I get up off the couch and put Simca’s leash on her. We head out into the brisk November air. It’s hard to believe that Thanksgiving is just two and a half weeks off. Just thinking about it puts a little spring in my step. I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday. In the past couple of years, we’ve developed a ritual. Since the Farbers are the types who like to eat Thanksgiving dinner at around three p.m., and my family has always preferred Thanksgiving dinner at dinnertime, I get to work the morning and early afternoon, and still get to Mom’s for family dinner in plenty of time. Since I’m prepping all week anyway, I do double prep at the Farbers’, getting all their favorites organized, as well as the dishes that my family counts on. The menus are similar, but with some important differences. The Farbers like a corn bread stuffing with sausage; my family is an herb-and-onion, regular-bread stuffing group. They like their sweet potatoes mashed, with marshmallows on top; we go for sliced, with a praline pecan topping. They do green beans and we do Brussels sprouts. But both families like a classic roasted turkey with pan gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, soft yeast rolls, mashed potatoes, and apple pie for dessert.
Just thinking about Thanksgiving makes my stomach rumble, and I realize that with all the excitement of the day, I’ve pretty much forgotten to eat, which is very unlike me. Simca finishes her business, and I do my blue bag duty, grateful for a small neat dog that makes small neat poops. She looks up at me with her signature smile, and I praise her for being such a good girl, dropping the bag into the garbage can on the corner. We head for home, and I make a mental note of what is lying about my larder. It’ll be pasta for sure, fast and filling. I know there are a couple leftover roasted chicken thighs from a recipe test I was doing yesterday. We head up the front stoop, and I slip off her leash, give her a treat from the jar on the console by the door, and head for the kitchen to wash my hands.
I shred the chicken with my fingers and put it into a small skillet to warm, separate a couple of eggs, and whisk the yolks quickly until they have lightened and thickened. Pour in a healthy glug of cream, then grate a flurry of cheese over the top, mixing it in. I zest a lemon from the bowl into the mix, and then squeeze in the juice. Some salt and pepper. I go over to the pots in my window and, with the scissors I keep there, snip off some parsley and chives, which I chop roughly and add to the mix. When the pasta is al dente, I drain it quickly, reserving a bit of the cooking water, and add it to a large bowl with a knob of butter, mixing quickly to coat the pasta. I add in the lemon sauce, tossing with a pair of tongs. When the whole mass comes together in a slick velvet tumble of noodles, I taste for seasoning, add a bit more ground black pepper, and put the shredded chicken on top with a bit more grated cheese.
A fork and a cold beer out of the fridge, and I take the bowl out to the living room, tossing Simca a piece of chicken, and settle in on the couch to watch TV, twirling long strands of the creamy lemony pasta onto my fork with pieces of the savory chicken, complete comfort food. I realize that while this is something I make all the time, I’ve never really written down a recipe for it, but maybe I should. I wish I could say that I have the willpower to leave half of the enormous bowl for my lunch tomorrow, but it doesn’t take long for me to be dragging the last forkful through the dregs of sauce in the bottom of the dish. I’ll have to make it to bring to Glenn this week.
I put the bowl to the side and reach for my laptop, opening a new document. I write down the ingredients and my best guess of the amounts in the delicious meal I’ve just thrown together. In order to turn a last-minute jumble of stuff into an actual recipe, I’ll have to go back and measure everything precisely, while making very specific notes about techniques, timing, temperatures, and the like. What was the effort of about fifteen minutes will become several hours of testing and retesting so that someone who isn’t a chef can still make it with the same yummy results. I know a lot of people would dread the process, purposely complicating something that started so simply. But I love it.
It makes me think of Julia Child and her compatriots, testing over and over to make my favorite cookbook work so perfectly. It’s why my heart has always wanted to do a cookbook, so that everyone gets the scrumptious things they want when they want them and also the satisfaction of doing it themselves. That pride when you cook something and it is so satisfying; it is love on a plate.
Hmm. Love Plates. That actually might be a good title for the cookbook.
“What do you think, my little fur nugget?” I reach over to scratch between Simca’s ears. “How does Love Plates sound?”
Simca gives me a wide grin, and then settles her sweet head onto my knee. My phone rings and I reach for it, hoping it is Shawn calling to say good night, but I don’t recognize the number.
“Um, Eloise? My name is Milo. I’m a friend of Lynne’s—she said I should give you a call?”
My stomach turns over. I’d forgotten about Lynne and Teresa being so helpful with the dating part of my list. “Sure, hi, Milo, yes, Lynne mentioned that she had given you my number.” I don’t exactly know what to do with this. On the one hand, I have no real interest in dating anyone besides Shawn; on the other, we’ve technically only had one date, and while there are two more on the books, the presumption of exclusivity would be completely insane, on either side. And I do have the bet to think about. But I’m dreading having to meet yet another new person.
“Great, well, I was wondering if you might be free for drinks sometime this week,” Milo says.
I think about Tuesday night, and my date with Shawn. Thursday night, I have a drawing class, Wednesday night I’m bringing dinner to Glenn, and I want to save the weekend for Shawn should he want to lay claim to either Friday or Saturday night. “Um, I appear to be free tomorrow evening, if that would work?” I say, hoping that he is busy.
“Darn, I’ve got an event tomorrow night. Nothing else this week?”
I scroll through my calendar again. “Sunday might work?”
“Yeah, I can probably make that work on my end as well. Should we say sixish? Webster’s Wine Bar on Kedzie?”
“Yes, that sounds good. I look forward to meeting you.”
“Me too. You’ve got my number if something comes up?”
I check my phone. “Yep, right here in my phone.”
“Terrific. I’ll text you a picture so you know what I look like.”
“That sounds great.”
I hang up and put the date into my calendar. I feel conflicted. I do like that it helps check a date off my list, and at least it is a Lynne connection, so he probably won’t be horrific. But my head is obviously elsewhere.
I pull up the chart I made for my list. So far, I’m on track for the dating part of the bet. I’ve got my drawing classes, so the nonfood hobby is underway, ditto the athletic endeavors. I’m slowly pulling together the recipes I think would be the best examples for the cookbook proposal, but I still have no idea how to write the proposal itself. I mean, who the hell am I? Some non-famous, non-restaurant-owning, non-blogging nobody who cooks for one family, one septuagenarian, and my family. Who am I to think that anyone would care about a cookbook I’ve written? I’m feeling a bit behind on the whole socializing-with-strangers thing, but I’ve done some research and found some classes that seem like they could be fun: wine tasting, a special movie screening event at the Xfinity store, and the glassblowing and such. So strangely, I’m doing okay with the whole thing. My anxiety about it has definitely diminished.