Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant (8 page)

So it’s probably not too surprising that I never cooked for my husband—are you kidding, between his standards and my lack of skill? Forget it. And he tried, I’ll give him that—the man honestly tried to teach me to cook, at least a few of the basics, but it always resulted in a scene straight out of
The Miracle Worker.
Seriously, I can do a pretty impressive Helen Keller, when cornered, and there was my husband, trying to wrestle me down, all but throwing water on me, forcing a utensil in my hand, and signing spatula: S-P-A-T…What’s funny is that’s much too close to the truth.

Honestly, it was a running joke that eventually became a point of contention. When are you going to cook for me? he’d ask, and I’d say, Soon, soon…. And for a good year, two years, I had these wild fantasies of blowing him away with some dish or other, but in reality, I was way too intimidated to cook for the guy. I mean, the one thing I could make with any confidence was tuna casserole, but I knew my husband wouldn’t eat tuna casserole—he’d rather starve, I’m sure of it. If he wouldn’t eat gumbo, he sure as hell wouldn’t eat tuna casserole.

No, I did make something for him once: I baked an apple pie, which I learned from my grandmother, who learned from her grandmother, and so of course I made it from scratch, right down to the lard. I went to the farmers’ market for the apples, and Garden of Eden for the best vanilla ice cream I could find—I even made a backup piecrust, in case my first effort failed. But it didn’t. No.

I’m pleased to report that my pie turned out beautifully—as a matter of fact, it was
damn good,
or so I thought, licking the knife and squeezing my shoulders, excitedly grabbing two plates. I actually surprised myself, and I was so pleased, so proud I’d finally made something for my husband, handing him his plate, thinking,
one thing.
By God, don’t ever let it be said I can’t make an apple pie…. But I still waited, anxiously, as my husband tooka bite, and he nodded that it was good, but he didn’t like sweets, he said, setting the plate on his bedside table. That was it, I’m afraid.

The only other thing I knew, that he didn’t, was Mexican food. My husband had never been to Mexico; he had no idea what authentic Mexican food was about. I learned to make beans in Mexico, the second or third time I went down for any real amount of time, about ten years ago. And there’s nothing to it, really, but like most things, it had never occurred to me to make them myself. But ten years later, I make some mean black beans. Now that’s one thing I won’t eat out of a can, beans—not even Goya brand, no way. Anyhow, by the time I had the nerve to make Mexican food, even just a couple quesadillas, I didn’t care anymore. The marriage was long over.

Stillborn, really.

The one thing that makes me sad is that my mother-in-law didn’t have more time to get to know my mother, and vice versa. Because these days, my mother’s favorite subjects are food and cooking—and I’m so proud, I really am—because I never had a chance to see her so passionate about anything when I was growing up. By the time we finally had some money to our names—excuse me, by the time
she
finally had some money to
her
name—basically, around the time I left home, I realized my mother loved to cook.

She just turned fifty-five, and they’re retiring soon, my parents. My mom’s toying with the idea of going to cooking school—not in the hope of becoming a chef, but maybe catering, something like that, she says. And honestly, I don’t think there’s a chef in the world that could do a better job of feeding a family on nothing than she did when I was growing up. So who knows, maybe she has it in her, but I hope not. Not another chef, Mom—please, no more chefs, okay?

You know, I’ve been on my own for over a year now, and I still have moments when I feel torn by what I learned while I was married. For example, and I’m ashamed to admit this, sometimes I wonder if I should correct my mom and tell her how to hold her wineglass, but I never do. I mean, she wouldn’t take it personally, and she might very well appreciate the tip, but it’s not that easy. And
I know
it’s proper, but that’s just wrong in my book. I’m sorry, I will not correct my mother’s manners, it’s just not worth it to me.

