Goodbye, Baklava

I know we never met frequently, Baklava, but I cherished our moments.  I will miss you.

I'm hypoglycemic.  Over the last year, it's come to the point where I can't eat more than a quarter portion of an average piece of cake without feeling very nauseous.  I gave away my Christmas candy and I don't even put sugar in tea anymore.  For the most part, I don't mind.  I've never been very big on sweet foods, they were always a sometimes treat.

What I hadn't considered was baklava.  It's already in small pieces.  It has nuts in it.  It should be ok to have just a tiny bit.  Baklava has always been one of my favorites for occasions.

Alas.

I've been very ill lately and my roommate kindly brought home a piece of baklava for when I feel better. Today, I'm feeling much better and thought I'd have a little bit of it.  One. Single. Bite. And I'm nauseous.  I put the rest of the pastry carefully back into it's little box.

I would still rather give up sweets entirely rather than take insulin injections.

Goodbye, baklava.  I will remember you fondly.

Channeling a fictional english housewife

I've been reading Agatha Christies' "The Postern of Fate" recently, and feeling very domestic.  So after a half hour ride on my bicycle, I began to make shepherds's pie.  I'd been meaning to make the dish in any case, the book just adds a certain flavor to my actions.  (As a side note, my boyfriend and I did talk about my last blog entry - Things are picking back up, and he's still the love of my life.  So the following recipe does take his corn and dairy allergies into account).

First I chopped an onion and began to caramelize it in the largest frying pan with some olive oil.  Next, I peeled and smashed a whole head of garlic.  Not a bad way to practice my palm-heel.  Into the pan went the smashed garlic with a touch of sesame oil.  I pulled my carton of mushrooms from the fridge and minced half of them and added them to the pan as well.  Then I mushed around my ground beef and added it to the pan, allowing it to just brown and start producing juices.  I poured the juices from the meat, garlic, and onion into an adjacent pan and spread the meat as the first layer in a baking pan.  Then the extra into a bread pan. Bonus pie.

At this time I recalled that the last three bottles of the stout I'd made with my best friend last Winter were still in my basement.  I retrieved them and placed two in the fridge, pouring most of the third into the pot with the drippings.  The remainder filled half a pint glass for me.  I decided that the other two bottles should go perfectly with dinner.
To the nascent gravy I added sherry vinegar, thyme, cayenne, bay leaves, garlic powder, onion salt, crumbled sage I've been drying in the pantry, more thyme, sea salt, a splash of cider vinegar, and a few handfuls of flour over the course of the next hour as it simmered.

For the second layer I chopped up carrots, celery, broccoli, the remaining mushrooms, and set aside my bag of fresh english peas.  (Everything is english today.  I even had earl grey for afternoon tea).  I steamed the chopped vegetables until they were just barely cooked and then spread them in the pans atop the meat.  The peas I poured over to fill in any gaps.

It was around this point where Tommy Beresford asked in my head "Well, what's for pudding?"  Ah.  I thought to myself.  Quite right, fictional englishman.  If I'm going to the trouble of making a nice dinner with a matched beer, I had better well make dessert.  I brought some pie crust and two packages of berries (cherry, raspberry and blackberry in the first, strawberry in the second) and left them out to defrost in the pantry.

Then I chopped and steamed most of a bag of russet potatoes, leaving the skins on for smashed potato topping.  They took quite a while to cook through, so I cleaned the kitchen from Phase 1.  When the potatoes were finally soft enough, I dumped them into the large pot and mashed them  - manually, with a masher and a wooden spoon - together with half a log of honeyed goat cheese and a touch of coconut milk.  Then I spread the  goat enhanced smashed potatoes on top of the two nearly full baking dishes and popped them in the oven for twenty minutes at 350 degrees.  Then I turned them around and baked them another ten minutes.

When I pulled them out the second time, I set them on the counter to cool.  I'll pop them back in for another ten-ish minutes just before dinner at seven.  Now for dessert pie.  My frozen berry packages were not quite defrosted, so I put them in the sink with room temperature water while I chopped about a half dozen small plums.  After greasing the pan with canola oil, I rolled out the bottom crust and laid down the layer of strawberries.  Then the mixed berries, then my plum slices.  And the top crust.  You get it.  I made a pie the lazy way.  But I forked the damn edges, put the little slits in the top, and it'll be damn delicious, so shut it.  I don't have to bother with making my own crust.  (...That comment was to Albert, the english butler in my head, giving my modern cookery of frozen pie crust disparaging looks.  If you're not Albert, please disregard.  If you are... Well.  Damn.  Sorry fictional-character-come-to-life, but it's either you stop existing or I go to the mental ward.  I trust you'll do the right thing).

