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...
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