What’s interesting is that I’ve been reading a lot of recipes this past year—even though I only own two cookbooks, yes. The first is
How to Cook Everything,
which my parents gave me for Christmas two years ago, and which I still haven’t read, actually. But the other one, the one I have been reading, is my mother’s family cookbook. Aptly titled
The Eldridge Family Cookbook,
conceived by my grandfather, while we were all sitting around the dining table, during a family reunion, back in 1984. And you know what, I’ve hauled that little book across several continents, the past ten, fifteen years, but I’d never read the damn thing before now, no. I just needed to know it was there.

And it’s just a little rectangular spiral-bound book, about eight by five and a half inches, with this white cover that my mother designed about fifteen years ago, with these little fruit and vegetable characters…. Never mind what it looks like—that’s private. Which is why I never showed it to my husband. And as far as he’s concerned, I don’t regret that decision one bit, because I knew he would never understand, that he wouldn’t even try. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just regrettable that I didn’t have the confidence to show him, to say, this is mine. This is what I come from. And please try not to wince each and every time you see mention of Campbell’s mushroom soup, all right?

You know, there was a part of me that was so defiant, and a part of me that was so ashamed, and I really couldn’t say which was which at any given point in time. Maybe that was fascinating to him, too, at least in the beginning. Regardless, I can see it now, how much conflict that caused, internally and externally, but I still don’t understand it fully, what happened. Because the thing is, I’m not ashamed of where I come from anymore, not in the least. But I’m no longer married to the man, either. So there it is.

Sometimes, looking back at my marriage, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, really. But it was a great education, and I’ll never say otherwise. And in all fairness, I’m still torn, even now. I mean, there’s still a part of me that looks back and thinks, wow, I ate at Daniel. Imagine that. The girl who used to look both ways before slipping out of the cafeteria…. And then there’s a part of me that thinks, Wow, I ate at Daniel. Big fucking deal, you know. But I remember that night, and it was a beautiful night. For once in my life I felt rich and cultured—classy, yes. I felt very, very classy. Whatever else happened between us, he gave me that, and I’m grateful, truly.

But I want a life that has plenty of room for things like Linda Logan’s Party Pork Balls, or the infamous Leftover Ham Casserole.
Mmm…
doesn’t your mouth just water? Wouldn’t my ex just gag? You wonder why I’ve been reading recipes: there’s your answer. And mark my words, one of these days, the front page of the
Times
Food Section will have a photo of some delicious-looking steamy creamy noodle concoction with the headline:
This Ain’t Your Grandma Jean’s Tuna Casserole.
And once again, I’ll just roll my eyes, thinking,
you fuckers….
There’s just no winning.

Anyhow, a few weeks ago, I came across this recipe called Soda Cracker Pie, which I’d never noticed before. But it was the introduction that caught my eye: “Mother says that this really does taste like an apple pie—it was made a lot during the Depression and the recipe should be saved for posterity.” Honestly, until I read that, I’d never seen the poetry, never given any real thought to how much life a recipe can hold—not ours—well, not
mine,
at least. I mean, it’s been staring at me all along, and I’ve missed it this whole time. And that’s no one’s fault but my own.

So I’ve been thinking it’s probably time I learn to cook a few things. You know, just a few things I’ll willingly cook
and
eat—both, yes, that’s the trick. I’ve even got my eye on one of the recipes in my family cookbook, my mother’s salsa recipe. She’s been making that salsa since I was a kid, and I’ll tell you what, the woman makes some damn good salsa for a
huera.
Of course, it’s also one of the easiest recipes I can find, but I have to start somewhere, right? And who knows, maybe one of these days I’ll actually be able to make something Dan taught me to cook, too—but not today, no. Just not today.

Cathy’s Salsa

MAKES A QUART.

1 large can whole tomatoes (drain off half of the juice)

1 fresh jalapeño pepper

1 whole dried red chile or red pepper flakes

Generous shakes of cumin and powdered garlic—more generous on the cumin

1 cap of vinegar

Salt to taste

Blend all ingredients in a blender. Place in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes. Increase or decrease peppers for desired “hotness”…and if you have to, use canned chiles. Serve with flour tortillas.

