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  Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant

  Alone IN THE Kitchen WITH AN Eggplant

  CONFESSIONS OF COOKING FOR ONE AND DINING ALONE

  EDITED BY

  Jenni Ferrari-Adler

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  NEW YORK

  2007

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2007 by Jenni Ferrari-Adler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  An extension of this copyright page appears at the end of this book.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ferrari-Adler, Jenni.

  Alone in the kitchen with an eggplant: confessions of cooking for one and dining alone /

  edited by Jenni Ferrari-Adler.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1762-7

  1. Cookery for one. I. Ferrari-Adler, Jenni. II. Title.

  TX652.F467 2007 2007001593

  641.5'61—dc22

  The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For Jofie

  Contents

  Introduction

  Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant

  LAURIE COLWIN

  Dinner for One, Please, James

  ANN PATCHETT

  Beans and Me

  JEREMY JACKSON

  Single Cuisine

  AMANDA HESSER

  Asparagus Superhero

  PHOEBE NOBLES

  Thanks, but No Thanks

  COURTNEY ELDRIDGE

  The Legend of the Salsa Rosa

  BEN KARLIN

  Eating Alone

  MARCELLA HAZAN

  Making Soup in Buffalo

  BEVERLY LOWRY

  Que Será Sarito: An (Almost) Foolproof Plan to Never Ever Eat Alone Again

  STEVE ALMOND

  The Year of Spaghetti

  HARUKI MURAKAMI

  Out to Lunch

  COLIN HARRISON

  Dining Alone

  MARY CANTWELL

  A Is for Dining Alone

  M. F. K. FISHER

  Eggs Over Uneasy

  JONATHAN AMES

  Protective Measures

  JAMI ATTENBERG

  Table for One

  ERIN ERGENBRIGHT

  Wild Chili

  DAN CHAON

  White-on-White Lunch for When No One Is Looking

  ANNELI RUFUS

  Luxury

  HOLLY HUGHES

  My Favorite Meal for One

  PAULA WOLFERT

  The Lonely Palate

  LAURA CALDER

  How to Cook in a New York Apartment

  LAURA DAVE

  Potatoes and Love: Some Reflections

  NORA EPHRON

  Instant Noodles

  RATTAWUT LAPCHAROENSAP

  Food Nomad

  ROSA JURJEVICS

  Contributors

  Permissions Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments

  It is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one may do as one chooses.

  —VIRGINIA WOOLF,

  Mrs. Dalloway

  Dinner alone is one of life’s pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.

  —LAURIE COLWIN,

  “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant,”

  Home Cooking

  Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant

  Introduction

  Call it seven-thirty on a Wednesday night. No one else is home. A slight hunger hums in your body, so you wander into the kitchen. In front of the window a plant’s stems wave like arms from their hanging basket. In the pantry bin, potatoes eye the onions slipping out of their skins. An apron hangs from the closet door like the shadow of a companion. Reflexively, you open the refrigerator and nod at the condiments, grab the hot sauce, and close the others back into cold darkness. Bottle of sauce in hand, you gaze around the room, inspecting the contents of the cabinets, the pile of paper menus from nearby restaurants, the spines of your cookbooks. You turn from the bookshelf and catch a glimpse of yourself in the window. In the heat, your hair has puffed wildly. You experience one of those weird lost minutes inside your head. Loneliness, you think, loneliness with its lyrical sound; you look like a lone lioness. You hear Alvy Singer, the young Woody Allen character from Annie Hall, say, “The universe is expanding.” Bananas Shaughnessy from The House of Blue Leaves cuts him off: “My troubles all began a year ago—two years ago today—Two days ago today? Today.” Then you remember your mother mixing cream cheese and lox into a pan of scrambling eggs.

  You don’t need a literal eggplant on hand to realize—with the pleasurable shock that comes from recognizing a small truth—that you are alone in the kitchen with one.

  This book had its genesis in August 2004, when I spent the first of many such nights alone in Michigan. I was twenty-seven, a born-and-raised New Yorker, and I’d never lived by myself before. It was unsettling to be without a job or roommates, to have so much time alone in my tiny house in Ann Arbor. As a graduate student in fiction writing, I spent a few hours each day at my desk, following my characters around and trying to get them into interesting trouble. That left a lot of downtime. I ran on the treadmill at the YMCA, hiked in the arboretum, and drank many solitary cups of coffee. I hauled my laptop and bag from one café to another until it started to seem as if the hauling itself were my job. I was seeking, I suppose, some form of company and conversation, even if the majority of conversations were ones I merely overheard.