Now the berry plum pie is cooking, and my dinner guests arrive at 7pm.  And I still haven't cleaned up the laundry.  I think I'll end my stint as an english housewife before then.

I Have a Vision for Dinner. And It's Bigger Than My Wallet.

Being a dog walker brings a whole new level of understanding to the term "Feast or Famine." When the money is good, it's really good. When the money is bad, you panic and scramble to make rent. Unfortunately, you never know too far in advance which way it's going to be. Clients come and go for a multitude of reasons. Oftentimes, there's way too much work or not nearly enough. If you're good at what you do, you can hustle to make ends meet. But you're never really in a position to wear a cashmere catsuit while eating beluga caviar from your finest platinum china - or whatever it is that rich people do - because even if you feel like you're rolling in Benjamins, you could be pawning it all next week when your clients choose to go long-term "summering" in "The Hamptons." Bottom line: Being a dog walker requires a certain amount of frugality. I am not very frugal.

Three more pennies and I can buy a six pack!

My biggest weakness is food. Hands down. Some people have a soft spot for vintage clothing, designer shoes, exotic vacations, cats... I am constantly eating my paychecks. Come to think of it - equal opportunity spender that I am - I'm drinking them, too. It doesn't help that my epicuriosity tends to exceed my pay bracket.

Sometimes I find myself wandering through ritzy shops and specialty markets like a real-life Orphan Annie, smelling all of the delicious smells, reading the placards like I can actually afford what's beneath them, and making eyes with the teenagers behind the counter like a starving mongrel dog. Please offer me a piece of that $75 per pound limited bleu cheese from the Northwest corner of Mordor. Please. 

And sometimes they do. 

Probably because I'm making them uncomfortable.

Anyway, here's what I'm getting at: Expensive tastes combined with fluctuating income occasionally leads to poor decision-making, especially when I'm given the opportunity to show off. Now, don't get me wrong. On most days, I'm humble. I'll even go so far as to say that humbleness is a cornerstone of my personality. But on some days, a little part of me wants to be impressive... likes it, even. I take pride in my cooking. It's nothing gourmet, but more often than not, it is tasty. When I'm by myself, I'll spend 20 minutes torturing over the price of pork chops in the subpar local supermarket before ultimately settling for beef heart, because organ meat is cheaper by the pound. But on days when I'm cooking for two, I magically possess this strange conviction that I can afford to eat whatever the hell I want, that I can afford to serve whatever the hell I want.

If there were Olympics for the pure power of self-justifcation, I'd win.

And with this very reasonable thought process in place, I think, "I, too, can shop at Whole Foods."

Whole Foods - while definitely a mainstream supermarket - is a veritable mecca for anything in the universe that you could possibly want to eat as an upper middle class American. They have a section for everything. Hell, their sections have sections. There's a multicultural food court, a beer-tasting room, machines for making your own peanut butter, loose eggs from under the butt of every bird imaginable, and all the natural, grass-fed, organically-raised meat, fish, and cheese your body has room for. And most of the produce is local. And there is a lot  of produce. This overflowing consumer cornucopia of edible delight, however, comes at a price. Truth is, Whole Foods would be better rebranded as Whole Paycheck.

Now, as a 27-year-old woman living in New York City and working full time as a dog walker, I think it goes without saying that, while I do statistically have more than most of the world's population, I definitely do not qualify as an upper middle class American. So, when I push through the pristinely-polished revolving doors of the hermetically-sealed Columbus Circle Mall - which is redolent with wealth and privilege - and cautiously board the escalator that takes me down, down, down to the crisp air conditioning of Whole Foods Heaven, I become acutely aware of my crusty, beat-up Keds and my threadbare Forever 21 yoga pants (which can barely hang onto their seams, but still somehow manage to pick up every stray Manhattanite dog hair within a 10-foot radius of my body).

"You do not belong here," my mind warns me. "Your wallet does not belong here."

But my eyes brighten with every step. My heart sings. 

"Fresh figs are on sale for $3.99," it coos lovingly.

