When you live alone, there are few kitchen tools as satisfying as a 6-inch cast-iron skillet. It gives power of purpose, and even a bit of flair, to your meals. You can use it to make a fritatta (relishing its oven-safe qualities), fry a sensible serving of hash browns, sauté a couple slabs of tofu or whatever vegetables you please, make non-acidic sauces, and a zillion other meals and dishes. Whatever you cook, carry it proudly to the table, using one gloved hand for the skillet, and the other for your silverware and a glass of wine.
Lately I’ve had more occasions for the 6-inch skillet, since one event in this summer of relative turmoil was a disappointing breakup. That bookended the last part of the summer, while the beginning was kicked off by my dad’s remarriage, and a new family layout that includes a stepmom and stepsiblings. This latter event should have been simple and made perfect sense—a quick checkmark on the to-do list of the summer—except that it was unexpectedly difficult for reasons I can’t totally understand yet.
Then somewhere in there began my first real friendship-threatening conflict with an old friend. It resulted, recently, to my great relief, in dealing and confronting and communicating in a responsible way—such as, talking about things and saying what we mean. Unbelievable how well that works! Even though I've been in therapy for __ years and I know this is the responsible way to handle human affairs, it's historically not my style. If things aren't working, I'll just let it fizzle out and save the worry for later.
In one of my emails to this friend I used the phrase "mental gymnastics": the acquired ability to recognize, say, discomfort or resentment, and be able to both acknowledge its presence and also find a way around it so that it doesn't have a stronghold on unrelated aspects of one's life. The technical word for mental gymnastics is probably "compartmentalization," and whatever the popular opinion about compartmentalizing, working through vs around, and my ability to "save the worry for later," I still think mental gymnastics have a time and place.
So in light of mental gymnastics, I’m not feeling too badly about things at the moment. Consider yourself lucky that none of my previous attempts at writing this post ever went up. And among the relatively crappy stuff that’s transpired, there's some good stuff, too. My second book goes on sale sometime this week, and I’m pretty proud of it. And, I'm paying the rent and putting food on the table! So yep, I'm done complaining.
Leading into the fall it’s been wonderful to exercise and cook freely, to enjoy stints of sobriety, to reconnect with people I’d lost touch with and/or been on bad terms with, to bleach my hair white on impulse, to grab hold of this opportunity to take myself extremely seriously. (Folks, I bought a journal that I can sometimes be seen writing in, in public.) I’ve never been more willing to go see your band perform, or join you at a poorly attended reading, or head to an out-of-the-way housewarming party, or show up at your birthday party even if I don't know you that well. Invite me and I'll probably come. And I haven’t been Debbie Downer about it—I’m not so unfun to be around after all!
But most of all this has been a perfect opportunity to enjoy the privilege and pleasures of living alone.
Cooking for one is kind of an art, one that I’ve not perfected quite yet. (I'm working on it.) I usually take the route of making a standard yield and then packing up the leftovers. And for sure that’s a good way to cook economically, but sometimes I find that either I can eat three portions of food because it’s there and it tastes good, or the leftovers go to waste because the responsibility of eating them is too much to bear. So there’s real skill in making a one-serving meal that’s not scrambled eggs or a sandwich. Right now the approach seems to be to seek out cute little one-serving casseroles and the aforementioned 6-inch cast-iron skillet and then jerry-rig your recipes to accommodate these smaller dishes.
But for dessert, this is one answer and a terrific excuse to luxuriate in cooking for one: a generously portioned fruit cobbler that has a terrific tender/chewy texture and a lot of fragrance, the kind of goopy fall dessert I crave in the summer when it’s too hot to bake. It’s relatively easy, but not so easy that you can just wing it halfheartedly. This dessert requires some work and commitment—a few extra dirty dishes, a coffee grinder to clean, some steps that don't feel entirely streamlined—but it's an effort that always pays off, for me at least. What is good food, if not a buffer you can consistently rely on?
Almond-Plum Cobbler for Your Six-Inch Skillet
Adapted from Martha Stewart
Serves 1 very generously, or 2 sensibly
15 roasted or toasted almonds
2 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup flour
1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons milk
1 tablespoon beaten egg (apologies, there's no way around this obnoxious detail)
1 teaspoon brandy
4 plums, pitted and sliced into 3/4-inch-thick wedges (about 8 ounces)
Squeeze of lemon juice
1. Preheat the oven to 375° F. Melt the butter in a 6-inch cast-iron skillet over low heat and let cool slightly.
2. Finely grind the almonds in a spice/coffee grinder. Combine with the flour, 1/4 cup sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon in a mixing bowl, whisking to combine.
3. Whisk together the milk, egg, and brandy in a separate bowl, then pour in all but a small puddle of the melted butter—leave just enough butter in the skillet to generously coat it—whisking again to combine. Stir in the dry mixture until just combined. Pour into the skillet.
4. Stir together the plums, remaining 3 tablespoons sugar, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt (you can use the bowl the dry ingredients had been in). Scoop the fruit into the skillet, spreading the plum slices evenly into the batter using your fingers.
5. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean and the center is set. If the surface starts to get too brown, cover with foil. Let cool for at least 30 or 40 minutes before serving.
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