Cookout

Cookout

My neighbor is hosting a cookout.  It’s their pre-Thanksgiving celebration where they grill meats and have lots of food and desserts.  They invited me and although I was reluctant to go, I felt obliged.  I kept turning down their dinner invitations so much that I felt like I really needed to be there for this one.  So, I committed myself by telling them I’d bring brownies.  Penny and Todd were thrilled.  

The gathering began at three and already the smoke was pluming from the grill.  The wood chips smelled wonderful.  Instead of walking over, I got into my car and drove to the nearest grocery store.  My brownies were a nightmare.  I tried a new recipe based on the photo.  What a mistake.  First of all the recipe instructed to bake the batter at 350 degrees for twenty-five minutes.  After twenty-five minutes my brownies were still wet.  I waited another ten minutes.  After inserting a toothpick in several places, it came out clean and the brownies’ texture promised to be melt in your mouth good.  The recipe instructed that the brownies should cool for thirty minutes.  I let it set when I went to get ready.  When I returned to cut the brownies, the corners and sides against the pan were hard as over baked biscotti...rocks.  I couldn’t even get my knife to penetrate to the bottom.  This could not be happening.  I pried the knife and pressed my weight upon it.  No avail.  I got the spatula and managed to pry the middle pieces from the pan intact.  Oddly enough they happened to be the perfect constitution for brownies.  I used the spatula to dig against the bottom of the stubborn pieces.  Surely they couldn’t be stuck.  Who ever heard of brownies turning into cement?  With one of my shoves I sent a crumbled brownie flying into the air, scattering crumbs all over the countertop and the floor.  By now I was frustrated.  What an awful recipe.  I should have known though.  For a brownie recipe that called for less than a cup of butter, something was bound to not turn out right.  It called for cinnamon, and the picture was what sold me.  Which got me to think about Beatrice’s project.  Here it is on a Saturday and I’m thinking about her project.  I haven’t tried all of her recipes, only her skillet cake and even for that one I couldn’t get it to flip over.  How disappointing, and perhaps frustrating, it will be for a person who loves to cook--who is good at cooking--to buy her book.  I wanted to contact Julian Reese, the cookbook editor over Beatrice’s project.  I hadn’t felt a project so draining as this one with no reward of satisfaction on a job well done.  No matter how they market it, the content will not live up to it’s hype.  My phone rang.  It was Tony.

“Turn on FoodNetwork.”

“What’s on?”

“Beatrice.”

I turned on the television and dialed the channel.  

No joke.  Beatrice was on television with some lady in a low cut blouse and two-toned hair.

“Who is she with?”  

“Janelle.  Soon to be the Oprah of Food TV.”

Janelle had Beatrice beating eggs with a whisk.  I turned up the volume.

“Smoked ham and cheddar frittata with jalapeno mayonnaise,” Janelle looked on camera and smiled.  “So do you go ahead and add the chives into the egg batter?”

“Actually, we’ll save that for after we pour the batter into the skillet.  All we need now is a  couple dashes of chili powder, a pinch of salt and pepper, and then the diced ham and shredded cheddar.”  Beatrice smiled as she took some salt and sprinkled it into the eggs she just whisked.

“Sounds too yummy.  Tell me where did you get inspiration for this dish?”

“My husband, Craig, loves breakfast, and I usually fix him omelets or biscuit and gravy on Saturday mornings.  One day, after Thanksgiving I had lots of honey baked ham left over and cubed cheese.  I also came across a recipe for chipotle mayonnaise and thought I’d modify it and add diced jalapenos and smoked poblanos instead.  I was just plain curious to see if a spicy mayonnaise would be a good accompaniment to an egg dish--something besides ketchup, you know.  Good lord, our household consumes a lot of ketchup, especially on hash browns.”

“Right!  I know exactly what you mean.  My kids could drink it straight from the bottle.  So, did Jim liked the results?”

“Did he?  Oh my goodness, he asks for it nearly every time.”