It is Christmas, and I am young again.

There are two things about this magical journey worth pointing out. For one, to most people, a trip to Whole Foods on a Wednesday evening contains all the untapped joy of a weekend trip to the DMV. For them, there is nothing exciting about trekking to their regular, overcrowded, subterranean, urban supermarket after a long day at the office. You can see it in their harried faces and defensive body language, the way they deftly maneuver those strange little shopping carts around the market's many standalone islands, like drone bees with a tedious - but necessary - task at hand. Whole Foods contains no magic. It contains food. There's no mistaking it: This is a chore. 

I, on the other hand, am like a tourist from the deep South, seeing Times Square for the first time. And fully understanding how annoying both Times Square and first-time tourists are, I'm aware that just because my heart bubbles over with joy for the two-inch-thick grass-fed New Zealand lamb chops doesn't mean that anyone else gives a shit. In fact, all they're aware of is that I'm walking too goddamned slow. I'm a wrench in a well-oiled machine. But that's okay. Because... well, because meat. Everybody surely understands the Logic of Meat. Even vegetarians.

"One of those, please. No, don't wrap it. I need a snack while I shop."

The second thing worth pointing out is that I'm only planning on buying lamb at Whole Foods. Nothing else. And at $8.99 per pound - though significantly more expensive than my $1.50 per pound beef heart - it's only a mini investment, and well worth the look of adoring admiration I'd surely receive upon transferring it from a crackling skillet - glistening with melted butter and fresh herbs - into the waiting mouth of a hungry man. 

So, there I am, standing at the meat counter, watching the butcher wrap those sacred lamb chops, and listening raptly as he tells me to rub them down with citrus before laying them gently into a lightly-oiled pan to sear for two-to-three minutes per side, which would bring them to that perfect melt-in-my-mouth medium rare I'm so ardently seeking... I swear, I could have made love to him right there inside the glass case, stretched languorously atop the sticky pork loins and marinated chicken breasts. He was speaking the language of love. Or at least he was speaking my language of love.

"Citrus," I think, gingerly taking the brown paper package from the butcher's hands and tucking it into my strange little cart. "I need citrus." But then a small voice - you know, that small, persuasive, insidious whisper behind all terrible choices - lightly suggests, "You know you need more than just lamb chops and citrus to cook a praise-worthy meal, right? Are normal tomatoes as good as locally-grown organic tomatoes? Why don't you just, I don't know, buy all of your ingredients here? You don't need that many things. How much could it possibly cost?"

Fifteen minutes later, as the resolutely cheerful cashier is ringing up my beautiful items, I look down at my grocery list and wince: Lamb chops, garlic, parsley, rosemary, cauliflower, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, green peppers, fresh figs, Kalamata olives, Greek feta cheese, and baguette. More than I planned for when I get right down to it, especially considering the fact that the dinner itself was just as spontaneous as my hideous splurge. Kind of a lot of things for one two-person meal, really.

"I'll be impressive for sure," I think, brushing away the knowledge that he finds me plenty impressive already. Just as I'm starting to feel better about my embarrassing lack of financial management skills, the cashier speaks:

"That'll be fifty-seven dollars and forty-nine cents."

Fuck.

Utilizing every ounce of willpower to control my fight-or-flight response, which would be to blurt out, "I'll just take the lamb chops, thank you," before running, screaming, from the supermarket, I force a polite smile and meekly hand over my debit card. Minutes later, I'm back outside, trundling along the South end of Central Park with a heavy brown paper bag clutched anxiously to my chest.

I'm pleased to report that, once the shock wore off, I succeeded in creating a truly delicious meal. I rinsed the lamb chops and marinated them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar with fresh garlic, parsley, and rosemary before pan searing them in butter, just as the butcher instructed; roasted the cauliflower until it was golden brown; and combined the chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, red onion, and feta into a traditional Greek salad, all enjoyed with a yummy bottle of Pinot Noir, courtesy of my charming and thoughtful dinner companion.

I was feeling pretty good about myself. Almost good enough to forget the horror of the total cost... which is probably why I found myself back at Whole Foods two weeks later, poring over the sunchoke roots and chayotes. I needed one vegetable. I bought both. The cashier had no clue what they were. Neither did I.

Hint: It's not a pear! (Well, then what the hell is it?)

A day in the life.

Someday I'll learn.

Maybe.