I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (12 page)

Ethan rarely left my side, even when it wasn’t dinnertime. When I got a bike, he bought the male twin of mine. He went to
my hairdresser, Randall. We’d make back-to-back appointments—Ethan got his cut while I sat, with foils on my head, waiting
for my highlights to take. “If you’re willing to let him see that, it must be love,” Randall pronounced. Even people who didn’t
know us thought we made a perfect pair; when we ran into Henry having lunch with one of his exes, he later told me that she
pointed us out to him, saying, “That’s a happy couple.”

I brought Ethan along with me to book parties and dinners with authors, where he tuned in to career dissatisfaction I wasn’t
ready to face. “You’re hiding your light under a bushel,” he would say. I agreed, but I didn’t want to think about it. Instead,
I sublimated my creative inclinations into making meals for Ethan. I didn’t want any more, or at least that’s what I told
myself; I just wanted to be his wife. He could be the artistic one while quietly admiring all the madcap things about me,
like that “What does it take to seduce you?” line, which, one evening, he confessed to finding the most adorable thing he
had ever heard.

Ethan even got a kick out of my mother’s nonsensical expressions, like “What’s new in the world of sports?” her typical greeting
for him, and “Here’s to us, long may we wave,” her toast at every meal. It’s clear where I got my gift for strange turns of
phrase. Because Ethan could appreciate and even contribute to the madness, he fit right in. I couldn’t help but find Ethan’s
rich uncle—whose wife sent us to the supermarket every time we visited their Hamptons estate with an enormous shopping list
that seemed to include the family’s grocery needs for the entire summer (everything from ketchup to toilet bowl cleaner to
lightbulbs), then gave Ethan a hard time when he asked for reimbursement—somewhat ridiculous. But behind our lighthearted
disdain for those we were stuck with from birth was a whole pantry of love and loyalty. Because Ethan was so devoted to his
family, I wanted to become part of it and for him to become part of mine.

Which meant getting on planes, lots of them. I went to Detroit, Tucson, and Des Moines. All places I had never visited before
that I was perfectly content to see. Ethan was the first boyfriend whose family I ever met. I never went to North Dakota to
meet Kit’s mother, which always worried my own, enough for her to gently prod every now and then, “Why haven’t you met his
mother?” Here in marked contrast, I was thrilled that Ethan cared enough to introduce me to his sisters, cousins, nieces,
and nephews. We saw many more members of his family than we did mine—we don’t really have a lot in common with our American
first cousins, we have some second and third cousins in Pittsburgh we see every now and then, and a lot of cousins we are
crazy about in Italy (most likely because they are in Italy). On those trips with Ethan’s family, I frequently ended up doing
the cooking whenever his uncle, the
macher,
wasn’t taking us out. Word got around that I was competent in the kitchen, and while at first I jumped at the chance to impress
his parents with improvised risotto primavera or impromptu beef bourguignon, I eventually got annoyed when everyone looked
to me to take charge of every meal.

Ethan’s mother, like me, had been a woman with a firm belief in the importance of cooking to please your man. Sadly, by the
time I met her, she was suffering from dementia, which struck her at an unfairly early age. But, wanting to get to know the
mother of the man I loved, I spent a good deal of time with her alone on those visits. We took long walks together and even
managed to make each other laugh with harsh critiques of the neighbor’s gardens. Ethan and his dad would hang back at the
house, watching the French Open or
Carnal Knowledge
on TV, the latter of which I found somewhat disturbing when I walked in on the last few moments.

Ethan, wanting to show me the person his mother was in her prime, shared a copy of her favorite cookbook,
Thoughts for Buffets.
In the margins she had written notes about her husband’s reaction to each dish: “Allen liked!” they said, or, “Less salt
next time!” I chuckled at her simple prefeminist housewife inclinations, but I had no reason to. I was cut from the very same
cloth.

When we got home from our first trip together, to Iowa for his sister’s fortieth birthday, I asked Ethan if he loved me. He
replied in the affirmative without any dithering. From then on, he would tell me he loved me unprompted. Still, I don’t know
if it was me, or the fact that it took so long to win him, or the one night a week he insisted on spending at his own apartment,
but somehow I never stopped feeling that I was one meal away from Ethan’s love. I like to joke that I went to the Ethan Binder
School of Cooking, because in my inexhaustible drive to please him, I ran myself into the ground pulling off gastronomic feats
I might not otherwise have tried.

