Song of [not really] Myself Sunday Dinner

Folks, this has been a tough month. Not tough in the-consequences-are-going-to-kill-me-or-anyone-else way, but tough in the my-poops-aren’t-working and if-I-were-capable-of-menstruation-I-would-wonder-if-that-were-inexplicably-happening way. As the month wore on it kept getting worse. And it wasn’t just me—it was all around me. Friends had a week to move indefinitely to Asia. Friends got pregnant. Friends left the city in order to start farms elsewhere. Friends' roommates got mugged. Friends had the bad sense to reconnect with their “open relationship” ex-boyfriends. Friends had the bad sense to expect anything of me. March = this fucking sucks. But then, just two days ago, my dad swept in with the most generous rescue plan I could ever have fathomed, and though by doing so he did not solve everyone else’s problems, he did solve a great many of mine. (I’ll spare you the details, lest you think me more of a child of privilege than I already appear to be, but Dad, if you happen to read this, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.)

I thus spent most of the weekend paying homage to my Dad, tackling chores that, if he were a gay living in New York, might figure into his weekend to-do list. I spent Saturday cleaning. There were literally fistfuls of dust in the corners and on the windowsills and on top of the bookshelves and behind the TV and underneath all the furniture; like when I was in London, I blew my nose and my snot was black. I fixed my blinds and hung curtains, two items that had been waiting to be addressed since I moved into this apartment nine months ago. I replaced light bulbs. I threw a bunch of shit away. I organized my closets. I went through my spice cabinet. I fluffed up pillows. I moved my furniture around. Then I went to the hardware store where I invested in a new hardwood-floors-cleaning method and on impulse bought a crate of pansies, which I still haven’t transferred into the planters outside my bedroom window. I had lunch at Five Guys Burger Co., the only comparable outlet for my Dad being Sonic (and which still managed to give me diarrhea). Sure, Dad probably would have bought a power washer to clean his driveway and would have chosen to reorganize his garage or maul over trees and shrubs in the name of landscaping, but the gesture is largely the same. Were contextual deficiency not a hurdle for the two of us, Dad would have been proud of me.

And tonight, I forewent my fear of anyone knowing I’m not a vegetarian by roasting a chicken—I put a bunch of parsley and lemon and garlic in the cavity, and stuffed a mixture of black olive tapenade, butter, and parsley underneath the skin—with gravy, of course, and leaned heavy on the cream and butter with the celeriac-apple-potato puree (recipe below!!). The salad was just a salad, with arugula and radishes and cucumber and pine nuts and sherry-shallot vinaigrette. I had made half an effort to share, but the only friend I knew to be available couldn’t come, and truthfully, I didn’t mind making a go of it alone. Maybe I burnt the crap out of my hand, but I had kicked things off with a martini (am getting very good at making those), and what you’re looking at also includes dessert.

The point is: I’m at home, and I’m not going anywhere for a few months. At the moment, this is kind of hail-Mary revelation for me.

PS – How much does it look like an Andre Dubus short story outside?

Celeriac-Apple-Potato puree

4 T butter, separated
1 head of celeriac (celery root), 1/2-inch dice (peeled!)
1 granny smith apple, 1/2 inch dice (peeled!)
2 medium Yukon gold potatoes, 1/2-inch dice (peeled!)
1 t salt
1/2 t pepper
1/2 cup water
1/4 c heavy cream
1/4 c milk
squeeze of lemon

In medium skillet melt 2 tablespoons of the butter, and then add the celeriac, apples, potatoes, salt and pepper. Cook for 5 minutes or so, until it just begins to soften. Add the water (you could also use wine, or cider), cover, and cook for 25-40 minutes, stirring often, until everything is very soft. Add more liquid if it begins to burn. Transfer the mixture to a food processor or put it through a food mill and puree.* Heat the cream, milk, and rest of the butter in a small saucepan. Return the potato-apple mixture to the original pan. When the cream/milk mixture is hot, stir it into the puree. Add lemon, taste for seasoning, serve hot. Yum.

* Postscript: Ever since I started reading cookbooks before going to bed, I have read about how hand blenders and electric beaters and food processors are anathema to potatoes, because when they are whizzed up with such a device, the glucose or something is released, resulting in a gluey dish. At my first restaurant job, when I first discovered this law of potatoes, I asked the sous chef what a potato ricer was; the next day he brought me one. So I've always make potatoes that way and never done a taste test with any electricity-weilding device.

I have tried this recipe two ways now, one with the food processor and one with the food mill, and finally, I know what they mean! The food processor potatoes were sticky and viscous, and the food mill ones had a lighter mouthfeel and were more delicate and seemed a bit more nuanced. Though I'd probably serve the food mill ones to people I want to impress, I secretly actually liked the gluey stuff, too. They were more like dessert--apple-potato-celeriac dulce de leche or something.