NOTE:
Far and away the best I’ve found in NYC are called, conveniently enough, Authentic Mexican brand white flour tortillas ($2.99 for eight). They put those disgusting dry white mass-market tortillas to shame. Unfortunately, the only place I know that carries them is Commodities on Second and Twelfth. And I’m happy to share my source, but there better be some tortillas there next time I make the trip. Also, I never heat tortillas in a pan with oil; I always heat them directly over the flame, flipping sides every ten or fifteen seconds.

PART 1: BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

I come from America.

It is a land of many wonders, but identifiable culinary tradition is not one of them. Sure, you got your New Orleans and California cuisines. But they are bastardizations. Riffs at best. No, like millions before me, I was raised in the great American culinary blandscape. My mom did her level best with tuna casserole and Chicken Every Way You Can Imagine. We were Jewish, so throw in brisket and gefilte fish. These do not a tradition make. If anything, they raise more questions. Questions like: Just how persecuted were Jews to still feel the need to punish themselves like this?

Nevertheless, from a relatively early age I had a taste for interesting food. I had no hang-ups and even took an unchildlike relish in eating freaky gross things like
gorgle.
1
As a reward for good grades in junior high, I asked my parents to take me to the restaurant of my choice. I chose a Korean restaurant that specialized in seafood. I insisted on trying shark fin soup and octopus and squid—common enough now, but in early eighties suburbia virtually unheard of. This was the time before sushi. It was the time all things exotic fell under the command of one General Tso.
2

My parents’ divorce resulted in me living with my dad, who did not cook. This forced me to get comfortable working solo in the kitchen at age fifteen. Early forays included:

1. Microwaving potatoes until they turned translucent and gelatinous. Lesson learned: one cannot
   bake
   a potato in a
   microwave
   oven.
   
2. Boiling rice in a non-Pyrex glass pot and watching it explode all over the kitchen.
   3
   Lesson learned: exploding glass is scary.
   
3. Leaving pasta in boiling water for so long, an entire pound of spaghetti fused into a single noodle. Lesson learned: a pound of spaghetti, even if it ultimately becomes one noodle, is too much for one person to eat.
   

Over time I became a limited but competent cook. My father usually came home too late for dinner, so more often than not I was cooking for one. This worked out great in the event of disaster, because I was the sole victim. But in the event of triumph, it also meant I was the sole victor. For some reason, this tasted bittersweet. I cooked out of necessity. What I wanted was inspiration.

PART 2: AN INTERLUDE TO THE CONTINENT

In the fall of my junior year of college I studied abroad in Florence, Italy, where the foreign exchange student population outnumbers bona fide Italians fifty to one. Still, it was Italy, where lunch means an entire nation shuts down from one until four-thirty. There I ate my first real tomato.
4
In Italy I discovered there were more than three kinds of cheese.
5
I learned the word “tripe” is not necessarily pejorative. And in Italy I was taught the secret of salsa rosa.

Though it sounds Mexican, salsa rosa is very much Italian. Its origin: the grandmother of one of my fellow students in Florence. He was Italian-American. He had a name like Dante and undoubtedly came from southern Italian stock. It was a simple dish, really. Garlic, olive oil, thin-sliced zucchini. A mix of Roma tomatoes—fresh and the Pomi kind that come in the cardboard container. From there, you add insane, heart-stopping amounts of butter,
parmigiano
, and a glorious chunk of fat known as
panna. Panna
is semi-solid cream. Think about heavy cream. Then imagine someone saying, “Not heavy enough.” This was cream that made crème fraîche seem “runny.” You squeezed it out of a juice box—and you really had to squeeze. No pouring, for it was not liquid. As you added the cream and the butter and cheese to the tomato base, the sauce would unmysteriously turn pink—hence salsa rosa. Pink sauce. Generously ladled over pasta—spaghettini or cappellini, mainly—salsa rosa induced an eyes-rolling-to-the-back-of-the-head type of ecstasy.

