Also, I have been witnessed crying at the
end of “Bones” episodes. I’ll even own up to my celebrity crushes: I go for the older guys, often in younger roles: Bill Nighy,
David Tennant and David Straithern, lovely and naked as a jaybird in
“The Return of the Secaucus Seven.” Yep, Kevin Bacon, too.
This is why
I was so confused at my ever-so-guilty reaction to the package of American cheese
I found in the refrigerator of my new home when I bought it last summer.
In
purchasing the house from people who were making a long-distance move I became
the beneficiary of a range of items they didn’t take with them—some exquisite
Italian linens, thirsty bath towels that came in handy those first few nights
when I couldn’t find where I’d packed my own. I also inherited some leftover
foodstuffs: cornstarch and confectioner’s sugar, jars of yeast and capers,
fancy coffee beans and rice wine vinegar. And a tempting package of sliced
American cheese.
I had
become very self-conscious about my not-quite-really-a-vegetarian approach to
food. And I still cook carefully,
conscientiously, making sure to cut down on fat, ration the use of eggs, buy organic,
local—the whole schtick.
But when I go out to a diner and
order a tuna melt I always hope the waitress just assumes my cheese choice and
doesn’t pose the weighty question “Swiss, cheddar or American?” because I don’t
want to have to proffer my low-brow, guilty-pleasure answer.
Then, all
of a sudden, here I was with a whole package in my brand-new refrigerator in my
brand-new house. Like the delicious Italian sheets and pillowcases, I wasn’t
expecting such bounty. And unlike with the linens, I wanted to but couldn’t
quite let myself indulge. During those first few days in the house, I was miles
away from making a tuna melt.
Instead, I
made an exquisite ratatouille. I peeled and sliced the eggplant, salted it and
left it to drain. I peeled the tomatoes and sautéed them with onions, garlic,
thyme and bay till just slightly thickened. I sautéed peppers, then zucchini,
then the eggplant, each in turn, adding them to the tomato sauce, the way you
do with a well-made ratatouille. I squeezed lemon juice on the finished dish
and covered it with a chiffonade of basil, fresh from the garden. I warmed up
some French bread and made a dipping sauce of tarragon-infused olive oil. Then,
hoping no one was watching too closely, I peeled off a tempting slice—no, two tempting slices--of American cheese,
tore them into bits and watched as they melted, gooey and luscious, into my
perfectly-crafted plate of ratatouille. Obviously I didn’t need to add any
extra salt.
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| Frette Bed Linens |
The next
night I vowed to be more abstemious. I decided to grill a Vidalia onion and a
Portobello mushroom cap, serving them atop a bed of arugula, lightly dressed
with some picholine olive oil, a drizzle of violet balsamic vinegar and a
palm’s worth of snipped chives. Then, right as I sat down to eat, like a woman
in a trance, I headed for the refrigerator, peeled off—that’s right—two slices of American cheese, tore them
into bits and watched as they melted, gooey and luscious, into my perfectly
grilled mushroom dish.
It was
clear to me then I had no self-control. My processed, packaged, pre-sliced
cheese jones was getting the better of me. Already I was thinking how nice it
would be to chop up some bits and toss them with popcorn as a bedtime snack
while I watched a couple of episodes of “Arrested Development.”
What was
happening? Where had I misplaced my couth? And what about my blood pressure?
I vowed I
could do better. I threw out the cheese. I took a hot soak in my tub and dried
off in my thirsty towels before lowering myself into my luscious sheets. I’ll
get by, I’m sure. But summer is coming again.
And I
remember how good it is top perfectly healthy ratatouille with that shroud of melting,
fake and tasty wonder!
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