The women laugh.

I put the show on mute.

“She’s personable on television,” Tony commented.

“It’s phoney.”

“That’s because we know the truth.”

“Would you put mayonnaise on your eggs?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy.  I’m loyal to Tabasco.  But think about it.  Egg salad.”

“Why didn’t she use the jalapeno mayonnaise for an egg salad instead of a frittata?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will people really make that?”

“Want to do a poll?”

“I got to go.”

I went into the grocery store and bought fudge brownies from the bakery.  I’ll just incorporate it along with my salvageable brownies.

The cookout turned out to be a bigger bash that I anticipated.  People came and went, and they brought pies, cookies, savory tarts, casseroles, crudites, breads--oodles of bread--cases of beer, bottles of wine and much more.  Kids drew on the driveway.  Adults gathered in circles with drinks in hand talking with each other.  I recognized a few faces from gatherings Penny and Todd hosted in the past.  Christmas music played from the speakers.  Someone brought a croquet set and drove hoops into the ground.  Another person arrived with horseshoes which drew a cheer among the men.  

Penny came over with a glass of white wine and hugged me.

“It’s so good to see you!  I’m so glad you made it.”

“Me, too.”

She offered me the glass.  “Are things all right?”

I nodded.

She leaned her head against mine.  “If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

“Thanks, Penny.”

“Brisket or sausage?”

“What kind of sausage?”

“Jalapeno and cheese stuffed.”

“Brisket.”

“Good choice.”

I sat at a table populated with expectant mothers.  They were a lot more down to earth than they appeared.  One was a vintage clothes designer.  She operates her own business at home and sells through Etsy.com.  One was a medical secretary who was on maternity leave.  Any day now, she said.  The third one was an optometrist, and this was her first baby.

“What do you do?” Anna, the optometrist asked.

“I’m a food photographer.”

“How wonderful to take pictures of food!” Nambi, the clothes designer, rolled her eyes with elevated pleasure.  “I’ve never craved food like I have with this little one in me.  It’s not even a particular thing that I crave.  I crave all of it.”

“Have you done photography for cookbooks?” Anna asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“Oh!  Any we would know?”  Bernadette leaned forward.

“Well, I did Cooking with Style which was Mahatta Ingrid’s cookbook.  She’s owns a bistro in Manhattan.  There’s Pucker which is a dessert cookbook based on citrus fruits.  And Jullianne Reynold’s Entertaining Small Crowds.”

“I saw the Entertaining Small Crowds at the bookstore the other day.”  Bernadette waved her hands.  “You did the photos?  They were amazing!  I almost bought it, but I don’t entertain that often.  What are you working on now?”

Oh bother.

People came and went, and they brought pies...

A Test

A Test

On my way to work I called my parents to check up on them, especially Dad.  Dad sounded weak, but the bypass was a success.  Just some rest is what he needs, he told me.  His diet will certainly have to change.  At this point he conceded to eat whatever to keep his body healthy.  Dad wasn’t really a bad eater, although he loved salt and sweets and red meat.  He loved red meat, but he also loved turnips and squashes.  Dad would eat any vegetable but not normally raw.  

Mom sounded preoccupied.  Something upset her but she wouldn’t say.  As I made my closing remarks and told them I’ll talk to them soon, she blurted:

“Elizabeth called yesterday.”

I waited.

“Hello?”

“I’m here, Mom.”

“She called yesterday.”

“What did she want?”

“She said she called to see how your father was doing.  Then she asked me about the Almedo painting.”

Mom paused and sighed.  “Jim’s uncle has been diagnosed with a rare blood disease.  She’s organizing an auction to raise money for the transfusions and treatments he will need.  She asked if we would consider donating the Almedo to the auction.”

I pulled the car over and stopped.  “She did what?”

“I don’t know what to tell her,” Mom’s voice sounded distraught.

