- Why I Deserved A Glass Of Wine At 2:30pm, Or, Living Without Maillard
Lately, I’ve asked myself how the World Wide Web would react if I were to turn the focus of this blog from food and cooking to the strange, slowly unfolding joy of combining mailing address and material possessions with one beloved other. A photo of him, aged a distant 24, is pinned to our fridge with a magnet painted to resemble a fried egg, and my MFK Fisher anthology is now sandwiched between the complete illuminated William Blake and Mark Elbroch’s Mammal Tracks And Sign; these facts are somehow moving and momentous. I am discovering a never-before-explored urge to tidy, and a thrill in preparing his evening meal that I believe is quite unrelated to any pre-existing enthusiasm for the culinary arts.
(Resist the urge to vomit, World Wide Web. I’ll get right back on topic.)
After a third visit from the gas company–which has left me still without functioning stove (day 12 now) and in possession of a document attesting to the “hazardous condition” of my gas pipes–the evening meal that so thrills me to prepare was prepared in a crock pot.
“You had a crock pot all along? Well, why didn’t you say so? We mightn’t have wasted all that time leaving commiserating comments about forbearance and creativity had we known you had a crock pot!”
Well, yes, I do have a crock pot. But it’s also July! In New York City! Would you want stew in July in New York City?
- I have no words
So the gas man came back today for Round Two. I greeted him at the gate: “Boy, am I glad to see you!”
The basement was unlocked this time; so far so good. Then we made our way up the stairs to my apartment, to find that the genius who recently renovated the place had installed the dishwasher and sink in such a way as to completely prohibit access to the gas valve.
Now my landlord will have to send a workman to cut some sort of a hole somewhere, and I’m going to have to call National Grid again, whose staff will doubtless have been briefed on resisting my manipulative negotiation techniques. (If my landlord can be convinced to cough up, though–as well he should–it is possible to bypass the standard appointment allocation lottery.) Naturally, the usual delays will only be exacerbated by the upcoming Independence Day weekend.
Meanwhile, my asparagus is slowly losing its erection in the crisper bin, and I am thisclose to buying a pack of cigarettes.
- I’m Not Proud, But I’m Satisfied
(Welcome to my fridge.)
Moving in with my boyfriend has been riddled with obstacles, but they’ve been obstacles that I’ve met with good cheer–well, as much good cheer as can be summoned by a sensibility permanently set to “tempest in a teapot”, anyway. This morning, however, saw me in a faceoff with The Final Straw.
I haven’t had cooking gas since I moved into our new apartment last Tuesday. I waited one week for the gas man to come, and even scheduled my Fresh Direct (an online grocery company) delivery to coincide with The Big Day.
When the National Grid guy got here this morning, the basement door, which had been flung wide open every day since I arrived, was padlocked shut. My landlord wasn’t picking up his phone. With no access to the gas meter, the gas man packed up his tools and drove away.
Just as his van was turning the corner, my landlord returned my call and promised to be right over. I got the gas company on the phone and begged them to send their man back.
Not only was it too late, they told me, but the next available slot was on July 16. That is, two weeks from today, and a full twenty-one days since I’d first made the appointment.
At this point, I did what any self-respecting adult woman and food blogger would do: I started to cry.
- Avoid These Products, And Three Unhappy Questions
I apologize in advance for what is, in many ways, an unhappy post.
I know food blogs are supposed to be places of joy and light; of indulgent spouses, white-balanced photography and twinkly-eyed children with uncommonly adventurous appetites.
Well, I’m not one for writing to market, so get ready for some food blog chiaroscuro.
The truth is, since moving to my neighborhood, I find the grocery shopping options borderline depressing. I don’t say that lightly: I am an unusually supermarket-focused person, and, in my world, food purveyors might as well be mood purveyors. When I was studying in St Petersburg I lived far outside the city center, where Americans generally feared to tread, just to be near O’Kei, the experimental Walmart-sized supermarket that was being tested out on the Russian market. I did a similar thing last year when I moved to Red Hook, Brooklyn, the ghetto-by-the-sea made livable only by Fairway Market.
I now live in a part of Brooklyn called “South Slope” by realtors and “Greenwood Heights” by any New Yorker who’s ever looked at a map. My shopping options include an Associated Foods that feels, produce-wise, a lot like rural Guatemala, a Met Foods that puts out cuts of meat that are every shade of bruised but red, and a Key Foods that is not in itself unacceptable, but is far away enough that the commute is. Finally, a small, independent store across the street–Eagle Provisions–promises “Epicurean Delights From Around The World”.
Among these “Epicurean Delights” were a jar of eggplant spread I nearly choked on and the first product bad-tasting enough for me to call the consumer complaint hotline.