One night, in one of our cheap, cold student flats, we organized a dinner for our Italian language class. Four or five of us took on cooking duties. This consisted of going shopping together, arriving at the apartment early, smoking massive amounts of hash using the famed “hot butter knife/cardboard toilet paper roll” method, and getting down to some brass fucking tacks cooking. Dante served as chef de cuisine, he being in command of the recipe. The response from our fellow students was pure rapture. As for our Italian teacher, Elisabetta, she either enjoyed salsa rosa or was too polite to say otherwise. She had the annoying habit of speaking exclusively Italian. Since it was early in the semester, we were picking up only about 30 percent of what she said anyway. I left that evening, drunk on the power of good cooking, and, of course, drunk on wine.

Here, a lesser writer might surrender to cheap hyperbole, and say something like, “Salsa rosa changed the very course of my life.”

Salsa rosa changed the very course of my life.

I knew, however, that to deliver the goods on my own, I would have to practice. Cue the training montage.

I shopped alone at Florence’s famed Mercato Centrale, becoming fast friends with Tomato Woman, Fresh Pasta Lady, and Angry Man Who Sells Zucchini. I had already established a rapport with Sexy Baker Sisters and Impossibly Beautiful Daughter of Wine Seller. My boyish enthusiasm and game attempts to communicate in their language either charmed or numbed them into submission. Either way, they came to smile when I entered their world and they tried their best to advise me.

But in my small, poorly equipped kitchen I did not enjoy their counsel. My uninterested roommates—an obsessed cyclist, an artist just coming out of the closet, and a third dude of such unremarkable bearing, I can remember not a single detail about him, not even a name—were rarely home.
6

Alone, I tried to replicate the sauce as we’d made it that first night. With nothing written down, I needed to re-create the process by memory and feel. The hardest task was dialing down the portions, since I was going from cooking for twenty to cooking for uno.
7
Was one zucchini too many? Just how many tomatoes could a single person eat? What about garlic—when are you officially offending others with its smell? And then there’s the butter, cream, and cheese. Was it possible to give yourself a heart attack with one meal, or was that something that could only happen over time?

My first attempts were frustrating. The sauce looked weak and watery, then overwhelming, then not salty enough, then poorly balanced. I began to worry. What if, on that magic evening with the Italian class, it wasn’t the sauce that was good, but the hash? Would I now have to smoke before every meal? Would I become some tragic Billy Hayes–like character busted at Milan Malpensa with fifteen bricks taped to my chest all because the secret ingredient to a pink sauce was Khandahar Super Gold?
8

By the fifth or sixth time, with a kitchen now given over to the smell of burnt garlic, I found the salsa rosa groove. It worked in the lab. Now I wanted to see if it would work in the market. My chance came in a matter of days, when some college friends who were studying abroad in Sevilla visited me while passing through Italy. I sent them to the Uffizi to get their art on while I prepared. A few hours later, they were back, sitting, eating, growing more impressed with each bite. It was like I had absorbed some part of Italy by osmosis, while all they had to show for their time in Spain were sangria stains on their pants.

A week later, I made it again, this time for a girl I had been (lamely) wooing. Two months later we were doing it on a train in the Austrian countryside. Thanks, salsa rosa!

The last time I made salsa rosa in Italy was for a good-bye dinner for a small group after our program ended. I robotically sliced zucchini in my kitchen, thinking about all the times I had made the dish. I thought about how much better it was now. I thought about my experiments and my experience and why the sauce improved each time I made it. It was a brutal but important lesson for someone who, up to this point, had done far more cooking for himself than for anyone else. I realized the secret ingredient in most great cooking is the confidence of others—the look in their eyes, the nods of encouragement and amazement that what they are eating is so good and you were responsible for it. For me, the proof did not come in the pudding, but in being surrounded by pudding lovers.