“How did she have the balls to ask for the Almedo?”  I was furious.  My parents owned an original Corion Almedo painting, signed and dated.  They met a friend of a friend of Almedo’s during a trip they took to Tucson twelve years ago.  Their new acquaintance took them to an art gallery of a budding young artist who was quite popular in the Tucson, Sedona, Scottsdale and Phoenix area.  Mom and Dad both were awestruck by his sunset on water piece.  They ended up purchasing the enormous artwork the next day for $6,000.  A year later a reporter from the New York Times discovered Almedo, interviewed him and introduced New York City to him.  Now his originals range from $15,000 to $50,000.  The one my parents owned is valued to be near the forty grand bracket.

“What made her think she could ask for the Almedo?” I asked.

“You know, we do have the smaller piece that your father has in his den.  Maybe she meant the smaller one.”

“What smaller one?”

“It’s not an original.  We bought it three or four years ago.  You know, the one of the aspens.”

“I doubt she meant that one.  Anyone can get prints, Mom.”

“I feel so badly about it.  I feel bad about Jim’s uncle.”

“We all do, but it’s another thing to go ask people like that.  The nerve to mention the Almedo.  Whatever happened to just leaving it up to the person to decide what they want to give?  What about her?--she should throw in her diamonds and whatever fancy purse she likes to flaunt.  We’re not even related to Jim’s uncle.”  The moment I uttered the last sentence I immediately wished I could erase what I said.  “I’ll talk with Elizabeth.”

“No, I don’t want there to be a scene.”

“There won’t be a scene.  We’ll be on the phone.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“What are you going to do then; tell her no?”

Silence.

“Mom, it would be one thing if you and Dad were truly impressed to donate the painting.  If that was burning in your heart to do, you’d do it.  However, if you’re being manipulated to feel bad to give, that is simply not the right motive.  It’s wrong, Mom.”

“If it was your father--”

“Yes, and what about the hospital and doctor bills you both are facing?  Is Elizabeth organizing an auction for that?”

The day spiraled downhill from there.  I crossed out the hours leading to the day I would fly out to San Francisco to do Nina’s photo shoot.  Publishing got into the mix in trying to convince Beatrice to use the original photos that were submitted.  Beatrice would not budge and apparently threatened to make this project a PR nightmare.  She on purpose let it slip that another firm approached her and promised to deliver what we apparently couldn’t.  I say let them have her.  Her book will bomb anyway.  

“Make Beatrice happy and I will send you to Paris with Nigel to do Antoine’s shoot.”

I looked up from the comps spread across my desk.  Amanda stood erect with arms weighted down at her sides.

I was trying to process the implications of her statement.  Antoine’s shoot was Nigel’s project.  Antoine sought Nigel out specifically for his next cookbook.

“What would I be doing?”

“Assist Nigel.”

I raised by eyebrow.

“Tour the Eiffel Tower, eat French food--I don’t know.  Do whatever you want to do.”

“You’re offering me a paid vacation?”

“Technically yes.  Just do some minor things for the project there to make it look legit.”

“I think Beatrice’s book is bad for our company’s image.”

“You don’t want to go to Paris?”

“This company has standards that are well known by its peers.  We are well respected when it comes to our photography.  It’s because of the talents and creativity of this team that this company has won some major accolades.”

“Point taken.”

“Then why are we wasting time and resources on her project?”

“I don’t get the final word on this.”

“Do our people know that this is an issue?”

“It’s out of my hands.  They told me to make it happen.”

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home.  I grabbed a jar of kalamata olives, herb and garlic camembert cheese, crusty baguette and Genova salami.  Tony came by my office later in the afternoon and said he was taking a sabbatical until the Beatrice project was finished.  Funny, I told him.  He asked if I had given any more thought about branching out on my own.  I told him no.  Then I thought about London and that within a few days Rainier would be far away.

