I hate these days – yes, these Mondays, but also these days when I haven’t posted for several days and I know from the beginning I have no hope whatsoever of remembering all the food and people and riotously humorous anecdotes. I’m exhausted before I even begin, though that too may have something to do with my restless, sunburned night in our ninety-degree apartment. Anyway, I’m going to make my best attempt here, starting with:
- Thursday. Quite a day. A long-time temp (10 months she was kept on, without benefits) was let go, under dubious circumstances. I went all self-righteous on their asses, in my mind anyway. The lesson wound up being, at the end of the day there is one basic difference between Republicans and Democrats – Republicans really truly don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves and the others they’ve included in their cabal. This is of course a profoundly obvious statement, but one that I felt anew on Thursday. Capped that lovely day off with some Barbecue a la Merde from Philly’s Smokehouse in our own Long Island City. The worst barbecue I have ever, ever tasted. Horrible. And the sides too, just terrible. I don’t get why you’d go to all the trouble to open a barbecue join in a blighted section of Queens when you so patently have no interest at all in making good food. Weird. Depressing, but weird. Also, finally, finally put together Souffle Demoule aux Macarons – it’s an easy enough thing, but for the caramel that never did stick to the charlotte mold worth a damn. I took the almonds and butter cookies I’d pestled together to simulate macaroons and mixed them up with some rum, and then some milk I’d brought to the boil with some sugar. I beat in four egg yolks, one at a time, and then in another bowl beat the egg whites with salt and then sugar until good and stiff. Folded the whites into the other mixture as per usual, poured it into the mold, and set the mold in a pan of hot water in a 350-degree oven for fifteen minutes. Baked for fifteen minutes, lowered the heat to 325, baked another thirty-five minutes. It came out nice and poofy, as my soufflés have not of late. Much good may it do me, since I had to then chill in the fridge, where it immediately dropped down to nothing.
- Friday. Cassoulet. Having been able to find pig skin no other way, I bought a picnic shoulder and peeled the skin off that. As always, the pig skin got me thinking morbid thoughts, such as: You know, if I was a Brazilian soccer player, I wouldn’t be so much bothered by the kidneys and the heart and whatever, not having much daily experience with inner organs. It would be the skin – so personal and unique – that would get me. God, I hope none of them had tattoos…. I simmered and rinsed the pig skin a couple of times, then cut it into ¼ inch wide strips, and then into itty-bitty triangles. I did this with my kitchen shears. It was a pain in the ass, or in the hands more like. I have to start taking my glucosamine more regularly. My thumb kept hitching up, like I remember my Granny’s used to do. I did this while two pounds of Great Northern beans, which I’d brought just to the boil, soaked for an hour. Then I threw into the kettle the pig skin triangles, a 1-pound chunk of pancetta, a cup of sliced onions, and an herb bouquet (not having any cheesecloth, I used a coffee filter) of parsley, garlic, cloves, thyme, and bay leaf. This got to cook for something over an hour. There’s a typo in this section of the book; Julia has me “skim off any skum.” Which got me laughing when I remembered for the first time in years this seventh grade moment, one of those sad little junior high victories you are surprised to find yourself hoarding decades later. I was in the lunch room with some friends, when this little West Austin eighth grade bitch and her bevy of cohorts descended upon us. I think her name was Jessica. Anyway, she sneered at my friend Abby, “nice purse.” The purse, as it happened, was a purple Esprit parachute number, and was pretty fucking cool. Besides, I’d given it to her. But it wasn’t one of those stupid Dooney and Burke things, with the ducks on it or whatever it was, that everyone was supposed to be carrying that year. So anyway Bitchy Jessica walks away and I say under my breath, “what a bitch.” Of course, Jessica hears me, and turns on me. “What did you say?!” Well, obviously I was scared to death, here I was risking social ruin, but somehow I managed to reply, “I said, ‘What a bitch.’” Well, that pissed off Bitchy Jessica to no end, and she puts her hands on her hips and said, “You’re scum. S. K. – um, S.C.U.M.” And then ran off with her tail between her legs as we all cackled at her. Ah, good times.
