The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [91]
I no longer thought about Ben specifically these days so much as I felt a lack of some other entity, a confidant, someone to help pull along the weight of every day. This new sense of independence was compounded by the fact that I had no roommates. I had never before entertained this option in all the time I’d been in New York-mostly because I didn’t think I could afford it. Even back when I was living with Erin, which seemed so long ago but was only a little over a year, sharing tight corners and trying to squeeze in personal peace and quiet now and then just seemed the natural course of living in the city. But here I was, in my apartment all to myself. And here, too, I would be cooking for one.
I remembered what my mom had said in the car when we were driving to the airport in California, and how confident she had been about my new living situation. This was a far cry from the mother who had told me almost four years ago, when I first moved to the city, that roommates were, if nothing else, watch keepers of one’s life. They would be the ones to call if you got locked out; they were the key contact if anything should happen to you. Now she was saying something else. It had never occurred to me before that I might be doing myself a favor by living alone, or that I could have been depriving myself of some room for personal growth otherwise, much like I had stuffed all my old sketchbooks, musical instruments, and reams of writing tablets into a box at the tippy top of my packed closet, out of reach. Maybe I really would be better off, more productive, by not being around others all the time. I think that’s what she and Jo-Jo meant when she said it would be good for me.
At the bar that night, instead of being stimulated by the prospect of meeting someone, I found myself thinking about how lame most of the city’s male population was. It was sad, really, the way the drunkards had all sat around in big groups, staring down all-too-aware-of-this females and knocking back beers until they were loud and giggly. Maybe this wasn’t so bad or unusual; maybe I was just seeing guys in a dull light right then and it would take a real diamond in the rough to change my point of view.
I rode past another bar on my way home and glanced at a crowd of smokers hanging out by the entrance. There were three scruffy dudes shivering in the cold in sweaters, corduroy jackets, and ripped jeans. I summed them up pretty quickly and suddenly felt gripped with a conviction: Whoever I was going to date next-whenever that would be—would have nothing to do with these types of overeducated, overly taste-conscious, regular losers and persnickety coffee-shop jerks. The type who fetishized some sort of hardscrabble New York lifestyle, barely making rent on tip wages while their parents back in some other state probably had enough money to buffer them, or at least buy them a winter coat.
Well, it turned out I was wrong.
Roasted Green Pepper and Tomato Dip (Taktouka Salad)
This dish was taught at the La Maison Arabe cooking class in Marrakesh, Morocco. It can be served warm, room temperature, or cold, and it can be eaten with bread as a dip or simply alone as a side.
(SERVES 2-3)
2 large green bell peppers
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 heaping teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
3 large ripe tomatoes, cored, peeled, and finely chopped
Holding each bell pepper with tongs, blacken all sides of its surface over an open flame from a gas oven. Alternately, the peppers can be placed on a sheet and broiled on each side, or baked at 500 degrees, until their skin has crisped and blackened. Place peppers into individual plastic bags and close