Slim to None Read online

  Thus my current dilemma. I’m at Saint Patrick’s for Sunday services, listening to the sermon. Father Kerrigan is talking about sacrifice, about what we as humans must do to sacrifice for our God. And I can only focus on the food I’m sacrificing. It’s been eight days now and all I can think about, morning, noon and night is my lack of white food. I need carbs. And in about seven minutes I have to decide if I’m supposed to give up the symbolic Christ because that communion wafer is calling my name. And I’m hungry. And dammit, I want my communion wafer! I love those things. It’s always been one of the high points of church, the melty, bland but salty, slightly tangy but not, goodness of the things. Am I supposed to sacrifice my communion wafer for the greater good of all diets, simply because it’s the wrong color? Or is the Higher Power picture more important. I’m not sure if I want to take my chances. Forty years from now (God-willing) I’m at the pearly gates and Saint Peter gives me a thumbs-down because I refused the sacrament because it contained carbohydrates?

  "But it was my sacrifice," I’ll insist to his menacing scowl. "Just like Jesus gave up all of those things for us men and for our salvation, remember that line? We say it every week at church, remember? So I figured since Father Kerrigan was talking about sacrifice, it was code, some secret message from God that I had to give up the communion wafer!"

  And then I would tumble in a dizzying spiral, Hell-bound, all for not taking communion. I can’t risk it.

  The truth is, not only do I want my communion wafer (and I’m gonna have it, I’ll show you, low carb!), but I want mine with a dollop of goat cheese topped with this fabulous homemade balsamic black pepper strawberry jam I put up last spring during strawberry season. That would be the best way to eat it, now that I think about it.

  And since I’m on a roll, and it is Sunday, and Sunday is a day of rest, doesn’t that mean I’m entitled to rest and relaxation? And rest and relaxation to me means fixing up a lovely Sunday supper. And I just thought of two things that are white that I can eat! Crabmeat and chicken. And I’ve got just the recipe.

  I make a couple of stops on the way home from church to collect up the vital ingredients. When I get back William is downstairs in our unfinished basement tinkering with one of his motorcycles. My eyes scan the dimly-lit room with the battleship-gray floors and cinderblock walls. The room is so contrary to the type of space with which I like to surround myself, with no windows, feeling imprisoned all day. But to William this is his haven. He’s working on his favorite bike, a 1968 baby blue Lambretta Lui, which he’s nursed back to health after previous owner-abuse. He loves this motor scooter so much that I’m not sure which is William’s top priority, his Lammy, me or Cognac. Or me on top of the Lammy with William. Nah, that would definitely not work well, at least not these days.

  Judging by the way he’s caressing the manifold, well, honestly, I wouldn’t even know if the thing has a manifold. It just sounds like the right thing for him to be caressing. Far better than a womanfold, at any rate. God, he wouldn’t caress some woman’s manifold, would he? William looks up at me from over his goggles. I guess he was tinkering with something blinding, and felt the need for protective eye gear. Sometimes I feel badly that I don’t share William’s interest in hogs (and maybe it’s presumptuous to call a scooter a hog). I know to him it’s just as pleasurable as food is to me. Call me crazy, but give me a roasted pig in a spit any day over a hog in a Harley shop. Although actually, I’ve asked William to stay out of the Harley business, because I can’t abide the noise of the things.

  But his scooters are sort of fun. I prefer the hot pink Vespa he’s got tucked away in the corner of his workshop. He bought it for me last year. But I never had the heart to tell him it’s too small for me. So I’ve made every excuse in the book to avoid mounting the thing, unless I can rest some of my weight against the wall or something equally supportive while balanced atop it. I’m afraid the tires will pop on me. Now that would be embarrassing.

