The Checkout

Probably the only good thing that came out of my very bad marriage was a lasting friendship with his sister, Melissa. Well that, and the catering. For years after he lost his food business to drugs and alcohol, I continued cooking, as we had done together, with a tiny business of my own...so tiny that it never had a name, and I never printed a business card, and I barely spoke about it, except to complain about how damn hard it was to be cleaning shrimp at midnight for some corporate lunch I had going out the next day. I could not have an employee since I found it impossible to tell anyone what to do... and still can’t. This left the entire burden of the operation on my shoulders, always aching after a workday. Even with the intense labor involved, it was way better than having a real job. I don’t understand how anyone can go to an office. Just the idea of sitting at a desk all day sends me into a kind of panic. I had a summer job in high school working as a low-level secretary in a publishing house, mostly doing filing and running errands. I vowed when it was over that I would never ever do anything like that again. I would rather die a thousand deaths.

But about Melissa. She may be my most successful friend. I like to think of the people in my life this way...smartest, funniest, prettiest, most generous. Somehow using these categories helps me stay a little calmer and sleep a little better rather than having all the friends swirl around in my mind willy-nilly, which is way too dizzying. Melissa went to law school and worked her way up the ladder from clerk to partner to judge. I think that’s as far as you go in the world of law. While she was still at her fancy firm I catered their Christmas parties. It was an event with about 60 people, and each year it almost killed me, but by the time the next Christmas came around I’d forgotten what it was like, and did it again. The best part of prepping these parties was the time we spent together deciding on a theme.

In 2007 the theme was ‘Christmas in Italy’. There would be no traditional ham/turkey/cranberry sauce, but instead, cioppino/veal marsala/insalata caprese, and...(tell me it ain’t so) risotto milanesa, plus endless desserts... amaretto cheesecake/pine nut tarts/biscotti/cannoli. Most of the sweets I could get pre-made, but the risotto... I tried to explain to her about risotto. It simply wouldn’t travel well. The thing about catering is this...not only do you have to choose carefully what you will make for its decorative possibilities, its good taste, and its general popularity, but also and maybe most importantly, for its mobility. Things like fettucini alfredo or baked Alaska will be pure disaster if moved from one location to another. You will alternately get a block of congealed pasta, a brick of starch, and anything involving ice cream will get you an unrecognizable puddle of creamy stuff you’ll need to throw out immediately. But Melissa had risotto on her intractable Italian menu, and I finally acquiesced…realizing why she was such a good lawyer. I figured I’d just cross the risotto bridge when I came to it.

About lists. The first thing I do when I get up each morning is write down all things I have to do that day (and a list of things that are scary enough to put off until tomorrow). These days with my various devices I can keep a written list, a list on the computer, and a separate list on the phone. I can decide what time the list will appear to jog me into action during the day, and I can add a little sound, like a ring or a bark, to get my attention. In 2002 I just used a paper and pencil and it worked out fine...little slips of paper I’d cross stuff off, add stuff to, and transfer to another piece of paper when the items got done or didn’t. I still like the writing on paper...something I can tear up or scribble on, just like I’d do with a drawing. This list was long and complicated. Some of the food had to be purchased at a little Italian deli in Santa Monica. I guess Los Angeles has no Italians and a dearth of resources for getting supplies for that particular cuisine. I can find things like ricotta or fresh basil, but almond biscotti you have to hunt down.

The party was scheduled for December 17th, so all my shopping happened when every single other human being was out shopping too. The stores were jammed, the freeways were jammed, my head was jammed. I was making progress, doing my best to prep things that I could freeze, like bread. I make the best seeded long skinny loaves of whole wheat bread...these went into the freezer immediately. The final shopping trip happened on December 13, and it was to Costco. I was saving it for last because I knew it would be utterly frightening. Costco is always overwhelming, but at Christmas time it’s hell. The morning of the trip I had my list in on hand, my credit card in the other, but was in such a state of agitation I realized I better say a tiny prayer before I left the house. “God..or whoever, please come with me. I’m so scared. Please protect me. Stay close.” I rattled this off with no expectation of grace. I figured whoever was in charge was busy with other people’s more serious issues. I got there and found a place at the other end of the parking lot which was almost completely filled. I got my giant cart and started in. I know that store like the back of my hand. Over to dairy for eggs, cheese, cream. On to meat and fish for veal, shellfish, beef, and clam broth. Over to produce for Campari tomatoes, arugula, garlic, onions, red seedless grapes, herbs for garnish. Up around the back for a bag of arborio rice (yes, they carry it), olive oil, capers. Down to booze for a bottle of Marsala. The cart was piled high with stuff just like everyone else’s. My temper frayed, my attitude deteriorating, my contempt for other shoppers rising. I realized that Costco was the American museum. People wandered around staring at coffeemakers and giant bags of cashews the way they would look at a Van Gogh or a Picasso. Costco was the CULTURE-FREE MUSEUM!

I wheeled my big full cart of crap up to the front. I looked around at the other carts filled with hams, sides of beef, vacuum cleaners, VCR’s. It was disgusting, and it was moving mighty slow. My head filled with dark clouds and deep scorn. Then I heard a little voice. It was faint, almost soundless. “we’re all in this together” it said. I started laughing at that long line of contemptible people with their giant carts filled with ridiculous stuff. I got a few odd stares, but who cares? That was the voice of God or whoever, reminding me of something. I was no different. We were all doing our awful Christmas shopping not wanting to be there, feeling gloomy and impatient. I paid, got out of there, brought it all home and started on the final days of preparation for the party. My heart was lighter. My cooking was easier. I could do this!

The day of the party was long...packing everything, getting downtown to the office at 9 AM. Setting it up with Christmas lights and fancy bowls and pretty garnishes. The risotto...oh the risotto...it did not travel well. I found a hot plate and and started adding cream to the pot trying to break up the solid mass over low heat. More cream...more parmesan...at least it was warm. People loved everything, but the comment that I recall about the risotto was ‘What is this? Mashed potato?’ Somehow it didn’t bother me. I mean...we’re all in it together.