I unloaded my cart at the self check-out station.  As I swiped my items across the scanner, a big man with an armful of groceries came and stood by the station I was using.  He kicked the cart away--the cart that I was using--with his feet, and placed his things on the counter as I was selecting my method of payment.  With no regard of personal space or consideration--or plain tact for that matter--he planted himself in front of the scanner, which made him stand right beside me.  And he looked at me.  He watched me and with his silent, aggressive stare he was telling me to hurry up.  I pressed the buttons on the pin pad with deliberate ease.  Indeed, who was here first, Mister?--and get out of my space.   The minute I touched my receipt he began scanning his items.  Today was a test of some sort it seemed.  

Today was a test of some sort it seemed.

Red Curry Paste

Red Curry Paste

Holidays aren’t special anymore.  They’re just regular days.  The most common tradition is for families to get together.  Members who you haven’t seen in months or years come by and gather to eat.  That’s what the holidays have boiled down to, a glorified day for overeating.  What’s the point?  For perfect families they laugh and sing around the piano and touch and hug.  For the other families they laugh and sing around the piano and touch and hug.  Nothing different on the surface.  It’s the stuff that boils beneath.  The topics and subjects no body wants to bring out in the open to talk about because it would ruin the festivities.  It was all ruined to begin with.  Parents want children to be the same as they were in the good days back then.  So it was up to the children to accommodate their parents and give them what they want for that short period of together-time.  Then when the holidays are over, when the last carols are sung, when the Christmas spirit has evaporated; nothing has changed.  Life resumes and either the holidays were great or they sucked.  

I sat at home alone and thought.  All the lights were off.  Only city lights peered through gaps in between the curtains.  Yellow, elongated shafts spilled onto the walls.

They never acknowledge Rainier.  They knew he existed.  They didn’t want him in my life, and since they discovered they couldn’t make me act according to their wishes, they excluded him from theirs.  The holidays began as an interrogation.

Are you coming for Thanksgiving?  Are you coming for Christmas?  But you always come for Christmas?  Why aren’t you coming?  That is just odd that you aren’t coming.

If they would have welcomed him, would we still be together?  

I picked up my phone and texted him.

Which furniture pieces would you like to have?

In less than a minute:

You pick what you want to keep.  I’m sorry.

Me: Do you hate me?

Him: No!  God, no!

I looked at the corner where we put our first Christmas tree.  It was a massive beast of plastic pine.  We strung it with white lights.  Covered it with white lights.  And that was all we put on it.  We’d sat on the floor close to the tree and play UNO.  We’d bring out the flannel blankets and pillows and lay near the tree and just talked while admiring the lights.

Him: Do you hate me?

I stared at his question.  It’s difficult to say.  I resented him, was angry with him; sometimes I was furious...but not at this moment.  At this moment I didn’t fault him for fleeing this crazy family of mine.  I don’t even feel hurt now.  I missed him.  I don’t hate him.

Me: No.

Him: Took you a while to respond.

Me: Was just thinking.

Him: Making sure you don’t hate me?

Me: Remember our first Christmas tree?

Him: Lots of lights.  Good memories.

Me: Did you find someone else?

Him: No.

Me: Are you going to tell me why you left?

Him: I wanted to help make it easy on you.

Me: What??

Him: You don’t need me.  

I blinked.  What on earth??  

Him: You need to get your bearings, kiddo.  

Me: What are you talking about??

Him: You need to work things out with yourself and with your family.  I don’t want to be in the way.  

I was about to call him and end this silly texting nonsense when:

Him: Besides...I got a job offer in the UK.  

My finger stopped.

Him: I accepted.  I’ll be leaving in a week.

I put the phone down and laid next to it.

Me: Congratulations!

I turned off the phone.

Grandma made lovely rice.  She was fascinated with all things Oriental.  She once bought a purple kimono at an estate sale.  She would only wear it when she felt like indulging.  She loved jasmine and jasmine tea and jasmine rice.  She could make rice without a rice cooker, and they were much better than the local Chinese restaurant.

They don’t use jasmine rice, she said.  That’s American rice.  I’ll guarantee you they don’t eat this in China.

