Apron Anxiety (14 page)

Then I look around the kitchen for the nutmeg, which is up next. Nowhere to be found, despite the fact that I paid nine dollars for it an hour ago. I grab some cinnamon instead.
That’s like nutmeg’s little sister, isn’t it?
My little dash turns into a voluptuous dollop and suddenly my white, creamy sauce turns into Cinnamon City. There’s nothing I can do. It’s time to boil the water and bathe the macaroni.

So far, no fires, no tears, and no missing fingers. In the seven minutes before the pasta is cooked, I try to tidy up, remembering a tip Chef told me that the first thing you learn in culinary school is to “clean as you go.” So banal, yet so brilliant. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of the legendary L.A. story where a young actor asked Bette Davis for advice on being successful in Hollywood. She took a long drag of a good cig and said, “Take Fountain.” (It’s a street with less traffic!)

The amount of mess and dirty dishes for such a low-key meal is absolutely ludicrous. I don’t make much money these days, and I don’t even have health insurance, but I pay Paula, our weekly housekeeper, without so much as a wince. Needless to say, I have no clue where she keeps things. Nothing resembling a sponge is anywhere near the sink, which can’t even hold half the damn dishes, and for a million bucks, I couldn’t tell you if we own a mop.
What a crock of shit. Not only am I learning to cook, but now I have to learn to clean, too?
I didn’t sign up for this. I’d have more fun shaving my head than cleaning my house. Now cheese and crumbs and scraps are flung everywhere and I start panicking about getting mice. I definitely take after the Temkin women, who are more afraid of mice than Bin Laden or Bernie Madoff.

I drain the macaroni, transfer the slippery suckers into the cheese sauce, and stir. I then pour the pasta mixture into two casserole dishes, one large and one small, assuming the small one can be my tester batch. Thick, beige liquid splatters everywhere, including on my eyelashes. All I can do is throw everything in the oven and pray.

The next thirty minutes is a cyclone of cleaning, scrubbing, texting Chef, and stalking the stove. I am hyper and tipsy, replaying the last hour of my life in the apron, thinking how it
was nothing to be afraid of, and maybe it was even a little fun. It’s like the feeling you get after a big drop on a dreaded roller coaster, when you scream to your friends, “Let’s do it again!”

And then, there’s a whiff of smoke.

The casseroles are ready, but they’ve spilled over, leaving a creamy puddle on the bottom of the stove, with a small fire ablaze. I speed-dial Chef. He tells me to take out the mac ’n’ cheese and quickly put the fire out with salt. Because he doesn’t realize that I’m half in the bag, he neglects to remind me to use a pot holder. I hurriedly grab the overflowing Le Creuset with my bare left hand and
OUCH
. I let go fast, but I burned myself bad. I scream and swear and curse Martha Stewart to hell. My hand is throbbing, but I somehow find a mitt, save the food, and pour our most expensive sea salt all over the bottom of the oven. Chef can clean it.

As I run my blistering hand under cold water, I can’t help but think:
My first kitchen wound. Cool
.

Wrapped in an ice-cold washcloth, my hand will be okay but my stomach is growling with hunger. I let the mac ’n’ cheese cool for five minutes, excited to dive in and taste my hard work. Despite the spillage, or maybe even because of it, the presentation looks rustic and hearty. I’m a little shocked by its unassuming beauty, and when the time is right, I take a spoon to the sampler dish with delight. The top is crunchy, the inside is gooey, and all modesty aside, it tastes really damn good. My first meal ever is accidentally amazing.

But there’s no time to revel in my
macaroni ’n’ glee
. It’s 5:00 p.m. I leave the casseroles on the stove top and cover them with foil. Maybe they’ll magically stay hot—I’m not sure how that works. I top off my vino and bring on the Bobby Flay. His turkey meatloaf recipe looks easy and impressive. I have premonitions
of something smoky and savory, thinking countrysides and Clint Eastwood. This would not be cafeteria meatloaf.

I gather some multicolored peppers and chop away with my knife skills, which are certainly no better than my math and cleaning skills, but I try my best to disco dance with the cutting board. I add zucchini, not sure if I should peel it, so I don’t. And in the end, my vegetables are chunky and vibrant, like cocktail rings and Marimekko bags. As far as the meat mixture, it seems pretty hard to screw up. I debate running the disturbingly pink and raw ground turkey under water, because I’m not sure which foods you rinse before cooking or not, but I have the wherewithal not to. Combining the off-putting meat with the awkward vegetables makes me a little queasy. Either I’m a closet vegetarian or I’ve seen too much
Dexter
, but I decide that I don’t like this dish. I throw the ominous meatloaf in the oven and shut the door revulsed.

In the ninety minutes the meatloaf has to cook, I set the dinner table with some Mason jar lanterns, a few soft votives, and three stray daisies inside a petite crystal vase. Despite my aversion to cooking, I’ve always collected cool, eclectic dishware (which really elevated all those fluffernutters), and I choose two mismatched plates I found in some flea market in Park Slope. I toss all my utensils into a rustic, paint-splattered, wooden box—something I remember the artsy visual team doing at ABC Carpet & Home—and leave it unedited in the center of the table. I roll up two frayed dishtowels to use as napkins and scatter around short, pearl-inlaid tumblers—one for red wine, one for sparkling water. I dim the lights, just enough.

The meatloaf has been in the oven for almost two hours, yet it’s still hot pink and wet, and looks too unappetizing to set on the table. I loathe this loaf. So I remove it from the oven, let it
cool for ten minutes, bury it alive with aluminum foil, and stick it in the back of the freezer, all slimy and frosted-lipstick-like. It is now 9:00 p.m.

Chef calls. “The anticipation is killing me! I’m coming home early! How’s my little apprentice?” I try to sound poised, but as I’ve just decided not to serve the meatloaf, all I have left is a wussy salad and some mainstream macaroni ’n’ cheese. “I’m good, love,” I say apprehensively. “Don’t get too excited for dinner, okay? Low expectations. Promise?”

My guy will be home soon and I look like something in between a Chassid and a hooker. I warm up the macaroni ’n’ cheese, throw my arugula in a Scandinavian salad bowl, and quickly make my grandmother’s foolproof dressing. I turn on some Natalie Merchant and dunk myself in the bath. I hold a piping hot towel over my tired skin and stinging eyes, and take a deep breath.

Out of the tub, I put on a long, off-the-shoulder T-shirt and lacey black underpinnings. I lotion my legs with Chocolate Truffle Soufflé Body Cream, which reminds me of something. I forgot to bake dessert.