Pretty in Ink (6 page)

As a child, I remember the thrill when I’d return home from school and see a new issue of
Hers
peeking out of the mailbox. My friends all read
Girl Talk,
then later
Teen You,
but I cherished the
Hers
ritual I shared with my mother each month. She would prepare our afternoon snacks—Oreos and milk for me, nut mix and a gin and tonic for her—and together we’d pore over the pages. The fashion tips and home decorating tricks seemed like magic wisdom from a faraway land, and I was in awe of my mother’s cool when she successfully pulled off the chic outfits and executed the projects in our own home. Each month we’d study the cover model, and Mom would try her hand at replicating the makeup and hairdo on me. All done up, I’d gaze at myself in the mirror for hours, trying to mimic the model’s glamorous, sophisticated expression.

I locate the November 1987 issue in the records file and I flip back to the recipe pages. There it is, Festive Apple Spice Pie. I remember I was in fifth grade, and it was the day before Thanksgiving break when my mother announced she would teach me to bake a pie. Even at age ten I fantasized about someday passing along this lesson to my future daughter. I’d share the secret trick of adding nutmeg to the crust dough for extra flavor, Mom’s personal touch.

The whole of my mother’s dinner repertoire came from the pages of
Hers—
turkey meatloaf, buttermilk mashed potatoes, pineapple upside-down cake. After my third miscarriage last year, I dredged up Mom’s recipes and spent the entire afternoon cooking pot roast and cinnamon bread pudding. Jesse thought it was endearing, my stick-to-your-ribs meal, and he cleaned his plate. He didn’t even complain that I’d transformed our studio’s matchbox kitchen into what looked like the aftermath of an earthquake; he washed and dried and put away every dish. Jesse likes bi bim bop; Jamaican spiced patties; and other hip, eccentric fare that he carries home in brown take-away bags (and which costs us a fortune, I often complain), but I secretly prefer Mom’s
Hers-
inspired, totally uncool home cooking, pure comfort on a plate.

I begin sketching out a story idea based on vintage
Hers
recipes—how to cook the magazine’s classics in less time and with healthier ingredients (Mom used to spend the better part of each evening in the kitchen, preparing the rich, artery-clogging food). Everyone’s always rushing around these days, and who wouldn’t love to prepare sweet potato casserole in just fifteen minutes and have it be nutritious, too?

I’m feeling that familiar tingle of discovery, the ideas popping up in my mind like soda bubbles. It’s that delicious thrill of creation that makes me feel like I’m perpetually winning a medal. Another article could take a fun, kitschy look at which old
Hers
advice is worth reviving versus which advice should remain buried in the past. We could run a series on women’s biggest dreams and disappointments; we’d get celebrities to pen personal essays describing what they imagined their lives would look like and how their actual lives measure up. I’m scribbling down thoughts like a maniac, my notebook filling up with ink. Before I know it, it’s five p.m. and I’ve put in a full day’s work.

 

Back at
Starstruck
the following day, the editor in chief assigns me a piece on the cravings of middle-aged, knocked-up celebrities, which is how I find myself sitting across the table that afternoon from a six-months-pregnant, forty-five-year-old movie star and getting very drunk. At first I order a single glass of merlot, but then I think,
What the hell?
and ask the waiter to bring over the bottle. This is the type of not-so-brilliant idea that Mimi would have talked me out of if she still worked at
Starstruck
.

“So what do you find yourself eating late at night?” I ask listlessly, notebook in hand.

“Pickles and ice cream. I’m a total classic,” the actress says, and I’m tempted to point out that sporting a baby bump when you’re on the brink of menopause is not at all classic. “And when I want ice cream, there’s nothing getting between me and Ben and Jerry. My husband runs out to the store at all hours of the night. It’s so adorable.”

She’s probably told this anecdote—invented, most likely—to a dozen other sources, and I know my boss will want me to dig up something fresh. “What brand of pickles?” I ask.

But I don’t listen to her answer. I swig the rest of my wine and pour myself another glass. “Let me ask you something, off the record,” I say, leaning across the table. “How did you do it? I mean, really: Was it special vitamins, a certain sex position, some kind of miracle worker gyno, what?”

I’m thinking that maybe she’ll be honest. Maybe she’ll admit she got an egg donor or is faking the whole thing, or she’ll reveal some other strange truth; I’m always hoping these celebrities will cast aside their P.R.-approved talking points for one second and say something real. But to no avail: The actress shrugs, smiling smugly, and takes an infuriatingly small sip of her green tea. “My beloved and I figured if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. I went off the Pill and—boom!—one month later I was with child.” She giggles, and I take too much pleasure in noticing the deep, crinkly lines that frame her eyes and mouth. My mother would be ashamed of me. I gulp down my wine and excuse myself, ending the interview.