At Passover I made Ethan a seder, taking two days off from work to prepare the many traditional dishes from scratch. This
one nearly broke me. Done in after the first day of cooking, I got testy with Ethan. “Your religion hates women!” I barked
when I greeted him at the door that evening.

Ethan, who didn’t do well with confrontation, got defensive: “I didn’t ask you to do it!” It’s true, he hadn’t, but I had
to get angry at someone. Being familiar with the Old Testament, I knew it was best not to take it out on Yahweh. Ethan rebounded
well from my wrath, showing up with roses in hand when it came time for the actual event.

I rolled matzo balls and dropped them in the homemade chicken broth that had simmered all day on the stove; chopped apples
into tiny slivers and toasted and ground walnuts for the
haroseth;
grated fresh horseradish by hand to sprinkle on top. I used Ethan’s mother’s brisket recipe, which, like my previous boyfriend’s
mother’s recipe, contained onion soup mix as well as chili sauce. That’s what I made, and it was perfectly fine, but I’m going
to spare you the Lipton and Heinz and provide instead this wonderful sweet-and-sour brisket (which does include Coca-Cola)
from Levana Kirschenbaum, Jen Warren’s kosher cooking guru. Sometimes I go with Jen to her classes. Levana prides herself
on the simplicity of her recipes. “If this is difficult, then nothing is easy,” she says. She’s a witty and engaging teacher,
and even this shiksa picks up a handy hint or two when I’m there—like how to make preserved lemons (put them in a jar with
salt and store them for three weeks). Unable to avoid throwing in a bit of my own culture, I made broccoli di rape—it’s not
an herb, but it can be bitter when not prepared correctly.

A Seder for Nonbelievers

Levana Kirschenbaum’s Sweet-and-Sour Brisket

1 medium onion, peeled and quartered

1 (2-inch) piece ginger, peeled

6 large garlic cloves, peeled

½ cup Dijon mustard

½ cup red wine

½ cup Coca-Cola

½ cup ketchup

¼ cup honey

¼ cup cider vinegar

¼ cup soy sauce

½ cup olive oil

1 teaspoon ground cloves

1 tablespoon coarsely ground pepper

1 (6- to 7-pound) first-cut brisket

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine onion, ginger, garlic, and mustard in a food processor until smooth. Add the remaining marinade ingredients and process
a few more seconds.

Place the brisket in a pan just large enough to fit the meat, then pour the marinade over it, cover tightly with foil, and
bake for 2 hours. After 2 hours, turn the brisket and bake uncovered for 1 more hour.

Remove brisket to a cutting board and tent with foil. Strain pan liquids into a small saucepan over medium heat and reduce
to about 2 cups. When the brisket has cooled slightly, slice it thin and pour gravy over it. Pass additional gravy at the
table.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings.

Broccoli di Rape

2 pounds broccoli di rape (or broccoli rabe or whatever your vegetable purveyor calls it)

Salt

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/8 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes

Place a large pot of water over high heat. Arrange a large bowl with water and ice. Trim the tough stalks from the broccoli,
and when the water begins to simmer, add salt and then the broccoli. Blanch for 3 minutes (to remove some of the bitterness),
then drain and place in the ice bath.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, then add the garlic and hot pepper. When the garlic is golden, drain
the broccoli, squeeze out the excess water, and add it to the skillet. Lower the heat and cook for about 10 minutes for crunchy
broccoli, 20 minutes for soft; add a little water to the pan if it gets too dry.

Serves 6.

Chicken Soup

The components of a good chicken soup are very flexible, and variations of this recipe will probably work out fine.

2 to 3 pounds any combination of chicken parts, or 1 whole chicken, even the gizzards

1 medium white onion, peeled and cut in half

2 celery stalks (if they have leaves, keep them)

2 carrots, peeled and cut in half

1 parsnip, peeled and quartered

¼ cup parsley

¼ cup dill

2 tablespoons salt

Dill for garnish

Place all ingredients in an 8-quart stockpot, add about 3 quarts of water (enough to cover and then some), turn the heat to
medium-high, and bring to a boil. When the water is boiling, use a strainer to skim the foam that rises to the top. Keep the
soup at a slow simmer and cook for 1 hour.

Strain all the solids; you can use the chicken for chicken salad, or you can remove the fat, cut the meat into little pieces,
and serve in the soup with the matzo balls if you are in the mood for something heartier. Garnish each bowl with a little
dill snipped with scissors.

You could make this same soup and, instead of matzo balls, drop in the
meatballs
. No need to brown them; let
them cook in the broth and do the same with 1 cup of egg noodles 10 minutes before serving.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings.