but Ethan
never returned the call. If you don’t know McGee, let’s just say this is up there with wanting to be an animated dinosaur
and ignoring a text from Steven Spielberg. Jann Wenner, legendary editor and founder of
Rolling Stone,
liked the few profiles Ethan had written for the magazine and wanted to offer him a contract. Instead he decided to leave
magazines and get into television, which granted may have been a better place for him, but what I’m trying to say is that
Ethan took no joy in his accomplishments. Stacey, who was rediscovering her faith, took issue with his reading, as did Hank
(who was in the midst of converting). Me, I was just happy to hear I made Ethan a seder he thought of as his own.
We went to Rome for our first trip together, where I introduced him to my favorite restaurants and took him to some of the
better shops, like Ermenegildo Zegna and J. P. Tod’s. Ethan’s style—which included an appalling leather jacket with some kind
of weird belt attachment before I got my hands on him— received some badly needed improvement under my watch, though I’m afraid
I created a bit of a monster on that front. Ethan spent hours in those stores trying to decide between the blue shirt or the
beige or whether to get the shoes in a forty-four or forty-five—neither ever felt right. He pushed my nerves to the limit
when we missed a hard-won lunch reservation at Il Moro because we spent too much time at a boutique where the salesclerk took
enormous interest in outfitting him from head to toe. “I couldn’t help it. He dressed me up like a little doll!” said Ethan,
who bought almost everything he tried on, including the shoes, which eventually proved to be uncomfortable and remained unworn
when they repatriated to the United States.
His reaction to the shoes was no stunner. Comfort was paramount to Ethan—the elusive thing he was constantly searching for
but couldn’t find. It was what I desperately wanted to give him, if I could only figure out a way to do it. “You don’t know
me!” he’d shout in the voice of an angry old curmudgeon whenever I’d try to suggest something I thought might be good for
him, like insoles or shoe trees. No one slept as poorly as he did, no one’s back or neck hurt as much as his. He was alone
in his creaky body.
I brushed cod in butter like Ben-Gay and wrapped it in prosciutto—just the way Ethan dressed his neck on a particularly stressful
visit to his parents’ home in Tucson.
Orthopedic Cod
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson, The New York Times)
It won’t make Ethan’s neck feel any better, but it is delicious.
2 (6- to 8-ounce) cod fillets
3 tablespoons butter, melted
4 slices prosciutto
1 heaping tablespoon chopped parsley
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Brush the cod fillets with half the melted butter; wrap each piece in two slices of prosciutto, then brush again with the
remaining butter. Place on a baking sheet lined with foil and bake for 20 minutes.
Serve immediately over lentils , with parsley sprinkled on top.
Yield: 2 servings.
He did find some approximation of comfort on the artichoke-hued “shabby chic” sofa I purchased the very day we met. It was
big and soft and enveloping, not to mention a perfect vantage point from which to watch dinner being made. On winter Sunday
afternoons, as the sun was going down, Ethan and I would lie there side by side and listen to music. Early on, he had convinced
me to buy a five-CD changer just like his own and had helped me lug it home and build a new set of shelves to house it. The
sofa was the one thing I had that was just right. He liked it so much that he wanted to get a similar one for himself. This
became the weekend activity for a good part of our relationship. Saturday and Sunday afternoons would find us at Macy’s, Crate
& Barrel, Pottery Barn, or Bloomingdale’s looking for a couch as cozy as mine for Ethan to buy for his own apartment.
never returned the call. If you don’t know McGee, let’s just say this is up there with wanting to be an animated dinosaur
and ignoring a text from Steven Spielberg. Jann Wenner, legendary editor and founder of
Rolling Stone,
liked the few profiles Ethan had written for the magazine and wanted to offer him a contract. Instead he decided to leave
magazines and get into television, which granted may have been a better place for him, but what I’m trying to say is that
Ethan took no joy in his accomplishments. Stacey, who was rediscovering her faith, took issue with his reading, as did Hank
(who was in the midst of converting). Me, I was just happy to hear I made Ethan a seder he thought of as his own.
We went to Rome for our first trip together, where I introduced him to my favorite restaurants and took him to some of the
better shops, like Ermenegildo Zegna and J. P. Tod’s. Ethan’s style—which included an appalling leather jacket with some kind
of weird belt attachment before I got my hands on him— received some badly needed improvement under my watch, though I’m afraid
I created a bit of a monster on that front. Ethan spent hours in those stores trying to decide between the blue shirt or the
beige or whether to get the shoes in a forty-four or forty-five—neither ever felt right. He pushed my nerves to the limit
when we missed a hard-won lunch reservation at Il Moro because we spent too much time at a boutique where the salesclerk took
enormous interest in outfitting him from head to toe. “I couldn’t help it. He dressed me up like a little doll!” said Ethan,
who bought almost everything he tried on, including the shoes, which eventually proved to be uncomfortable and remained unworn
when they repatriated to the United States.
His reaction to the shoes was no stunner. Comfort was paramount to Ethan—the elusive thing he was constantly searching for
but couldn’t find. It was what I desperately wanted to give him, if I could only figure out a way to do it. “You don’t know
me!” he’d shout in the voice of an angry old curmudgeon whenever I’d try to suggest something I thought might be good for
him, like insoles or shoe trees. No one slept as poorly as he did, no one’s back or neck hurt as much as his. He was alone
in his creaky body.
I brushed cod in butter like Ben-Gay and wrapped it in prosciutto—just the way Ethan dressed his neck on a particularly stressful
visit to his parents’ home in Tucson.
Orthopedic Cod
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson, The New York Times)
It won’t make Ethan’s neck feel any better, but it is delicious.
2 (6- to 8-ounce) cod fillets
3 tablespoons butter, melted
4 slices prosciutto
1 heaping tablespoon chopped parsley
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Brush the cod fillets with half the melted butter; wrap each piece in two slices of prosciutto, then brush again with the
remaining butter. Place on a baking sheet lined with foil and bake for 20 minutes.
Serve immediately over lentils , with parsley sprinkled on top.
Yield: 2 servings.
He did find some approximation of comfort on the artichoke-hued “shabby chic” sofa I purchased the very day we met. It was
big and soft and enveloping, not to mention a perfect vantage point from which to watch dinner being made. On winter Sunday
afternoons, as the sun was going down, Ethan and I would lie there side by side and listen to music. Early on, he had convinced
me to buy a five-CD changer just like his own and had helped me lug it home and build a new set of shelves to house it. The
sofa was the one thing I had that was just right. He liked it so much that he wanted to get a similar one for himself. This
became the weekend activity for a good part of our relationship. Saturday and Sunday afternoons would find us at Macy’s, Crate
& Barrel, Pottery Barn, or Bloomingdale’s looking for a couch as cozy as mine for Ethan to buy for his own apartment.
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