How to Cook a Moose (10 page)

For me, the kitchen is the most important room in a house. I'm always happy at a stove, stirring something; there's no room for angst or self-doubt in a pot of chicken soup. When I'm anxious about something or stuck with my writing, chopping onions, carrots, and celery and sautéing them in a skillet is calming, centering. I love the feel of ingredients in my hands. I love to improvise, to invent and play and have fun. And I love feeding people.

But, until recent years, cooking was a solitary activity for me. Like writing, it's something I've immersed myself in alone. Being “in the pocket” at the computer or stove was my refuge, the introvert's escape.
My ex-husband and I used to joke that when one of us cooked, the other had to leave the kitchen. We could not cook together without a power struggle. (We were both firstborns, which might have been the problem right there.) For decades, my mother and sisters have lived thousands of miles away, so we've never had much opportunity to cook together, as a family. And I've only rarely ever cooked with my female friends, even though many of them are amazing cooks. We cook for one another, as an act of generosity and love, rather than collaborating on dishes.

I assumed from the start that Brendan and I wouldn't be able to cook together. Besides our twenty-year age difference, I was born on the West Coast, he on the East Coast. His family is old-world, traditional, proper; mine is bohemian, happy-go-lucky, eccentric. And our cooking styles were extremely different and seemingly incompatible. Both of his parents grew up in Italy, and he learned to cook from his father, who taught him a number of Tuscan and Roman dishes, like pork tenderloin with rosemary-prune sauce, peperonata, orecchiette with broccoflower and garlic, and pasta with tomato and pea sauce (my favorite, and the most soul-nourishing dish I've ever had, the chicken soup of pasta). And I, true to my own background, have always tended to either throw dishes together based on what's in the fridge and cupboard, or create something from an amalgam of six or seven different recipes after doing quick, hit-and-miss research.

So at first, we cooked for each other, winning each other's hearts through our stomachs. I loved watching him small-dice a soffritto, or tuck sprigs of rosemary and cloves of garlic into a leg of lamb, or roll the mezzaluna, an Italian two-handled, curved chopping blade, over a pile of steamed broccoli rabe before sautéing it in garlic. Brendan, likewise, was entertained and fascinated by my ability to figure out how to make something I'd never made before. He cheered me on as I made Vietnamese pho from scratch, applauded from the sidelines as I
fried up crisp, light, gluten-free buttermilk-buckwheat blini, a recipe I'd devised myself, for Valentine's Day breakfast. He was gracious about my failures and excited to eat my successes.

But we were so inseparable, we were always in the kitchen together.

“I'll chop the onions,” I said one night, stepping up to the cutting board with my glass of wine.

“I'll stir that for you,” he said the next night, easing himself in at the stove while I chopped vegetables.

Soon we were waltzing around each other with oven mitts and knives and wooden spoons.

Then we collaborated on pork dumplings with scallion ginger sauce. I made the dough; he rolled it out. I made the pork mixture; he wrapped it. I steamed the dumplings; he fried them. I made the scallion-ginger sauce; he stir-fried shiitake mushrooms and baby bok choy to go alongside. This was the beginning of a beautiful kitchen romance. Since then, he's made me more aware of the value of traditional recipes; I've begun consulting and using them with increased respect for the cooks who've gone before me. And he's become more relaxed and inventive, learning to throw together a “cupboard supper,” a concept he learned from me.

All my life, I felt lonely and alone, even in my family, even when I was married, even in the kitchen. I no longer do. Our harmony in the kitchen is a metaphor for the way we are together. We rarely fight; but it's not boring, it's soothing. We bolster each other and share a sense of purpose. We're both writers and inherently solitary people, but instead of going off to our respective corners of the house, we're able to sit at the same table and write side by side. We pass our work back and forth for edits, ideas, and feedback.

The whole issue of our vast and unconventional age difference was a little harder to solve, no matter how natural it seemed to us that we
were together, how easy and inevitable our connection felt right from the start. At the beginning, in the first months or year, we were both a little self-conscious about being around other people in public. Would they treat us weirdly, look askance, make unflattering assumptions about us? In fact, they did, but interestingly, it was only people who knew us who did that—a few acquaintances, friends, and family members. Amazingly, in all these years, we have never encountered any awkwardness or judgment from strangers. Everywhere we go, when we meet people, they instantly seem to understand that we're together, and they don't seem to think anything is amiss about it. It's not that I don't look older than Brendan; of course I do. But no one ever mistakes me for his mother, or any relative at all. From this, I surmise that the way we are together is more telling of our connection than what we look like superficially, which I find both comforting and interesting.

Over the years, as we've grown closer and more rooted with each other, we've become out-and-out accomplices and collaborators in the kitchen. One summer day on the Eastern Prom, the amphibious tourist vehicle called the Downeast Duck trundled by at the top of the hill. A little while later, as we came along the trail above the bay, we saw it floating out in the water.

“I want to make a dish called Downeast Duck,” said Brendan suddenly, after we'd been walking for a while in silence.

I am always up for a speculative discussion of a hypothetical future meal.

“What would you serve with it? What cuisine?” I said. “Chinese? With rice noodles? Ginger-cilantro broth? Hot and sour or barbecue sauce?”

“Downeast,” he said. “So it would be Maine duck.”

And that was that, because he is the native of this region, and therefore the authority on all things local.