 

I’m still more than a little tipsy when Mimi calls to officially offer me the executive editor job at
Hers
. I accept in five different rambling forms before she tells me to shut up or she’ll rescind the offer.

I dial Jesse. “I got the job,” I squeal, not caring that I’m surrounded by my
Starstruck
coworkers.

“That’s amazing, babe. It’s a big step up.”

“That’s right. I’ll practically be at the top of the masthead.”

“I know you’ve wanted a change for a while, and this might be just what you need.” I find I’m suddenly irritated. What my husband knows is that I’ve hoped for a change along the lines of cutting back at work to focus on being a mother. He continues: “There’s a new Indian place that just opened down the block that looks great. Let’s go tonight—just me and you hitting the town to toast your big achievement.”

“OK.” I know Jesse is just trying to help me celebrate, and maybe it’s on account of the pint of wine sloshing around my bloodstream, but my mood goes sour. This is supposed to be my big, special moment, but it doesn’t feel like one anymore. I consider my typical day: Every morning it’s a battle with the alarm clock over whether I’ll force myself up to face the treadmill or catch another few winks, then it’s off to the office for nine or ten hours of the grind, and then Jesse and I hit up happy hour or the latest blockbuster or some gallery exhibit, after which we return home to our tiny apartment to watch crappy TV or have crappy procreation sex; finally we collapse like zombies onto our pillows, and within several hours it’s up and at ’em for the same thing all over again. Jesse seems content with this life (though I’m sure he wishes for hotter sex). I, on the other hand, swing like a mad pendulum between restlessness and lethargy, rage and despair. I’m terrified that one day soon Jesse is going to suggest we stop trying for a baby. The thought makes my eyes pool with tears. I blink them back furiously.

“I love you, babe,” says Jesse. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you, too,” I say quietly, then hang up. I glance at my computer’s screen saver, a shot of Jesse and me dressed up as Mario and Luigi from last year’s Halloween party. The costumes were a hit, all the guests admiring our twin mustaches and reminiscing about their own favorite Nintendo games from back in the day. Jesse and I had stuffed our matching overalls with cotton and entertained ourselves throughout the night by bumping each other’s potbellies, increasing our gusto as we downed more and more drinks. I had a blast at the party, but looking at the photo now fills me with shame. How pathetic I look with my drunken smile and fake belly paunch. I flash on Leah Brenner’s Christmas card—her gorgeous Norman Rockwell family.

I shake my computer mouse, and the screen saver vanishes, pixilated Jesse and me and our comically distended stomachs instantly replaced by my Internet browser. I remind myself that I am getting Leah’s job. Her perfect life will soon be less so, and it makes me feel sinfully happy. I load up the menu for the new Indian restaurant on our block and begin planning my order for the celebration meal.

4

A
ll morning I’ve been tweaking the cream cheese-to-sugar ratio in the frosting, and I’ve finally found the sweet (but not too sweet) spot. “Mmm,” I announce to the empty kitchen, seducing the spoon with my tongue. The phone begins blaring—I set it loud so I can hear it over the hand mixer. I peek at the lemon cupcakes rising in the oven—fluffy and golden, gorgeous—then grab the receiver.

“Mimi would like PB&J, but they’re out of it in the cafeteria.”

“Hello, Laura.”

“Hi. So can you make it up there?”

“Are you asking if I am able to construct a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” I ask, trying to affect the patient but stern tone I use with my four-year-old grandniece.

“She prefers chunky, and she has a meeting in twenty minutes, so please aim for sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I put my work on hold and set out the bread and the jars of peanut butter and jelly on the counter. I wonder how the French Culinary Institute, a graduate degree in nutrition, and twenty-five years’ experience as a food editor and recipe guru have landed me here, personal chef to a forty-year-old with the tastes of a kindergartener. I consider cutting off the bread crusts, but refrain.

I pull the cupcakes from the oven and set them on the cooling rack, and then arrange the sandwich and a glass of cold milk on a tray and walk from the test kitchen down to Mimi’s office. “You’re a lifesaver,” she says when I present her lunch. She gulps at the milk and flashes me a drippy white mustache, proud like she just invented sliced bread. I humor the display with a lackluster thumbs-up.

I’m grateful to escape back to my kitchen. I suppose the space is technically the property of Schimdt & Delancey, but for the past two and a half decades I’ve reigned over it—stocking it with state-of-the-art supplies, filling it with the aromas of thousands of delicious concoctions, tending to it with the love of a mother. This is my home, where I can cook and experiment and eat and listen to whatever kind of music I want, with little disturbance. I’ve truly struck gold: I live in New York City with access to the world’s best restaurants, and because of this sprawling, state-of-the-art facility I haven’t had to settle for the typical Manhattan apartment kitchenette with one square foot of counter space and an oven more finicky than a vegan with a gluten allergy. The appearance of Mimi on the scene has been a mild annoyance, for sure, but I’ve weathered such storms before.

