Salty-Sweet Memory Lane

I like sports. In high school I played volleyball, basketball, softball and tennis. Add to that the crazy Hallie Berry-inspired haircut I got senior year, and yes, I was practically a boy.

Because of the nonstop practices, scrimmages and games, I could pretty much snack on whatever I liked without worrying where it would end up. Hips? Thighs? No worries. Not only did I celebrate this BIG time, I also had a knack for choosing the worst snack food pairings.

Almost every day, I had a Twix and Sprite after practice. In between classes, Airheads were my sugar high of choice. Oh, and the Pop Tarts. Those magical, addictive flavors they created. It's a miracle I'm not diabetic.

I think I may have mentioned this, but Husband and I actually met in school. Grade school. But it wasn't until high school that we became great friends. We did everything together and ran everything by each other. Yes, he was secretly in love with me. Yes, I was too daft to get it.

Once spring came around, I would try to go to all of his baseball games. You know, to spend my free time on the bleachers. Wildly routing him on. In the cold/wind/rain/heat. As a "friend".  This could have been a case study in Denial. I digress.

Before the game I would pit stop to pick up my favorite counterintuitive snack: Pre-bottled Starbucks' Frappuchino and Salt-and-Vinegar Chips. I know. What sounds like a twisted pregnancy craving to most still seems totally appealing to me. Something about the caffeine, ungodly amounts of sugar and tangy vinegar brought me to another level of contentedness.

I'm a firm believer that we know ourselves better than anyone does and deep down we know exactly what we need and when we need it. Trusting ourselves enough to embrace it is another thing entirely.

Back then, I didn't need a boyfriend. I needed a bleacher seat, a sweatshirt, my crazy snack and a best friend who could appreciate that. And he did.

Salt and Vinegar Potato Salad
(Courtest of Epicurious)
Serves 12

1 large red onion, cut lengthwise into 1/3-inch-wide wedges and layers separated

1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons cider vinegar

2 teaspoons salt

5 lb medium yellow-fleshed potatoes such as Yukon Gold

2 to 2 1/2 teaspoons Old Bay seasoning

1 1/4 teaspoons sugar

3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1. Toss together onion, 2 tablespoons vinegar, and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a bowl. Marinate at room temperature, tossing occasionally, until slightly softened and pink, about 45 minutes.

2. Cover potatoes with salted cold water in a 5- to 6-quart pot, then simmer, uncovered, until just tender, 15 to 20 minutes. While potatoes cook, whisk together 2 teaspoons Old Bay seasoning with sugar, remaining 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and remaining 1/2 cup vinegar in a small bowl.

3. Drain potatoes in a colander, and when cool enough to handle but still warm, peel and cut into 1/2-inch-wide wedges. Toss warm potatoes with vinegar mixture in a large bowl. Add onion mixture and oil, tossing to combine. Add more Old Bay seasoning (to taste) if desired. Serve warm or at room temperature.

It all starts here

Growing up, I knew absolutely nothing about cooking. That’s not to say that our house was void of delicious things to eat. Quite the opposite, actually. I had the gustatory pleasure of growing up in an Italian-American family, with matriarchs ‘throwing together’ a red sauce and slinging fresh zeppoles as easily as if they were placing an order for takeout. The effortlessness at the stove was inspirational. I remember when I began asking for the recipes for some of my favorite dishes. My mother never knew them. My grandmother would fire off vague instructions. At one point, the evasive responses prompted me to think that they were keeping the saliva-inducing secrets of their culture to themselves, as a sort of Sisterhood of the Traveling Ravioli.

My mother was and is the ultimate caregiver. She relished the role of wife and mom in a way that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to. She never asked for help; never called me over to the pot to see what she was creating. She was in her zone. One time I sidled up to her as she was frying meatballs. “How much onion do you use?” I asked. “Not too much,” was her response. “How do you know when they’re finished?” I pushed. “It doesn’t take too long,” she countered. This was my ominous culinary training—a red flag if there ever was one.

Fast forward a decade only to find myself starting college and dating my first boyfriend (now husband), Brian, with only scrambled eggs and cookies on my recipe resume. The eggs were a necessity. That was my breakfast of choice at the time, and cracking an egg into a pan is a fast and cheap way for a freshman to eat. The cookie skills, however, were the spawn of a torrid love affair I have with carbs. Sweet carbs. The chocolate-covered, peanut butter-laced kind. These random dishes needed friends. I was dating someone who never said no to a plate of food, regardless of what was on it. I needed to feed that ravenous, passionate hunger of his and cooking seemed like the easiest way to impress.

One complicated internet search later, I came up with the perfect anniversary dinner.

I would make. From scratch. "Scratch" was a revolutionary and frightful idea back then.

This menu struck the balance between elegant and doable. As I type this, I cringe.

But, hindsight is always 20/20.

Anniversary Menu

Steamed Flounder with Carrots and Broccoli

White Rice

Salad

Heart-Shaped Chocolate Cake

I went to my family’s local fish market, a sleepy little place with plenty of fresh, Long Island catch, to pick up the flounder. Stop & Shop provided the rest, including the box of Betty Hines cake mix. At home, I started furiously prepping, waiting until the last minute to pull the fish from the back of the refrigerator—the icy, cold part that kept it…icy and cold. As the fish was baking, with the vegetables and lemon juice, in the Reynold’s aluminum foil (so simple, so delicious!), I attacked the layer cake, attempting to shape it into a heart, freehand. The clean curves of the heart—and my heart, literally on that plate—began to come undone, crumbling down onto the plate, with the still-warm cake shifting to one side. I quickly melted chocolate in the microwave to create a fix-all “ganache” frosting. I’m a genius, I thought.

As we sit down to eat, with the candles lit, I’m glowing at how brilliantly I’ve pulled this off. This is the meal when he realizes that he can’t live without me. This is the meal that goes through his stomach to his heart.

Brian digs in to his flounder and his fork stands straight up, at attention. The thin, delicate fillet, carefully preserved in the coldest part of the refrigerator, is completely raw in the center. I unravel. While Brian tries to console me, putting back into the oven, I dig into the cake hoping for solace. “This was supposed to be perfectttt,” I whine. He continues saying sweet things, like how delicious the undercooked rice is, and aims for some comic relief. “Don’t worry, little Emeril. Everything’s perfect.” And it was.