love what I’m eating and cooking, and the ethical and environmental concerns will never change. I also understand myself better and have settled into a life that is much closer to what I actually want—I no longer need to make violent upheavals to figure out who I am.

Ultimately, the change in my diet was a reaction to the state I had found myself in. The things that were supposed to make me happy were no longer doing so. When I found myself sitting on the dusty floor of my tiny new unfurnished apartment and watching TV on my laptop with my girlfriend, I was happy. Cooking had become a distraction and a source of solace in a marriage that no longer offered its own consolations, and when I was free of the latter, I no longer needed the former. So these changes—in my marriage, in my eating—were unexpected but beneficial.

Yet these benefits came at a cost: I don’t always want to be watching TV on an unfinished floor, and I have yet to start cooking elaborate meals that are vegetarian. “There is no miracle more heartening than the one which can occur when good people eat good food and drink good wine together,” M. F. K. Fisher has written, and I believe that. While it’s not healthy for me to be riven by stress for weeks surrounding a party, it’s also not necessary, so if I can work through my own worries about entertaining and relax enough to provide a setting for this miracle, I will surely do so.

Preparing meals for my two daughters, who are now nine and ten, is also now more of a challenge. Cooking for, and with, them had always been a struggle. They have the finicky and inflexible tastes of most children, and an unwillingness to try new things. Though their preferences have changed over time, at any given moment they’d be limited to some small number of dishes, which could not of course be satisfied by what was put on the family table. They were, though, proud of my accomplishments, and proud that other people respected my cooking. And they were always happy with desserts—no brownies-from-a-box for them!

When they got old enough, they expressed eagerness to cook with me, but this rarely went well. I was too rigorous, not allowing them to do things the “wrong” way. While I thought I was training them to use the right techniques, in fact I was taking the fun out of it. I was interested in achieving culinary perfection, not in doing the right thing for my family; I was unsatisfied when anything went wrong, continually harboring a grudge because the school prohibition against nuts meant that I couldn’t make the brownies I wanted to make. No matter how many times I explained to them that the amount of flour in a cup varied depending on how you scoop it, they’d just dig in and shovel, and then I’d get angry when we ended up with flour all over the counter. Ultimately, I think, they said they wanted to cook with me only because they wanted to do something with their dad that they knew he liked, not because they really enjoyed being on the receiving end of my taskmastering.

My switch to vegetarianism greatly complicated my relationship to them. If you don’t like broccoli, or even pizza, that’s just individual taste, and people can work around that. If you don’t eat any kind of meat, that’s a huge step that everyone has to address. It changes your shopping habits, your restaurant habits, even your casual conversation: people assume you’re making a political statement, and will earnestly criticize you or, more rarely, ask for advice. If there is any kind of moral or environmental reason behind the choice, which is the case for me, then it becomes a conversation you may not want to have; despite my convictions, I am not trying to proselytize anyone.

In my omnivorous days, I was once walking on the Upper West Side with one of my daughters, and a man picketing a fancy butcher aggressively tried to engage me about the evils of foie gras (which I adored). I ignored him, but when he directly addressed my then eight-year-old, I lost my temper and started a loud argument with him on the sidewalk. Why not campaign against factory farming of chickens or pigs, I asked, which causes vastly more damage to humans and animals? Standing outside a gourmet shop in a wealthy Manhattan neighborhood isn’t going to help animals or the environment one bit. My daughter, who happily helped me throw live lobsters into the steamer and hold the lid down as they tried to climb out, was impressed that I had stood up to the activist, but I was left shaken and angry that he had usurped a debate that should have been mine to initiate.

And yet it is a debate that I still haven’t initiated. My children eat meat, but I have never talked about Bambi, or dead animals, or compared the contents of my daughters’ supper to the body of the family dog. And I have never tried to convert them, or even to explain my views in a way they can understand. But I also do not allow any meat in my apartment. This has, as one would expect, been a source of tension between me and the kids, and between me and my ex-wife, who asks, not entirely unreasonably, why I can’t just keep chicken in the fridge if I’m going to let them eat it when we’re out. On the one hand, feeding them—feeding anyone—chicken nuggets is a horrible thing to do. On the other, they do need to have protein, and they’re not going to eat lentils, no matter what I say.

My unwillingness to be forthcoming with them about why I eat what I do has made it impossible for them to understand why they have to eat what they do when they’re at home with me. Family meals in my apartment are exercises in frustration. Cereal and fruit at break-fast time isn’t a problem. Dinner can be pasta with cheese (or just salt), or perhaps scrambled eggs with toast, now that they’re old enough to take pleasure in cooking this for themselves. But these choices get old, and my daughters want chicken, a hamburger, a hot dog, even (in what does make me pleased) sushi. And when we go out, I feel obligated to make sure that they have some meat; my ex would like them to have more protein than I think they need, even though I know that they’d be perfectly fine, for the few days I have them, eating nothing but chocolate chip pancakes. So when we go out to the diner, I will say, “You have to have some bacon,” because it’s something that they will reliably eat, all the while thinking to myself that I must be crazy for actively encouraging them to eat this.