I start in on the red velvet batter. When I pitched ideas for summer recipe packages a couple of months ago, it was pre-Mimi, and Louisa nixed a hot dog taste test. Too many nitrates, she said. So it’s desserts again, for the third year running. The twist this year is cupcakes for birthday picnics, since apparently August is the most popular birth month. I’ve gone through twenty pounds of sugar so far this week. Let’s hope Mimi has a sweet tooth.

In the afternoon I set the cupcakes out on the free table and then step away to avoid the staff stampede. I discovered long ago that if you feed people, you remain on their good side no matter what else you do.

“OMG, delish,” says Zoe, spitting crumbs from a mouth full of cake.

“The frosting is to die for. How do you do it?” Jane asks, reaching for a second serving.

“It’s nothing,” I say, deflecting the compliments. Most of these people can’t tell the difference between a halfway-decent dessert and a divine one (I can’t believe the junk tourists line up for at the trendy bakeries in the city). It’s true of our readers, too, who count cream of mushroom soup and freeze-dried stuffing as kitchen staples. Nevertheless, I hold our recipes to a higher standard. Louisa mostly shared this sensibility and gave me free reign, though after I ran a recipe for beef bourguignon with an ingredient list a page long (in my defense it was for the Christmas special), she called me into her office to read aloud all the complaint letters; after that, I had Ed pass the food mail directly to me so I could selectively share reader comments with the big boss.

I spot Drew, photo editor by trade, but a serious cook, too. “What do you think?”

She’s nibbling on a red velvet variety. “Is there a hint of cinnamon in here?”

“There is!”

“It’s tasty. Though I’d lose a bit of the cocoa—it overwhelms the other flavors.”

“Interesting.” I take a bite. She’s right. I snag the last cupcake from the platter and carry it into Mimi’s office.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m off sugar this month.”

Yeah, right,
I think, glancing at her hips; she must be at least a size 12. “Just a taste? We’re planning to run these in the August issue. The pages have to ship this week.”

“See what Laura thinks—I trust her opinion.”

I nod. Laura, the new assistant, informed me on her first day that she’s a very picky eater and doesn’t care for cheese, most sauces, or legumes; no way am I going to ask for her opinion.

I spend the rest of the day tweaking the red velvet recipe and dreaming up ideas for the autumn issues: We could do Indian stews, or root vegetables in potpies and ragout, or a whole Greek feast from olives to baklava. It’s hard to remember during a June heat wave, but when the weather cools, people recommit to spending time in the kitchen and creating sumptuous meals for their families. Fall is my favorite season for food. If the new boss isn’t going to weigh in on the recipes, I’ll take that as a blank check. Hopefully her next diet will involve those preportioned meals sent to her doorstep so she won’t want to taste anything I prepare.

At the end of the workday, Mimi and I catch the same elevator down. I refuse to participate in the stick-around-until-after-the-boss-is-gone game that everyone else is playing these days; when I’m done with my work, I leave. I notice a glob of cream cheese frosting on the lapel of Mimi’s jacket. “That stuff will stain,” I say, pointing to the white dollop. “Don’t rub at it. Mix bleach with warm water and soak it overnight. Have a good evening!” And then I flee.

 

The next day, a woman with long red hair appears in the office, looking adrift until Mimi runs up to her and they hug as if they were separated at birth. They spend the entire next hour holed up in Mimi’s office, huddled in conversation.

“Who is that, her sister?” I ask Zoe, who’s visiting my desk for her usual afternoon raid of my chocolate stash. I save the cheap milk kind for her; I’ve given up trying to convert her to high-quality dark.

“That’s the new executive editor,” she says. “Victoria LaRue. She’s from
Starstruck,
too.”

“Oh, great, another celeb-o-phile. Does Leah know?” We’ve never before had two executive editors on staff.

“Probably not. I already spied Victoria sizing up her office.” After Leah had triplets and shipped out to the suburbs last year, she convinced Louisa to let her telecommute two days a week. So far Mimi has let this arrangement fly, too, but I predict Leah misses one big meeting and either she has to start schlepping into the city every day again or she gets the pink slip. Leah edits the food pages and, even though she’s now usually covered in baby spit-up or changing a diaper as we Skype, her talent remains for transforming the language of my recipes into poetry.