Grandma made stir-fry with jalapenos and curry with real coconut milk.  She loved the red curry paste.  She taught me how to appreciate it’s spicy fragrance and its exotic burst of flavor.  

I got up and walked into the kitchen.  I turned on the lights and rummaged through my pantry to find some rice.  I had just enough left in the bag.  While the rice cooked and simmered on the stove, I sank into a hot bath.  The nearly scalding water penetrated its heat into my tensed muscles.  I closed my eyes and consciously relaxed every inch of my body.

Nothing like soap and water, Grandma said.  When I need to wipe a slate clean, I do so by taking a bath and mentally erasing the slate.  It’s good for the soul, she said, tapping my chest.  It’s also good for the mind; she tapped my forehead.  Don’t waste precious space in that mind of yours by keeping bad memories.  If it doesn’t help you to learn then wipe it away.  

I sat up straight in the tub.  There was a time, a certain time, when Rainier came by for a visit.  If I remembered correctly he had to leave for some trip the following day and would be away for a while.  We were at Grandma’s.  Just before he was about to leave, I left the room to get something I wanted to give him.  When I returned, Grandma had cupped his face in her hands and was looking at him eyeball-to-eyeball.  She then leaned her forehead against his and patted his cheeks.  When she let go of his face, she gave him a fierce hug.  She released him and said, you remember, you hear?  Yes, ma’am, he nodded.  You’re a good man, she said.

I dried myself off and went back into the kitchen.  I got out the skillet, a container of cherry tomatoes and the red curry paste.  I sliced the tomatoes in half and sauteed them in the hot skillet with a teaspoon of the curry paste.  As the tomatoes began to soften and melt, so did the paste.  I used a spoon and stirred.  Pretty soon the paste had coated the tomatoes perfectly.  I dished out a scoop of rice and placed the curry tomatoes right on top.  A couple splashes of soy sauce and I was ready to eat.  Already the aroma transported me back into Grandma’s kitchen.  

Let’s eat in the living room, I told her.  How about watching a good-ending movie?

I sliced the tomatoes in half and sauteed them in the hot skillet with a teaspoon of the curry paste.

Beef Stew in Red Wine (II)

Beef Stew in Red Wine (II)

TThe cubes of beef sizzled in the oil and butter.  I loved the sound.  Chopping the onions elicited tears.  I blinked and squinted my eyes.  The irritant began to sting.  I chopped as quickly as I could.  Grandma used to soak the half cut onions in ice water before she sliced them.  Nothing seemed to help prevent my tears though.  Not even lemon water.  Once the meat browned I added the onions and garlic.  As if by magic--by a wave of a wand--the fragrant aroma filled the kitchen in glorious waves.  I closed my eyes briefly and inhaled.  Whenever it would snow Grandma made stew.  The smell reminded me of times we sat by the fire with our bowls in our hands, watching some television movie.

I stirred the pot for a bit and then sprinkled a tablespoon of flour.  Once that got mixed in well, I opened the bottle of red wine and poured.

The next day at work I handed Chandra a basket.  In it was the stew, a dozen of chocolate cookies from the corner bakery and a DVD of While You Were Sleeping and The First Wives Club.

Besides Jason I didn’t tell anyone about Rainier.  It wasn’t difficult.  My parents never asked about him.  

“We’re redoing the project.”  Amanda entered my office.  “Beatrice didn’t like the proof.”

“Excuse me?”

Amanda sat.

“What is it that she didn’t like?”

Amanda shook her head.  “She said it wasn’t outside the box enough.  It looked the same as everyone else’s.  She wanted something different.”

“When we had the planning meeting, that was the look she wanted us to give her.  My team and I did what she asked us to do.”

“She said she didn’t like the brand that was created for her.  It wouldn’t make her stand out among the crowd.  She said she wants something that identifies her and who she is.”

“And she told us what she wanted in the planning meeting.”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault.  I’m just telling you we’re redoing the project.”

“Why are you telling me?  I’ve completed the project.”

“You’re redoing the project.”