  In my first semester I took a literature course, Exile and Homecoming, that contributed to my somewhat indulgent delusion that I was in exile. Where was the subway? Where were the bodegas and stoops? Where was m
y mother? Through the windows of my house I watched the neighbors rake leaves in the autumn and shovel snow in the winter. On the floor of my kitchen was a hopeful dog bowl—I didn’t have a dog—and on the refrigerator were photographs of a boyfriend, a family, and friends. I had a life but I seemed to have abandoned it. Some days it required an act of will to believe my life still existed or mattered.

  “Why does living alone feel so familiar?” I asked my little brother one night on the phone. He was living in a studio apartment in Philadelphia.

  “Because it’s like being alone,” he said.

  He was right, of course. Being alone—battling loneliness—was something at which I had always felt it was important to improve. Taking solitude in stride was a sign of strength and of a willingness to take care of myself. This meant—among other things—working productively, remembering to leave the house, and eating well. I thought about food all the time. I had subscriptions to Gourmet and Food & Wine. Cooking for others had often been my way of offering care. So why, when I was alone, did I find myself trying to subsist on cereal and water? I’d need to learn to cook for one.

  It wasn’t my first time in the Midwest. I’d done my undergraduate work—as I was learning to call it—at Oberlin College, which boasts many strange and wonderful things, one of which is a system of eating cooperatives. Students can opt out of the dining hall and into one of the communal dining rooms—if a room that seats eighty with folding chairs at round tables and is swept three times a day but is always dirty can be called a dining room. The kitchen featured four industrial-size mixers, two walk-in coolers, and a wok so enormous it doubled as a sled in winter. On the kitchen prep team, I diced eighty onions, wearing sunglasses that didn’t stop my tears. When none of the vegetables I ordered came in on time, I still had to produce a stir-fry. I stood on a stool and begged brown rice not to burn. In some ways, learning to cook at Oberlin resembled learning to cook in a restaurant, only it was less precise. The diners charged the food the moment we set the big pots down.

  After college, I followed the graduated masses to Brooklyn. I moved into a railroad apartment with two friends who had also gone through Oberlin’s cooperative system. It seemed natural to us to make dinner together every night, and I gradually learned to cook for smaller groups. One of my roommates worked at the farmers’ market and always brought home bags of vegetables. I worked, briefly, at a bakery in the neighborhood. At the end of the day I brought home bread; I had literally become the breadwinner of our makeshift household. Often, we had guests to dinner. We carried the food from the kitchen down the long hallway to the living room. We sat on the floor.

  Over the next five years, we moved from neighborhood to neighborhood in Brooklyn. First, my boyfriend moved in with my friends and me. Later, he and I moved into our own place. Cooking for two was hard. I always made too much.

  Now, marooned in the Midwest once again, I tried to live on a stipend. I tried to remember how to make friends. After class, I asked two girls if they wanted to go to a movie over the weekend and the asking made me blush. I tried to string together late-night telephone calls and infrequent visits into an approximation of a relationship. I missed eating salad and cheese with my boyfriend and going over the stories of our days. I missed the texture and chaos of daily life shared with others.

  But if time were money, I was rich. There were hours, at least in the beginning, everywhere I looked. In addition to time, I had a galley kitchen, a shelf of cookbooks, two heavy pots, and a chef’s knife. I lived near the farmers’ market, a cooperative grocery, and a butcher shop. My bicycle had a basket. Which is all to say it was an excellent domestic setup.

  But not only did I like to cook for others, I liked to cook with others. Would cooking alone be depressing? More or less depressing than living on sandwiches? More or less depressing than takeout?

  “A potato,” I told my brother, when he asked what I’d eaten for dinner. “Boiled, cubed, sautéed with olive oil, sea salt, and balsamic vinegar.”

  “That’s it?” he asked. He was one to talk. He’d enjoyed what he called “bachelor’s taco night” for three dinners and counting.

  “A red cabbage, steamed, with hot sauce and soy sauce,” I said the following night.

  “Do you need some money?” he asked.

  But it wasn’t that, or it wasn’t only that. I liked to think of myself not as a student on a budget, but rather as a peasant, a member of a group whose eating habits, across cultures, had long appealed to me.

  “Are you full?” my brother asked.

  “Full enough,” I said.

  “What about protein?”

  Later that week, I diced two onions and sautéed them until they turned translucent and transformed the kitchen with their comforting smell. Flanked by books and magazines, I ate straight out of the pot at the table, my knees curled up to my chest. Aimee Mann sang from the stereo: One is the loneliest number. Everything, I realized, growing light-headed, anything was delicious. In the next weeks I continued on in phases, first everything raw, then everything baked. I prioritized condiments. What wasn’t delicious with Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce?