“Ladies and . . . ladies,” announces Mimi, winking at Mark, our brilliant creative director and the only man on staff. She’s called us all to the conference room. “I want to introduce the brilliant Victoria. Victoria began her career at
Yummy Weekly,
where she covered snacking trends and kitchen gear with great skill and dedication, and then moved on to
Starstruck,
where she distinguished herself as one of the top reporters on celebrity diets and meal plans. I’m bringing her on deck as an extra hand to help us for the November relaunch, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Please join me in welcoming our new co-executive editor.”

“Yay!” yelps Victoria.

“Yay!” echoes Laura, and she, Victoria, and Mimi embrace with a degree of dedication I’ve only previously seen on reality TV, usually when former friends-turned-foes reconcile (I’m ashamed I’ve seen enough of that trash to know this). I suppose since all three of them come from
Starstruck,
that is their world. Mimi opens one arm and pulls in a reluctant Mark, who is not the type for group hugging. I sense this will become problematic.

 

At first I don’t notice anyone standing there, since I’ve got the food processer going and I’m singing my heart out to that cheesy new Helena Hope song: “We’d be lying in the sun, boy, I really thought we’d won. But, oh how I was wrong, how you strung me right along, told me I gotta be strong, left me with nothing but a song.”

But when I wheel around and see Victoria in my door frame, her facial features contorted into what I suppose is an expression of amusement, I freeze. In one motion I flip off both my radio and the food processer.

“I guess you didn’t hear my knocking,” she says. She’s violated the unspoken rule that no one comes up to my kitchen uninvited, and now she worsens the offense by entering the space before I grant her permission. She eyes a fresh batch of pistachio pesto. “Looks delicious.”

I can’t resist the urge to feed—I hand her a spoon. “Here, try. It’s for the weeknight dinner series. Pesto orecchiette.”

“Delectable,” she says. “I’d reduce the oil a bit, and maybe go with orzo or some other pasta people have actually heard of.” I make an effort to lift the corners of my mouth. “So, listen. I had a conversation with Mimi about our food coverage, and I wanted to relay the main points back to you.” I’m already fuming that a discussion of
Hers
’ recipes happened in my absence, and Victoria ratchets up my rage by initiating a self-guided tour of my space, sniffing at a bag of basil, then squeezing an heirloom tomato. I wonder when she last washed her hands. “First off, from now on we want to limit recipe prep time to twenty-five minutes. No one has the time to spend hours slaving away in the kitchen.”

I’m surprised to find I’m prepared for this argument: “The average American watches four hours of TV per day,” I say bitterly. “I think they can spend forty minutes now and then making dinner. A twenty-five-minute limit means we won’t be able to include braised meat or pies with homemade crusts or even some soups. What about for special events?”

“I hear you,” says Victoria. “But Mimi’s point is, we should be giving our readers permission to spend holidays relaxing and hanging out with their loved ones instead of slaving over the stove like they’re repressed housewives from two generations ago. Especially in this day and age, when everyone is so busy and we all have so little quality time with our friends and family. Those complicated, labor-intensive recipes aren’t realistic for the life of your average busy mom.”

This is all bullshit, of course; everyone has always been busy, and just because these days people would rather spend their free time scrolling through Facebook and stuffing their faces with Cheetos than cooking actual food for their families is not my problem. But there’s something about how Victoria’s speaking—a hollowness, maybe a lack of conviction?—that stops me from grabbing a butcher knife and chop-chop-chopping away my anger. It makes me think I can work on her, sway her from the party line.

“People connect through food,” I say. “It’s the glue of our gatherings. That’s as true today as it was back when cavewomen got together by the fire to gossip about the cute barbarian in the next cave as they roasted the wooly mammoths or whatever the hell their men brought home from the hunt.”
Where do I come up with this crap?
“Cooking is not some sort of throwback
Feminine Mystique
symbol of unfulfilled housewives; it’s a way to bond with the people you love, and a means to enjoy and savor something delicious together. At least that’s how I’ve always presented it in
Hers.
Are you familiar with the food coverage in
Hers
magazine, Victoria?”

She ignores the question and takes it upon herself to open my refrigerator. She buries her entire head in the cold air, as if she’s in her own home jonesing for a late-night snack. If she reaches for anything, I’ll pounce. “Another option we talked about,” Victoria says, shutting the fridge, “and this might help you include the kinds of recipes you want but cut out some of the steps, is to rethink what we mean by homemade. My idea is, let’s make readers feel great that they’re cooking, but also give them some shortcuts, some little cheats to minimize the drudgery of doing it all from scratch. So, we’ll make half of our ingredients ready-made. I’ve prepared a list of foods for you.”

She passes me a typed-up memo, and I scan the items—bagged lettuce, instant rice, precut vegetables, jarred pasta sauce, canned whipped cream, and then the clincher—
cake mix.
“Maybe we should just give the readers a list of restaurants to go to instead?” I say, my tone chilly. “Applebee’s, Chili’s, McDonald’s?”