sandwich.
“Okay, baby, perfect …” he says, not looking up from his BlackBerry.
Okay, baby, perfect
hurts.
It triggers a catastrophic sense of rejection.
Hello, cruel nothingness
.
So I start drinking at noon and logging in and out of his e-mail to read the latest slutty note from some sex-deprived housewife, or the details of his travel itineraries to places I’ve always wanted to visit yet haven’t been invited to. I eat very little, can’t sleep at all, and have developed adult acne. I show up at the restaurant tipsy and in tears, unraveling every time one of his partners gives me a disapproving look or a customer pushes me aside for a photo with Chef.
I think about shaking things up the way I would in the old days … partying hard, starting an affair, disappearing for a few days, but I love Chef too much to risk it. And I’m older now. I also wouldn’t even know how to bum a light in this town.
One afternoon I’m feeling so unsteady and insecure about all his female fans, and the fact that he’s usually perceived assingle in the press, that I drink screwdrivers like it’s my job and send anonymous sightings of us “looking very much in love” into the
Washington Post
from a fake e-mail account.
He’s mine, bitches
. Somehow my real name appears along with the alias, and by the time the reporter e-mails back, “Wait, aren’t
you
the girlfriend you speak of?” I just want to curl up and die.
I am not myself, not even a knockoff of myself, which is a problem for so many reasons, not the least of which is that my boyfriend fell in love with a lit-from-within writer, with bluebirds on her shoulders, perfectly content with a few strands of licorice, a handful of real friends, and a library book about Mötley Crüe. We need to find her before he bolts or I have a nervous breakdown.
Chef panics at the sight of me so sad, frustrated, and lonely, promising that his hours will calm down soon. He tempers me by hinting at the ruby, but we both know an engagement ring can’t give me the closeness I require.
I’m just desperate to feel part of
something
. But who am I to make a peep? I am a nobody now.
Late-Night Turkey BLTs
SERVES 4
It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that my ideal recipe has only a few basic ingredients. That said, the BLT was my national treasure in the early days of me and Washington, when I was just navigating the culinary waters. Sandwiches like this got me through a lot of long nights, good and bad. I’m not a big bacon eater (Jewish guilt!), so I use turkey bacon, but even Chef agrees that the substitution yields something just as delicious, and healthier, too. It’s easy to wing this kind of thing, but this precise recipe was adapted from Gwyneth Paltrow’s cookbook
, My Father’s Daughter.
8 slices turkey bacon (or real bacon)
8 slices potato bread or whole-wheat bread
½ cup mayonnaise or mustard
Coarse salt
Fresh ground black pepper
Handful of fresh basil
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 large beefsteak tomatoes cut into 8 medium slices
Cook the bacon in a large skillet over medium-high heat until crispy on both sides. Drain on a paper towel and cut each slice in half. Meanwhile, toast the bread.
Spread one side of each slice of bread with mayonnaise or mustard. Sprinkle each slice with a tiny pinch of salt and a dash of black pepper.
Evenly distribute the basil on 4 slices of bread already covered with a condiment, drizzle each with ½ tablespoon of olive oil, then sprinkle with a bit more salt and pepper.
Lay 2 tomato slices on top of each heap of basil, so they each cover over half the surface.
Layer 4 pieces of turkey bacon on each sandwich. Top each sandwich with one of the remaining slices of bread, cut in half, and serve.
Sweet Potato Chips
SERVES 2
When I first moved to D.C., I confessed to one of my oldest New York pals, and consummate foodie, Jill Sites, that I had served Chef and myself sandwiches with potato chips for
“Okay, baby, perfect …” he says, not looking up from his BlackBerry.
Okay, baby, perfect
hurts.
It triggers a catastrophic sense of rejection.
Hello, cruel nothingness
.
So I start drinking at noon and logging in and out of his e-mail to read the latest slutty note from some sex-deprived housewife, or the details of his travel itineraries to places I’ve always wanted to visit yet haven’t been invited to. I eat very little, can’t sleep at all, and have developed adult acne. I show up at the restaurant tipsy and in tears, unraveling every time one of his partners gives me a disapproving look or a customer pushes me aside for a photo with Chef.
I think about shaking things up the way I would in the old days … partying hard, starting an affair, disappearing for a few days, but I love Chef too much to risk it. And I’m older now. I also wouldn’t even know how to bum a light in this town.
One afternoon I’m feeling so unsteady and insecure about all his female fans, and the fact that he’s usually perceived assingle in the press, that I drink screwdrivers like it’s my job and send anonymous sightings of us “looking very much in love” into the
Washington Post
from a fake e-mail account.
He’s mine, bitches
. Somehow my real name appears along with the alias, and by the time the reporter e-mails back, “Wait, aren’t
you
the girlfriend you speak of?” I just want to curl up and die.
I am not myself, not even a knockoff of myself, which is a problem for so many reasons, not the least of which is that my boyfriend fell in love with a lit-from-within writer, with bluebirds on her shoulders, perfectly content with a few strands of licorice, a handful of real friends, and a library book about Mötley Crüe. We need to find her before he bolts or I have a nervous breakdown.
Chef panics at the sight of me so sad, frustrated, and lonely, promising that his hours will calm down soon. He tempers me by hinting at the ruby, but we both know an engagement ring can’t give me the closeness I require.
I’m just desperate to feel part of
something
. But who am I to make a peep? I am a nobody now.
Late-Night Turkey BLTs
SERVES 4
It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that my ideal recipe has only a few basic ingredients. That said, the BLT was my national treasure in the early days of me and Washington, when I was just navigating the culinary waters. Sandwiches like this got me through a lot of long nights, good and bad. I’m not a big bacon eater (Jewish guilt!), so I use turkey bacon, but even Chef agrees that the substitution yields something just as delicious, and healthier, too. It’s easy to wing this kind of thing, but this precise recipe was adapted from Gwyneth Paltrow’s cookbook
, My Father’s Daughter.
8 slices turkey bacon (or real bacon)
8 slices potato bread or whole-wheat bread
½ cup mayonnaise or mustard
Coarse salt
Fresh ground black pepper
Handful of fresh basil
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 large beefsteak tomatoes cut into 8 medium slices
Cook the bacon in a large skillet over medium-high heat until crispy on both sides. Drain on a paper towel and cut each slice in half. Meanwhile, toast the bread.
Spread one side of each slice of bread with mayonnaise or mustard. Sprinkle each slice with a tiny pinch of salt and a dash of black pepper.
Evenly distribute the basil on 4 slices of bread already covered with a condiment, drizzle each with ½ tablespoon of olive oil, then sprinkle with a bit more salt and pepper.
Lay 2 tomato slices on top of each heap of basil, so they each cover over half the surface.
Layer 4 pieces of turkey bacon on each sandwich. Top each sandwich with one of the remaining slices of bread, cut in half, and serve.
Sweet Potato Chips
SERVES 2
When I first moved to D.C., I confessed to one of my oldest New York pals, and consummate foodie, Jill Sites, that I had served Chef and myself sandwiches with potato chips for
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