My final free Sunday in my old apartment I woke up to rain against windows and a cat content to watch from the sill, her ears alertly perked, drawn eyes peaceful, the perfect being. I stayed in my pajamas for hours and lazily alternated between daydreaming and scrawling pure blasphemy in my journal. Reading back over it, one either has to laugh or take it quite seriously. There are no other options, perhaps ever.
Though mildly disappointed when the rain stopped, I took the opportunity to venture to the sparsely-attended farmers market, the ground wet and the tents wind-whipped, the vendors crossing out old prices and issuing "rainy day deals." I returned home, and I think this was the last day it still felt like home, with some delicious donut peaches and white nectarines, a perky salad mix and a fragrant tomato. All beautiful, but they amounted to much less than my usual bounty. I wanted a big hearty salad but wasn't sure how it would come together.
Though always a somewhat improvisational cook, I've been taking the experimentation to new levels since Bugs left the dinner table. I’ve been making some seriously sloppy salads, creating crazy ingredient combinations in the least-pretty of presentations, and I’ve been absolutely loving it. After caramelizing a batch of onions that Sunday, I decided to make use of the frond on the bottom of my pan and thought "Why not make a roux-inspired dressing?" So I upped the heat and poured in a glug of whatever wine was open on the counter, something called The Boot I think, whisked in a quick flour-butter paste, a touch of sugar, salt, pimeton de la vera, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and took a taste. Weird, crazy, but good. Rooting around in the fridge, I found some goat cheese, perfect for forking crumbles over my mish-mash salad, but why not stir a little into my saucy concoction for some added creamy goodness, and by that I mean fat? The sauce took on a milk chocolatey texture as I rapidly stirred in the goat cheese with a wooden spoon. After it cooled a bit, I used my hands to toss the mixed greens with the gooey mixture. The salad received thick slices of ripe red tomato, a topping of caramelized onions and, of course, more goat cheese. It was gloriously messy, almost resembling the Wednesday taco salads served at the deli by my work. Parting with any previous expectations of presentation, I savored the taste of crisp greens, juicy tomato and my strange but decadent dressing.
It was just the fuel for the newspaper-crinkling, box-filling, bending and lifting, cleaning, and general destruction that is moving. Since I've had both apartments for the month of September, I've been simultaneously destructing and creating, employing opposite processes in separate locations, both intimate enclosed spaces, just 12 blocks apart. I've bought a few new things, but I'm mostly working with old materials, trying to build a new home with the ashes of another.
I had a wooden arm and hacked it off with an axe. Now I carefully whittle away the jagged edges into a new, hopefully useful, shape. My new home is an extension of myself, like a prosthesis I found and fastened on. In many ways it's a weird amalgamation of every place I've lived before it. The sticky kitchen cabinets are as welcoming as a California beach house, the floors as familiar as a barefooted dance party.
Cooking for myself is so unlike cooking for someone else. In large part, the new freedom I feel in the kitchen comes from the new but very basic premise that I only cook when I’m both hungry and in a mood to cook. Dinner time used to be defined by the clock. It used to be defined as the time when Bugs' keys unlocked the front door and the cat proffered up her skinny belly for a rub down and my timer was simultaneously blaring and I was burning myself on my cast iron pan. He would approach the kitchen tentatively, looking for a kiss, which I would give him reluctantly and then rush to plate the meal while hot and he would open the wine he brought home from work. 8 on weeknights and Saturdays, 7 on Sundays. That was dinner time. It meant a routine, an interaction of players, a shared space and the satisfaction of feeding someone else.
I'm in another place entirely now. And perfectly happy to be digging around in the fridge at 8:20, whereas before I would have been stressed to serve dinner so late, feverishly tossing together ingredients while he sat hungrily on the couch. Maybe my own hunger is much easier to tame than my imagination of someone else's growling stomach, but feeding myself recently become both more satisfying and more relaxing.
After looking in my sparse fridge and becoming dance-inducing joyous at the sight of a lemon, I decided to cook up some potatoes (Desiree and Maris Piper from Olsen Farms), haricot vert, an egg, and throw them around in a bowl with a mustardy-vinegrette, lots of parsley, a can of tuna, and some finely diced onions. I normally would have used shallots, but didn’t want to journey to the store, was hungry and also pretty excited to simply throw together my farmers market finds and the few random ingredients that made their way from my old home to the new one.
I don’t know if it had anything to do with the transition from a gas to an electric stovetop, but my first egg in the new kitchen was wonderfully undercooked instead of the usual ones done just beyond perfection. I was going for something soft boiled, orange yolk moist but firm, a not-yet-crumbling texture. My whites were set, but my yolk was the consistency of a poached egg, much more jiggly than I was expecting and held in place by a thin but strong membrane.
I cradled it in my hands, making it shimmy and shake then watching it still itself. The texture was delicate but the color was so fucking brilliant, as if I held the smallest of suns in my palms. I reveled in it and then I squished it. I let the thick sticky yellow mess run all over my hands and melt into the salad bowl, all over my cooked and mustardy potatoes, my lemony blanched little green beans. I wiped as much as I could into the meal bowl and then licked my fingers. I licked the webs between my fingers. I licked my open palms, tongue spread to absorb as much as possible. Then I licked my lips.
It was a good egg.
