a. shelasky
In our house, there will be no heart-shaped candies stamped with “I’m Yours” this Sunday. There will be no Enya on the iPod, no bubbles in the bathtub. I will have candles lit, but I always have candles lit.
In my relationship, we don’t really do the traditional Valentine’s Day thing. There are a couple of reasons for this.
First, I’m not a sentimentalist. I don’t save cards or dry flowers. If I didn’t love my ruby engagement ring so much, I might sometimes forget to wear it. I don’t even want a wedding! This doesn’t mean I don’t adore my guy. The charm of Valentine’s Day is just lost on me. Like Ryan Reynolds.
Also, by minimizing the holiday’s relevance, I can kind of…manage expectations. My guy, Spike, is a chef and an owner of the popular burger joint Good Stuff Eatery, in Washington, D.C., but I’m viewing the day as a push for me to cook dinner. I am not Nigella. I am, however, committed to getting better in the kitchen. It’s been over a year of cookbooks, kitchen fires and flops. And while I can’t say cooking is “therapeutic” (we’ll save therapy for Wednesdays at 1), I can finally call the kitchen a comfort zone. As long as it involves Coldplay and a cocktail.
Some background: I’m a 32-year-old writer who lived off cheese sandwiches and cheap wine for much of my adult life. When I met Spike, he had just appeared as a contestant on Season 4 of Top Chef. I only mention this to illustrate why the cooking-illiteracy thing wasn’t working for me. The post-Top Chef foodie events were endless, and the culinary scene really embraced us. After weeks of meeting these cool, quirky, impassioned people, I wanted to hear the music and feel the beat for myself.
Two years later, I’ve discovered some small joys in the kitchen. I’ve grown to respect ingredients and shop seasonally. I collect aprons, make my own sauces and bake a killer chocolate souffle. I have a small-but-growing repertoire of dishes that I work on most nights of the week.
By the way, it’s a myth that chefs are too intimidating to cook for. They just want fresh, unfussy, well-seasoned food. Sometimes they even want Fruit Loops.
For Valentine’s Day, I’m turning to recipes by women who probably also hate Hallmark cards but love love. These are the chicks that inspire me when I feel nothing like Julie or Julia. As far as the menu, it will come down to my usual mantra: Find something scrumptious that I can’t screw up.
So far I’ve had tons of luck with the recipes from Giulia Melucci’s book I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti. I brought her book to Greece this summer and only put it down once—the night Spike and I got engaged.
This Sunday, I plan to make Melucci’s Mache, Pomegranate and Pecan Salad:
1 pomegranate
½ teaspoon sugar
½ teaspoon red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup mache
2 tablespoons chopped pecans, toasted
Salt and pepper to taste
Cut the pomegranate in half crosswise and remove seeds from one half; juice the other with a citrus juicer or reamer as you would an orange. In a small saucepan, simmer juice, sugar and vinegar until it reduces to about 2 tablespoons, then cool to room temperature. Divide dressing between two salad plates and drizzle with oil. Divide mache, pecans and reserved seeds between plates and season with salt and pepper.
Serves 2.
I promised myself I would try something from Gael Greene’s book Insatiable. Her recipes are a bit intricate but she’s so lustful and animalistic about her men, how can I leave her off the V-day menu? After all, this is the woman who recently tweeted this.
I’m going with her Lemon Yogurt Grilled Leg of Lamb. Spike will help with this one since I’m still a little entree-phobic. We cook with a lot of Mediterranean flavors, and lamb always sounds lovely and impressive.
I’ll serve the lamb with my special couscous. Here’s what you need: A box of couscous, feta cheese and seasonal vegetables. To roast the veggies, cut them nice and small, spread on a baking sheet, sprinkle with olive oil and salt, and bake for about 45 minutes. Break the feta into small cubes. Once the veggies are done, make the couscous (it takes 10 minutes and is idiot-proof). Combine everything. It’s best served hot, but decent cold, too.
If I have time, I’ll bake these flatbreads from Gwyneth Paltrow’s blog, Goop. Many people find her website pretentious, but I’m a fan. And since I’ll be fantasizing about her husband while I knead the dough, it’s only fair that I make one of her recipes. The plan is to make these in advance, but that might defeat the fresh-off-the-grill thrill. We’ll see how I feel over the weekend.
Last but not least: Dessert, my true love. I come from a long generation of sweet freaks. My mother has had a Devil Dog every day of her life, and my sister once almost got us arrested over Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. (I should note that no one in my family usually eats fried, processed or fast food; sweets are our only atrocious eating habit.)
I’m obsessed with Amy Sedaris’ cookbook I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence and am going to make a recipe from a chapter called “The Cavity Hole.” I chose carrot cake because I’ve never made one before, it’s my favorite, it looks doable and I can use the nuts on top to spell out something romantic (or raunchy). I’ll bake this early Sunday morning, my favorite time to tinker around.
Apron fastened and ready. I’ll let you know how it goes. I still feel too cool for Cupid, but I will say this: A certain somebody, who occasionally smells like French fries, better bring roses.