PART 3: REVENGE OF THE SITH, AKA A HERO RISES, AKA AND YOU SHALL KNOW ME BY THE TRAIL OF THE SATISFIED

I returned for my senior year in college armed with no discernible plan for the future but in command of a delicious recipe for sauce. I shared an apartment with my two best friends, neither of whom had use for a kitchen, having mastered only ramen noodles and a curious combination of frozen corn, onions, and melted cheese best consumed before passing out with all your clothes on. I was not much better. Turns out, cooking for yourself in Wisconsin isn’t nearly as romantic as cooking for yourself in Florence. Not to mention, I had to go back to eating faux-matoes. Our oven lay dormant for long weeks. Perhaps I had just had a passing love affair with cooking. I was in Italy, young, impressionable, with not nearly as many friends as I had hoped for.

About a month into the semester, I decided to try and hustle my way out of the slump. It was early fall in the Midwest—harvest time. The spectacular farmers’ market was at its most beautiful, thick with farmers and kind, smelly hippies selling flourless vegan cookies that tasted like potting soil. Though a plucky exporter had yet to realize the genius of bringing
panna
to Madison, Wisconsin, I managed to replicate the recipe adequately enough. I made it first for me, then for others, but I no longer needed to cook for people to appreciate the food. I am not embarrassed to admit that it was during this period I started garnishing the plate even though I was the only person eating.

A few years later, an opportunity arose to go back to Italy. My friend Jeff, a musician, was living in Padua, to the north. He and another American, Jason, had hooked up with a guy named Marco. Together with a drummer named Ugo, they formed a band. I argued the band had to be called Ugo, because it was, to that point, the greatest name I had ever heard. These were rich kids. Not obscenely wealthy, but wealthy enough to be twenty-five and playing in a band that made no money and not have to sweat it. Their days were filled with dizzying amounts of nothing in particular. I would later learn these types of young Italian men were called
i vitteloni.
Fellini made a movie about them. Barry Levinson’s
Diner
ripped it off. Or paid homage. Depends who you ask.

One night, feeling bold, I offered to cook for
i vitteloni.
The menu was never in question. It was only a matter of finding the
panna.
9

Unless they are apprenticing to be chefs, young Italian men do not cook. They can make themselves a simple pasta with cheese and butter. That is all. They stay nestled in their protective pouch suckling at the teat of mama’s cooking until a replacement nipple in the form of a wife comes along. My dinner party would be a one-man operation. By now, that was the way I liked it.

We toasted to being young and trouble-free and then we ate. And it was good. Seconds and thirds were had. Bread was used to wipe away any stray sauce clinging to the bowls. Italian superlatives were tossed around—words like
buonissimo
and
fantastico
and
bravo
and some others that are technically vulgar, but in this context were complimentary.
10
I was overcome with the feeling I imagine actual chefs get from time to time—undoubtedly more at the beginning of their careers, before the jading sets in. You know you have brought great pleasure through the work of your hands and mind. You are a giver of joy. You are a god.
11

But this feeling was a minor peak, not the summit, for during cleanup I would be paid the highest compliment of my life. Ugo, the drummer, who was rakish with floppy hair, threw his arm around me, and asked me a question that under less manly circumstances would have brought tears to my eyes.

“Ben,” he said, “I must ask you, can you teach this recipe to my mother?”

“Yes, yes,” the others chimed in. “You must teach our mothers how to make this.”

I said, “Yes.”

I think. My Italian not being what it once was.

EPILOGUE

I am older now. I happen to be married to an Italian woman. She knows how to cook. She learned from her mother, who learned from her mother, who undoubtedly learned from her mother. I imagine this goes back some time, probably to when they were not Italians but Etruscans. In any case, I’m fairly sure she is directly related to either Romulus or Remus. Once, before we were married, when I was still trying everything in my arsenal to impress her, I told her about salsa rosa. I told her with my chest puffed out.

“So good, it was, they asked
me
to teach it to their mothers.”
12

She laughed, and in her lilting Mediterranean accent brought me low. “That’s not even an Italian dish,” she said.

“It’s from the south,” I answered, first words confident, last words not so much.