The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [80]
“Well, can’t giving gifts be sort of similar to acts of service?” I asked. I moved on to the pate, spreading it onto the remainder of the cracker that I’d just eaten part of with Brie.
“How so?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m thinking of cooking something really special for someone—which is kind of like a gift, in a way. But it’s also ... a meal, or necessity, too. Right?” I said.
Ellen shrugged. “I guess so. You should read the book. I’ll lend you my copy when I’m done.”
My cousin Zoe arrived as we were finishing the last of the cooking. Zoe lived in New York City and was in her first year of residency as a doctor, so she wasn’t able to travel upstate in time to make it to her parents’ Thanksgiving dinner. She almost couldn’t make it to ours. We had thought that her brother, Elliot, who also lived in the city, was spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend’s family. Then at five o’clock we got a call from Elliot, who was driving down the New Jersey Turnpike with his girlfriend, Meredith. What exit were we? he asked.
“What? What?” my mom sputtered. “Elliot and Meredith are coming?”
“Yeah, they should be here in about twenty minutes,” Chris said as he hung up the phone.
“Guess we should bring out the extra leaf for the table,” said my dad.
“Do we have enough food?” My mom panicked.
“Of course we have enough food,” I told her. Aside from the basics—turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and green beans—I was braising some Brussels sprouts in white wine and shallots and roasting a root-vegetable medley with celeriac and sweet potatoes, my dad was making an acorn squash dish he’d seen on a cooking show, and we had five—yes, five—pies, which were baked the night before with the help of Phoebe and Chris.
Okay, maybe we could use some more potatoes. I got started on boiling more potatoes to add to the mound already keeping warm in the oven. When the garbage disposal clogged with potato peels and whatever else had been in the sink before them, Chris was called upon to get on his back on the floor, unscrew the pipes beneath the sink, and scoop out the mess. That was another thing he was good at: fixing just about every mechanical and technical issue the family encountered.
There was a full crowd seated around the dinner table when it came time to eat. With Elliot and Meredith, there were nine of us total, not much smaller than our family Thanksgivings in years past. We served the food in the kitchen, buffet style, and we all carried our plates to the table. Our group was small enough, though, for everyone to hear the same conversation at once. Compliments on the food went around the table as we ate and talked. At one point, Elliot asked me how my blog was going, and how long I was going to keep writing it. I told him that I didn’t intend to stop anytime soon.
“That’s seriously amazing,” Elliot said, after I confirmed that I’d keep not eating out as a general rule. Elliot had grown up in Manhattan, and he probably cooked for himself the least out of all the people that I knew
“Come on, don’t you ever want to cheat every once in a while?” he asked.
I nodded. “But it’s weird ... ,” I went on. “Even when I do, it’s like, I can’t even imagine doing something like ordering out. If I’m really in the mood for something, it’s usually for something I can make, like a simple steak, or a bowl of noodles or something. I think about how quickly it can be ready on a plate. It’s like I’ve forgotten how other food tastes or something. I don’t know”
This was something that I couldn’t quite explain at the time, but I think my palate had changed a little. I didn’t crave restaurant food anymore the way I used to. Even though the temptation was always near, I’d prefer something home cooked to takeout