So, anyway, made the beans, browned 2 ½ pounds of lamb and another pound of lamb bones (having given up on the mutton thing at the butcher at Ottomanelli’s behest), and bakes them with vermouth and beef broth and garlic and tomato paste for an hour and a half. Then I added the beans and let them soak in the lamb cooking juices. I made up some sausages by mixing together ground pork and pork fat with salt, pepper, allspice, bay leaf and cognac, and browned little patties of it in a pan. Then I built the cassoulet with layers of beans, the roast pork I’d done the other day, the lamb, slices of the pancetta that was cooked with the beans, and sausage cakes. I poured in enough of the lamb and bean juices to cover the whole mess, sprinkled with bread crumbs and parsley, and baked for an hour. The bread crumbs didn’t brown as they should have, and the beans were probably a little overdone, but other than that it was delicious. Though utterly, utterly inappropriate for 4th of July dinner. Oh well. To make up for it, I served the cold Souffle Demoule aux Macarons with a Crème Anglaise which I fucked up, I think, by wimping out and not getting thick enough, but which was good anyway. Actually the soufflé, was quite, quite nice, one of the best desserts I’ve made, though of course it wasn’t really like a soufflé at all – more like a torte-like texture. Not too sweet, though, with the light alcoholic taste. Nice. Helen was over for dinner, we commiserated a good deal about a variety of matters including how irritating boys can be and how goddamned hot it was, and then we went outside and watched the fireworks from the middle of Jackson Avenue. I did it barefooted, which in retrospect was probably not such a good thing. And we watched “Out of Sight,” again – our nod to patriotism, celebrating our greatest American moviemakers. Besides, greatest sex scene ever.
- Saturday. Oh. My. Fucking. God. Emily came over and suffered as she has never suffered, helping us make Pate de Veau et Porc avec Gibier (Pate with Game, in our case venison), Pate de Veau et Port avec Foie (Pork and Veal Pate with Chicken Livers), Pouding Alsacien (Gratin of Sauteed Apples), Oranges Glacees (Glazed Oranges) and Crème Saint-Honore to eat with Strawberries (this a retrenchment after the strawberry tart – and attendant making of pastry in a 97-degree kitchen – was deemed impractical.) It all seemed so easy, in theory. We were in the kitchen about eight hours. While the pates baked we watched “Punch Drunk Love.” I went back into the kitchen to take out the pates and managed to splash scalding water and pate juice all over my upper arms, quite a trick, actually. It was so funny, the burning of my flesh seemed to leach every ounce of will to live out of my body, I managed not to cry, but did not manage to return to the kitchen.
- Sunday started with more on the “no will to live” front. We got up at six thirty and, while Eric commenced to fry fifty pieces of chicken, I spent an hour pounding the sidewalks of Long Island City searching for pepper – you know, they black stuff you shake onto your food? – and ice. These are two commodities not available in Long Island City. I know, I know, my own fault – shouldn’t have moved here if I was going to be soft, dependent upon all these luxury items. Anyway, the chicken got fried, I made a green salad and a tomato salad, Em came over to help organize and chop things, and we all pile into a cab and went to the Belmont. Where we were met by many dear friends, a few of whom even tried my pate – extremely not the right thing for a day at the track, but pretty tasty, until it got all crusty in the sun. The chicken liver pate, especially, actually tasted like pate. The chicken was great, if dangerously underdone here and there. The sautéed apples – which were apples slices sautéed in butter, mixed with a cooked down slurry of plum jam and rum, covered with a topping of egg whites, bread crumbs and cinnamon, and baked – were yummy, but again not particularly seasonal. The oranges glazed with sugar syrup, on the other hand, hit the spot, though I didn’t have a candy thermometer and probably fucked up the syrup a little. The Crème Saint-Honore promptly got grainy and gross when exposed to the sun. Oh well. A good time was had by all, even if the prophetically named “Vodka and Tonic” finished lamely. Stumble not down gin alley, my friends! I would even have broken even, if hadn’t been for the jumbo bottle of Shmirnoff, the car to the track, and the five dollar bags of ice.
Overall, sleep has been poor. Last night I found my obsessing over trying to remember how many “American Pie” movies there were; the night before that it was whether my pate was sufficiently weighted down. I’m going to need a big old valium prescription or an air conditioner, one – stat.
8:09:41 AM 
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