We batted this idea around, trying as hard as we could to include some lobster in our vision: duck confit with lobster terrine? Too fancy and labor-intensive. Roast duck wings with lobster claws? Funny in theory but awkward on the plate. Duck and lobster jambalaya, risotto, or paella? Too much starch all around. We eventually jettisoned the lobster, or rather, saved it for another meal, and settled on the following simple feast: duck breasts, pan-fried until they rendered much of their fat, then a heap of cut-up potatoes, Yukon Golds probably, pan-roasted in the duck fat. The sliced crisp breasts would go on top of a mound of julienned zucchini tenderly poached in chicken broth and butter. And alongside, a simple salad of chopped blanched sugar snap peas in a dressing of champagne vinegar, hazelnut oil, and thyme.

Later, on the way home, the Downeast Duck drove by us yet again. We waved at the tourists, and they waved back.

That night, we made exactly the dish we'd envisioned on our walk: two big, juicy duck breasts pan-fried until the fat rendered; four medium Yukon Gold potatoes steamed, then cubed, then crisped and browned in the duck fat; three small julienned zucchini poached in butter and chicken broth; and snap pea salad with thyme vinaigrette.

I made a fruity Maine-ish glaze for the duck: rhubarb, blueberries, maple syrup, cognac, thyme, ginger, and red wine, boiled well and pureed in the blender . . .

We toasted the tourist bus as we ate, glad that we weren't tourists, glad that we lived here.

The day after the renovation was finally finished, we unpacked the boxes of cooking utensils and pots and bowls, baking pans and cookie sheets and wooden spoons, glasses, cups, plates, and the bags of staples, rice and lentils and pasta. We slotted the spices into the indented
maple ledge built into the back of the island, emptied the corner of the living room where all the kitchen stuff had been stored since February, moved the table and chairs back into the dining room, rearranged the couch and armchairs around the fireplace in the living room, vacuumed and mopped and dusted and hung pictures.

Our friend Rosie was coming from Brooklyn to visit us that weekend. This would be our first meal for a guest in the new kitchen. What should we cook, we wondered?

Rosie is a formidably accomplished, knowledgeable cook, a famous bartender and inventor of cocktails, but despite that, she's never intimidating to cook for or to mix drinks for, because she is impeccably philosophical. She wants to be pleased; she wants to enjoy our hospitality. A couple of years before, I had forgotten to trim the strings off some sugar snap peas I had sautéed with green beans to go alongside Brendan's roast, and my potatoes dauphinoise was too dry because I hadn't used enough cream. We ate our meal, picking peapod strings out of our teeth, putting away plenty of dauphinoise despite its flaws.

Mid-meal, I broke down and apologized.

Rosie shot back, “Julia Child said, ‘Never apologize, never explain.' I never do. You shouldn't either.”

And that was that.

Therefore, I knew that whatever we made, Rosie would not complain; she would eat enthusiastically and without criticism. But even so, I wasn't going to try anything new or complicated. I felt superstitious. It had to be good.

My mind kept drifting to a favorite standby, which is foolproof, easy, fast, no-fuss, comforting, and delicious: haddock fillets cut into bite-size pieces and marinated in lemon juice and harissa spices, then added to a skillet in which chopped chorizo and leeks have been sautéed in olive oil and white wine. The fish is poached till it's tender and
cooked through; then this smoky, spicy stew is served over red rice cooked in chicken broth, with garlicky steamed red chard alongside.

I was already drooling at the thought of digging into a red-hued plateful that night; we'd light candles, open the windows, dim the chandelier.

And so it came to pass:

“This is Harissa Haddock, BBC News,” I said in a fake British accent as I poured wine.

“Wait,” Rosie shot back, “I thought Harissa Haddock was the tragic, much preyed-upon, oft-violated young heroine of an extremely long eighteenth-century novel?”

“That was Moll Flounders,” said Brendan. We all laughed, and then we ate.

Harissa Haddock

3 T olive oil

1 lb. fresh haddock (two good-size fillets)

2 T harissa dry spice mix

juice of 1 lemon

1/2 cup white wine, or more if desired

2 large leeks, cleaned well and chopped

2 fresh pork chorizo sausages

1 cup red rice

1 3/4 cups chicken broth

1 T butter

2 lbs. red chard, well-rinsed and chopped

8 garlic cloves

1 cup chicken broth

1 T olive oil

salt to taste

Cut 1 lb. of haddock fillets into bite-size chunks and put them in a bowl with the juice of 1 lemon and harissa spices. Stir well and leave on the counter to marinate.

According to the directions on the bag, simmer a cup of well-rinsed red rice (I rinse it in a mesh strainer under the faucet for a minute or two) in 1 3/4 cups chicken broth with 1 T butter.

Slit the chorizo sausages down the middle and remove the casings so you're left with just the innards. Discard the casings or feed them to the dog sitting avidly at your knee. In a big cast-iron skillet, heat the olive oil, then add the chopped leeks and chorizo sausage innards. Stir well, chopping the chorizo with the edge of the spatula or wooden spoon to break it up. Add the white wine. Sauté for about 10 minutes, till the leeks are soft and the sausage is cooked through.

Add the harissa haddock with all the lemon juice to the leeks and chorizo. Cover the pan and gently poach for 7 to 10 minutes. Stir well.

Meanwhile, chop 8 cloves of garlic and add to 1 cup chicken broth and 1 T olive oil in a huge pot. Steam the chard, covered, for about 5 minutes, or until limp. Stir well, salt to taste.