  One night, I invited a few people from my program to dinner. For them, I made a salad with romaine lettuce, radishes, string beans, scallions, homemade croutons, and goat cheese. For them, I served dessert—pistachio nuts and chocolate chips in ramekins, a combination discovered via random out-of-cabinet consumption. At my nudging, surely, the conversation turned to the topic of cooking for ourselves. One woman’s solitary dish was spaghetti carbonara. It satisfied her cravings for bacon, eggs, and pasta, and it made good leftovers. One man mixed couscous with canned soup. We agreed that dividing recipes by four was depressing, and that in cooking for ourselves, presentation went out the window.

  When I considered it later, though, I had to admit I liked my personal presentation: the red pot with the flat wooden serving spoon, a half sheet of paper towel for a napkin. I liked my mismatched thrift-store plates, chopsticks, and canning jars. I even liked, I’m sorry to say, eating sandwiches while walking to class.

  There was real pleasure to be had eating ice cream out of the container and pickles out of a glass jar, standing up at the counter. I wondered whether the cravings associated with pregnancy were really only a matter of women feeling empowered to admit their odd longings to their husbands, to ask another person to bring them the eccentric combinations they’d long enjoyed in private. If I’d been able to completely forget about nutrition, I might have created a diet based only on pickles and ice cream, salty and sweet.

  Alas, I was somewhat conscious of the link between what I ate and my health, and so the next night—having eaten all the ice cream and pickles in the house—I mixed black beans and brown rice. I couldn’t help smiling to myself when I thought of the man from my dinner party fluffing couscous alone in his kitchen across town. Sharing stories of eating alone had made me less lonely.

  After a stressful deadline in February—that bleak month when Ann Arbor hibernates and people hurry, hunched over in ski jackets, through the dark—I decided to reward myself with a good meal. I made Amanda Hesser’s Airplane Salad: Bibb lettuce, white beans, smoked trout, and a sherry vinaigrette. While I ate, I read her essay “Single Cuisine.”

  “I know many women who have a set of home-alone foods,” writes Hesser. “My friend Aleksandra, for instance, leans toward foods that are white in color.”

  My pulse quickened as though Hesser were whispering in my ear. This was all I really wanted—to be let in on other people’s secrets. What better place to start than in their kitchens?

  Remembering Laurie Colwin’s essay “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant,” I quickly went to my living room and plucked the friendly Home Cooking from my bookshelf. I sat with the yellow paperback on my black couch. I giggled at the description of Colwin’s absurdly small Greenwich Village apartment, “the coziest place on earth,” where she did dishes in the bathtub. She’d brought her kitchen into my living ro
om. My breathing deepened with gratitude. The connectedness I felt was the opposite of the drifting into space I’d experienced whenever I spent more than three consecutive nights alone. We read to feel close to people we don’t know, to get into other people’s heads. I get the same sensation of intimacy from following a recipe. I began to scheme: Hesser, Colwin, and me…maybe I could break the silence and help men and women everywhere be less alone together.

  Because cooks love the social aspect of food, cooking for one is intrinsically interesting. A good meal is like a present, and it can feel goofy, at best, to give yourself a present. On the other hand, there is something life affirming in taking the trouble to feed yourself well, or even decently. Cooking for yourself allows you to be strange or decadent or both. The chances of liking what you make are high, but if it winds up being disgusting, you can always throw it away and order a pizza; no one else will ever know. In the end, the experimentation, the impulsiveness, and the invention that such conditions allow for will probably make you a better cook.

  As the days lengthened and warmed and the town revealed itself again, I peered tentatively into the windows of restaurants. I read the menus and contemplated going inside to tell the hostess, “Just me.”

  In her classic essay “A Is for Dining Alone,” M. F. K. Fisher proclaims: “Enough of hit-or-miss suppers of tinned soup and boxed biscuits and an occasional egg just because I had failed once more to rate an invitation.”

  Don’t we all think about the experience of dining alone in restaurants? Women tend to both romanticize and fear it. We have a shared image of an enigmatic woman pulling off a solitary dinner with style, perhaps in Europe. I think men have less trouble with it, though I’m not sure. It’s certainly easier if you sit at the counter, or if the hour is off—three is a nice time for lunch by yourself; lunch is easier than dinner—or if other patrons are eating by themselves, or if you have a book with you, or better yet, two books.