Note:As I was putting the finishing touches on this post last night, we had another power dip, and that one lasted: For the rest of the night, our lights were so dim that it felt like we were at the bus depot; the fluorescent lights in the kitchen and bathroom would not light at all; the fans and the air conditioner merely purred but did not seem to cool or circulate any air; and the cable modem went down for good. This is the situation we found ourselves in again this morning, which is why I’m finally sending this en route to work. Our local newsweasels are now broadcasting advisories from Consolidated Edison to conserve, particularly in northwest Queens—that would include Astoria, kids—because usage is so high. Of course I’m a big fan of conservation, and I’ll do my part to avoid a blackout, but I still can’t help but feel a bit churlish, for we’ve been told to stay away from “nonessential” usage like lights and air conditioners. I realize that part of the problem in our neighborhood comes from aged feeder cables, and the beating they’re taking with increased power usage, but I still want to ask Con Ed if they plan to have a talk with the big chain stores on Fifth Avenue, near Rockefeller Center, who seem to consider meat-locker levels of air conditioning their due. There’s something about walking by a Build-a-Friend or a Gap that actually opens its doors to let the cold air wash over passing pedestrians, and then going home to an apartment where the air doesn’t move and the lights only just work, only to be told that the problem lies with us, not them, is a wee bit galling.
And yes, apparently Billy Idol is writing heds for me now. So sue me. Unless you are Billy Idol, of course. If you are Billy Idol, please do not sue me.
If tonight’s post comes in fits and starts, dear friends, it’s because our power is coming in fits and starts, too. We are having brownouts, nothing to fully knock our power out, but rather little cycles where everything winds down for a second, only to start up again with slightly less juice. By all means, it beats completely losing the power, but it’s still pretty exhausting, especially after a ride home on an N train with no air conditioning whatsoever. Our living room lights are considerably dimmer than usual, casting a sepia tone over the books and furniture. Normally I find this kind of low warm light soothing, a throwback to the days when people would hunker down and tell each other stories all night long, but tonight such romantic visions are wearing thin quickly. Tonight I finally understand what Cole Porter meant about too darn hot.
For the first time in my life, it has actually been Too Darn Hot for cooking, too. It’s a phrase I’ve heard repeatedly throughout my life, and until tonight, I didn’t really understand it. Sure, I’ve known nights where I know that an hour in the kitchen is not my idea of fun, but even on a scorcher of an evening, I had no problem with turning on the stove for a few minutes. I’ve always thought that ten minutes of boiling water is a short price to pay for pasta salad, especially if you make enough to have leftovers for three days. A decent omelet with herbs takes only a few minutes, and you never have to crank the heat high enough to assume that slaving-over-a-hot-stove posture that one often gets while, say, boiling up ten pounds of bones for stock, or making custard. If you are lucky, you have some leftover meat or tofu lying around in your fridge, and with a little batch of watercress and some cucumber and tomato, you need not apply heat to anything; all you need to do is assemble. Yes, yes, yes, fine, fine, fine—but the time will come. There is a day out there, a day for each and every happy cook in the land, that is the equivalent of the bullet with your name on it. Do not fight it when it finds you. Respect it. There is no shame in knowing your limits.
In fairness, I’d probably be coping better if I had a few tomatoes in the kitchen, but it’s still a bit early in season for the best of the tomatoes. I find this to be a cruel and baffling joke on nature’s part, to drop on us and our neigbors the sort of air that feels like you’ve put on a wet sweater the instant you step outside, but you still can’t get a nice juicy tomato with some oomph to it for three more weeks. At the fruit and vegetable market in my neighborhood I can get grape tomatoes, trucked from Florida and Texas to the wholesaler’s market at Hunts Point in the Bronx. They’re nice enough, and pretty good in salads, but they’re not what I need right now. I am off my game right now, but I know in my heart of hearts that the right tomato will fix me up sharpish. With the right tomato I can have tomato and mozzarella salad; tomato and mozzarella sandwiches; hollowed-out tomatoes filled with shrimp salad; or checkerboard salad, a magnificent pasta creation from Rozanne Gold’s Recipes 1-2-3 that consists solely of diced tomatoes, cubed ricotta salata and orzo, mixed together while the pasta is still hot, salted and peppered and left to cool to room temperature, when it assumes otherworldly levels of flavor and beauty. I can have the cornbread thing, the single nicest combination of corn and tomatoes ever to come from my kitchen. I can even have the genuine article, a sliced tomato touched by nothing but a little salt. To have all this, though, you need the right tomato, and tonight, I don’t have it.
That’s okay, I told myself upon debarking from the hottest N train in the history of New York City Transit. We’ll have sandwiches. The Italian deli in my neighborhood sells a very nice chicken salad for $5.49 a pound. I’ll get a baguette, maybe a little butter lettuce, we’ll be laughing.
Like fun we will. Everybody in my neighborhood has had the same idea. No more chicken salad, no more baguettes. I think about something else I made last year, a pasta dish made with spaghetti, a New York strip steak, cherry tomatoes and a buttermilk salad dressing. I pick up a pound of dried spaghetti, and the realization drops down upon me like water off a tarp during a rainstorm: You’re going to have to boil water and *cook* this stuff. You’re going to have to heat up that big-ass cast-iron griddle. Is this really want you want to do tonight? Everybody on the street looks weatherbeaten, vacant and malevolent. The neighborhood has turned into Carnival of Souls. For a split second I contemplate what I would be doing for dinner if I were just cooking for myself, not for two. If I were on my own, I would be eating my own body weight in fruit. That bag of nectarines? Those Haitian mangoes you can smell from half a block away? The watermelon half on ice? I would take them all home and suck them dry until I could feel proper fluid and vitamin levels restoring themselves. I wouldn’t need some fancy-pants chef to teach me how to vacuum-pack watermelon under pressure until it assumes the texture of steak. I could do it myself, just through sheer desire and force of will. Could I get Lloyd to join me in this enterprise? Probably not. There must be a middle ground somewhere.
When I get home, I announce to Lloyd, “I will pay you eleventy billion dollars if we can get Thai takeout tonight.” I have offered Lloyd eleventy billion dollars so many times over the course of our marriage that I’m pretty sure I’m in for $110 trillion at this point. Good sport that he is, Lloyd says yes. Hallelujah. Hooray for my fellow man. I go out and get us each a little tray of steamed dumplings, beef in tamarind sauce for Lloyd and a bowl of seafood salad in glass noodles, filled with shrimp and calamari and shredded chicken and onions and peanuts and lime juice and vinegar and fish sauce and the most sinus-clearing, palate-ravaging, incendiary chilies allowable by law, for me. In a day or two, the heat will break; in a week or two, the tomatoes will arrive in quantity; for now, though, I have something that will get me through the night, even if it does cause no small amount of pain to eat it. (The blackberry sorbet I picked up at the health food store helps matters, too.) It’s not a nosedive into watermelon, but it’s still a comfort on a night where comfort will be hard to come by.