“I have other projects that now need my attention.  Hers is going to have to wait.”

“We’re submitting a new layout to publishing this Friday.”

“That’s insane!  Today is Tuesday.”

“We have a teleconference with her at two this afternoon, which means you’ve got Wednesday and Thursday to redo the shoot.”

I ate lunch at my desk, working on rearranging my schedule to squeeze in this reshoot.  Tony sat across from me, dipping his fries into a mound of ketchup.

“I hate this,” I said.  “How can Beatrice demand a reshoot in less than a week?”

“It’s an editor’s war.  They’re predicting she’ll be the next Paula Dean.  Everyone is scrambling to get her contract.”

“She can’t even cook.  At least not good.  Not that good.  My grandmother cooked better than her.  Way better.”

“I hear you’re pretty good.”

“I cook to eat.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“My grandmother lived to cook.”

“What about Beatrice?”

“She cooks to make money.”

“How come you’re still working here?”

“What?  What kind of question is that?” 

“I mean you could be independent if you wanted to.”

“Be my own boss?”

“Yeah.  Choose your own projects.  Get to say no if you wanted.”

“Hmmm.”

“You could do it, you know.”

The crew and I went back to Beatrice’s house on Wednesday morning.  We planned for a long day.  The house smelled of cinnamon rolls.  It didn’t take long to figure out though that Beatrice didn’t know what she wanted.  She knew very well what she didn’t like, but she couldn’t tell me what she liked.  This time she had me rig a monitor to my camera so that she could see every shot instantly.  I hated it.  Neither did I appreciate her suggestions.  Half of the morning passed and we made no progress.  There was no way the reshoot could wrap up by tomorrow.  I had an upcoming shoot with Nina for her bread book that I was quite looking forward to.  I would rather be working with her than being here.  Pretty soon Beatrice’s voice turned plain annoying.  She began to whine, and when the crew didn’t jump fast enough to make adjustments according to her suggestions, she was affronted.  

“I don’t appreciate you all not giving this your all.”  She said.

Tony nearly swallowed his gum.

I was no longer smiling nor accommodating.

“I’m calling Amanda.”

Tony’s eyes bulged.  I placed a hand on his arm.

When Beatrice handed me the phone, I took it and stepped out of the room.

“What the heck is going on?” 

“Are you serious, Amanda?  This is a waste of our time and the company’s money.”

“It’s a waste of the company’s money if you don’t get the shots like she wants.”

“She doesn’t know what the hell she wants.  There is no pleasing her.”

“Just do what she wants.”

“She doesn’t even like the results of what she tells us to do.”

Amanda sighed.  “Just get it done.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.  Yes, I am serious.  Get it done.  And do it the way she wants.”

I stared at the phone dumbfounded.  

“We’re doing it the way she wants,” I told Tony.

Beatrice got in the driver’s seat and I bit my lips shut.  The pictures were crappy.  There was no eloquent way to describe how awful and amateurish they looked.  She could have taken the pictures herself.  What did she need us there for?  

“Control, baby,” Tony whispered.  “It’s quite addicting getting to boss people around.”

On Friday afternoon we sent the revised layout to Guy.  Within a couple hours he called me.

“Is this a prank?”

“Hello Guy.”

“What is this?”

“It’s not a joke.”

“This is awful.  It’s bad.”

“Did you notice that my name is not on there?”

“Beatrice?”

“Yes, she gets the credit.  I certainly don’t want them.”

“There is no way this is going to sell.”

“Hmmm.  You should tell that to Beatrice.  And to Amanda.”

When Grandma got frustrated she liked to go into her garden and attack the weeds.  She would stay out there for hours until even the stray grass blade would be plucked.  When Grandma got angry she didn’t talk.  She clammed up, like me.  

I would watch how she handled her knives, how they made a staccato chop-chop sound when she diced onions, carrots and celery.

As if by magic--by a wave of a wand--the fragrant aroma filled the kitchen in glorious waves.