three months straight. “It’s not pretty,” I wrote in an e-mail. In turn, she sent me a recipe. “These are healthy enough that you can relax a little; I know you don’t cook, but come on, live a little, be brave!” I posted the recipe on my fridge and didn’t look at it for a long time
.
1 large sweet potato, unpeeled
Grapeseed oil (or any other neutral-tasting oil, such as peanut, soy, or vegetable)
Sea salt and black pepper
2 to 4 sprigs fresh thyme, minced
7 sprigs fresh rosemary, minced
Using a mandoline or very sharp knife, slice the sweet potato very thin, about ⅓ to ¼ inch thick. Place the sliced potatoes in a large bowl of water and let sit for 30 minutes to 1 hour, until the water becomes very cloudy. Remove the potatoes with a slotted spoon and dry them completely using a tea towel or paper towels.
Heat enough oil to go about two-thirds of the way up a medium heavy-bottomed pot (or Dutch oven) over medium-high heat. The oil is hot enough when you put the end of a wooden spoon in the oil and it bubbles immediately.
Place the potato slices in the oil, being careful not to crowd the pot. Fry approximately 3 to 6 minutes (the time depends on the thickness of the chips and the heat of the oil). Turn them occasionally so they brown evenly. They will begin to float and turn slightly golden when they’re done. Remove the batch of potatoes with a slotted spoon, drain on paper towels, and continue with the next batch.
When all the potatoes are fried, make sure the oil is still onmedium-high heat and fry them again for 2 more minutes, or until they are perfectly crispy. Remove the potatoes from the oil, drain again on paper towels, and season the hell out of them with the salt, pepper, thyme, and rosemary.
Serve hot or cold.
5 .
Will Cook for Love
D on’t fuck it up, Shelasky,” my Emmy Award—winning friend whispers as we walk to his shiny SUV after dinner at a Mexican restaurant, just off Hollywood Boulevard. “Don’t fuck it up.”
He’s referring to my love life. We’re in Los Angeles because Chef has a cooking series in Santa Monica to shoot and he knows I need to get away. The trip couldn’t have come at a better time. California has always been a special place for me—it’s my long, deep breath, my escape from reality. (If New York weren’t my environmental soul mate, and we weren’t so stuck in D.C., I’d move us out west in a second.) Despite a jam-packed itinerary, Chef has taken the night off to finally meet my old, naughty neighbors, who are still fabulous, but now sober and thriving. Shelley, of course, comes along, and a few other New York transplants, including one who has made it big on a hit TV show and recently won several awards. Over Shirley Temples and corn tortillas, we all have a lot to celebrate, including my one-year anniversary with Chef.
I never want the night to end. To most couples, dinner with friends is known as Tuesday. To those in a “relationchef,” as I call our situation, it is known as a blessing. Tonight, Chef isthe guy I first met in Williamsburg—sweet, pure, relaxed, and warm. He’s not watching the clock or being whisked away. I too am my old spirited self—confident and alive. Shelley and I tell the most dramatic rendition of our Nick Nolte story. Chef spits out an empanada in a fit of laughter, and our other friend falls off his chair. When a young kid comes to the table and nervously asks for a photo, Chef affably agrees, pushing back his seat to stand up, like a good sport. The confused fan says, “Sorry, mister, I wanted one with him,” pointing to our actor friend. The gang erupts into more laughter.
The next morning Chef and I hike Runyon Canyon, where I drag his skinny ass all the way up to the sky and back. The crisp air and rigorous exercise feels amazing and we make false promises the whole way down about finding hiking trails back home. “Let’s do this every first Sunday of the month,” I say. “For sure,” he
.
1 large sweet potato, unpeeled
Grapeseed oil (or any other neutral-tasting oil, such as peanut, soy, or vegetable)
Sea salt and black pepper
2 to 4 sprigs fresh thyme, minced
7 sprigs fresh rosemary, minced
Using a mandoline or very sharp knife, slice the sweet potato very thin, about ⅓ to ¼ inch thick. Place the sliced potatoes in a large bowl of water and let sit for 30 minutes to 1 hour, until the water becomes very cloudy. Remove the potatoes with a slotted spoon and dry them completely using a tea towel or paper towels.
Heat enough oil to go about two-thirds of the way up a medium heavy-bottomed pot (or Dutch oven) over medium-high heat. The oil is hot enough when you put the end of a wooden spoon in the oil and it bubbles immediately.
Place the potato slices in the oil, being careful not to crowd the pot. Fry approximately 3 to 6 minutes (the time depends on the thickness of the chips and the heat of the oil). Turn them occasionally so they brown evenly. They will begin to float and turn slightly golden when they’re done. Remove the batch of potatoes with a slotted spoon, drain on paper towels, and continue with the next batch.
When all the potatoes are fried, make sure the oil is still onmedium-high heat and fry them again for 2 more minutes, or until they are perfectly crispy. Remove the potatoes from the oil, drain again on paper towels, and season the hell out of them with the salt, pepper, thyme, and rosemary.
Serve hot or cold.
5 .
Will Cook for Love
D on’t fuck it up, Shelasky,” my Emmy Award—winning friend whispers as we walk to his shiny SUV after dinner at a Mexican restaurant, just off Hollywood Boulevard. “Don’t fuck it up.”
He’s referring to my love life. We’re in Los Angeles because Chef has a cooking series in Santa Monica to shoot and he knows I need to get away. The trip couldn’t have come at a better time. California has always been a special place for me—it’s my long, deep breath, my escape from reality. (If New York weren’t my environmental soul mate, and we weren’t so stuck in D.C., I’d move us out west in a second.) Despite a jam-packed itinerary, Chef has taken the night off to finally meet my old, naughty neighbors, who are still fabulous, but now sober and thriving. Shelley, of course, comes along, and a few other New York transplants, including one who has made it big on a hit TV show and recently won several awards. Over Shirley Temples and corn tortillas, we all have a lot to celebrate, including my one-year anniversary with Chef.
I never want the night to end. To most couples, dinner with friends is known as Tuesday. To those in a “relationchef,” as I call our situation, it is known as a blessing. Tonight, Chef isthe guy I first met in Williamsburg—sweet, pure, relaxed, and warm. He’s not watching the clock or being whisked away. I too am my old spirited self—confident and alive. Shelley and I tell the most dramatic rendition of our Nick Nolte story. Chef spits out an empanada in a fit of laughter, and our other friend falls off his chair. When a young kid comes to the table and nervously asks for a photo, Chef affably agrees, pushing back his seat to stand up, like a good sport. The confused fan says, “Sorry, mister, I wanted one with him,” pointing to our actor friend. The gang erupts into more laughter.
The next morning Chef and I hike Runyon Canyon, where I drag his skinny ass all the way up to the sky and back. The crisp air and rigorous exercise feels amazing and we make false promises the whole way down about finding hiking trails back home. “Let’s do this every first Sunday of the month,” I say. “For sure,” he
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