I don’t know yet what will ultimately happen to my eating habits. Perhaps I will come to the realization that it’s too limiting to remain a vegetarian—that I miss meat too much. And eventually I’ll be able to talk to the kids more directly about it—once I figure out what I want to say. The French proverb is, of course, that the appetite comes with eating. Perhaps the answer will come at the table, too. I just need to give it some time.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Perhaps Daddy can tell us if chickens have souls.”

Recipe File

Bacon-Wrapped Duck Breast Stuffed with Apples and Chestnuts

Serves 4

This recipe is adapted from
Boulevard: The Cookbook,
by Nancy Oakes and Pamela Mazzola.

ROASTED APPLES AND CHESTNUTS

4 tablespoons butter, melted
¼ cup water
1 tablespoon sugar Salt
2 apples, cut into wedges
16 peeled chestnuts, fresh or jarred
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Combine the butter, water, and sugar and a few grinds of salt in a medium-size bowl. Add the apples and toss to coat.

Spread the mixture on a baking sheet and roast, stirring often, for 20 minutes.

Add the chestnuts and roast for 10 minutes more, until the apples and chestnuts are lightly browned and the liquids are absorbed.

Sprinkle with thyme and set aside to cool completely.

DUCK BREASTS

4 skinless, boneless Pekin duck breasts, about 6 ounces each
Tamarind paste
Apple mixture, from above recipe
24 thin slices bacon

Butterfly the duck breasts by slicing most of the way through from the thinner, rounder side.

Place a butterflied duck breast skin side down on a work surface.

Spread a small amount of tamarind paste on the breast.

Place 4 apple wedges down the center and put 4 chestnuts in between the wedges. Fold the breast shut to form a roll.

Repeat for the other breasts.

At this point the breasts can be refrigerated overnight.

After they are wrapped in bacon they must be cooked within 8 hours, so this can be done on the afternoon of a dinner party.

Arrange 4 slices of bacon in rows, slightly overlapping.

Place 2 slices of bacon perpendicular to these, laid end-to-end across the center of the 4 slices.

Place a stuffed breast on top of the 2 slices (which should overlap the ends of the breast), fold the 2 slices over the breast, and roll the 4 slices around to form a neat package. Repeat for the other breasts. Refrigerate for up to 8 hours.

CELERY-ROOT PUREE

1 1-pound celery root, peeled and cut into chunks
4 tablespoons butter
Salt

Put the celery root into a large saucepan with salted water to cover and add half the butter.

Bring to a boil, reduce heat to a simmer, and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the celery root is soft.

Drain and transfer the celery root to a blender with the remaining 2 tablespoons butter.

Puree until smooth and season with salt.

CALVADOS DUCK SAUCE

Olive oil
1 apple, thinly sliced
3 large shallots, diced
1 cup Calvados or other apple brandy
1 cup purchased veal demi-glace
2 sprigs fresh thyme

Heat olive oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat.

Add the apple and shallots and cook until they begin to turn brown.

Carefully add the Calvados and cook until most of the liquid has evaporated (it may ignite).

Add the demi-glace and the thyme and simmer for 5 minutes.

Strain into a saucepan and set aside. (The sauce may be made in advance and refrigerated.)

FINAL COOKING AND ASSEMBLY

¼ cup grapeseed or canola oil
2 tablespoons white truffle oil

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Heat a large ovenproof sauté pan over medium heat and add ¼ cup oil.

Cook the duck breasts until lightly browned on all sides.

Pour off most of the fat from the pan. (The breasts may now be set aside for 1 to 2 hours.)

Put the pan in the oven for 15 minutes.

Remove and let the breasts rest on a cutting board, tented with foil, for 5 minutes.

Place a mound of celery-root puree in the center of a warmed dinner plate and spread out with a spoon.

Drizzle each mound with some white truffle oil.

Slice each breast diagonally into 5 or 6 slices (discarding the small uneven ends) and fan these out on top of the puree.

Drizzle some sauce on top of the duck and dribble down onto the plate.

Serve to acclaim.

Mushroom Soup with Pear Puree and Cumin Oil

Serves 4 (with leftover cumin oil)

This recipe is adapted from one by Charlie Trotter.

CUMIN OIL

¾ cup grapeseed oil
1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
1 tablespoon cumin seeds (whole)