  I know, I know. Isn’t this all the more reason to lose weight? You avoid doing things with your husband because your weight gets in the way (better than it getting in the weigh). I’ll tell you a little secret: I’d love to hop on that little pink Vespa and take off. Somewhere. Anywhere. I’d feel like Vespa Barbie, all sexy and blond (although I’m not blond, but maybe I’d dye my hair for the occasion). Of course I can’t tell William that, because I’d then have to tell him the bigger truth: that the Vespa and I are inherently incompatible.

  I was just thinking about something. How funny it would be for William and me to tool down the streets together in our baby blue and hot pink scooters! We’d look like a movable baby shower where you didn’t know the sex of the baby-to-be! Of course this only serves to remind me of that gigantic diaper-clad hundred pound Baby Huey in the middle of my household. We’ve had no further discussions about our prior discussion. The one I refused to discuss.

  "Whatcha doing?" I ask William, questioning the obvious.

  "I’m having problems with this piston."

  "Is it pistoning you off? Get it?"

  William rolls his eyes—even though he’s got goggles on, I can see it. But that’s okay, because he often rolls his eyes at me. Usually in an affectionate way. But now, I’m not so sure.

  "How was church?"

  "Very church-like. The incense and candles smelled good. Shame they don’t have a high-protein communion wafer yet. I bet they do in L.A."

  "Okay, then," he changes the subject, ignoring my wit. What’ve you got going for the rest of the day?"

  "I thought about going to the gym but it is a day of rest and I thought I’d tinker around in the kitchen for awhile, see what I come up with." Cognac comes over and I scratch his ears and give him a big kiss on the forehead.

  "Nothing white on the menu, right?"

  "Nope, nothing white. Wait, I lied. The chicken is white meat, and the crab is, of course white."

  "Great. Let me know if you need me for anything."

  "Toodle-oo!"

  I wander off toward the kitchen, wondering about the dispassionate tone to that offer.

  I set to work on my Sunday dinner masterpiece. First, rinsing the chicken breasts, patting them dry, and cubing into bite-sized pieces. I pick through the jumbo lump crabmeat, knowing that there will be plenty of crab shells despite the fact that I paid top dollar to avoid them.

  Next I grate the cheeses with my food processor. What an invention! Saves me hours of work.

  I heat up a couple of tablespoons of peanut oil in the wok, quickly stir-frying the chicken on high, then stir in chicken broth and a few other flavorings, then set them aside to assemble the ingredients in a baking dish.

  Now comes the time-consuming work of building my phyllo feast. Phyllo dough, the gossamer of the food world, requires deft handling. Can’t be too cold or too warm. Can’t be exposed to air or it flakes to bits. And so I peel off one sheet at a time and spread it out on the counter, covering the roll with a damp towel, quickly brushing melted butter across it. I build layer upon layer and then pop it into the oven.

  I light some romantic candles on the table and put Michael Bublé on the stereo for a little mood music. I’ve pulled out the fancy Villeroy and Boch china and the Baccarat crystal—seldom used relics acquired during our traveling days of yore. Because I am avoiding all things white, I use the burgundy tablecloth instead of the usual ecru linen one. And I’ve instead opened a bottle of a one of our favorite Brunellos. A little food critic rebellion of sorts. I hope it doesn’t overpower a dish for which white wine would seem a natural, but I think with the strength of the gruyere cheese, we’ll be okay. Plus, William prefers reds, and my goal really is to please him with this lovely dinner.

  I ring the dinner bell, and William comes up from the basement and washes the grease off of his hands with pumice soap we keep in the task sink. He peels off his coveralls to reveal his blue jeans
and a black t-shirt. He looks like a high-end grease monkey, with that contrasting banker/biker boy charm. I love that about him.

  "Dinner smells great!" He smiles at me and I know all will be right with us.

  We sit down and I cut into my "casserole" and I serve William a large portion. I dish out a helping of the token salad I threw in at the last minute, thinking a salad isn’t such a bad idea for a dieter. The creamy poppy seed dressing and the caramelized walnuts probably offer a lot of protein as well.

  He takes a bit of the entrée and his eyes grow wider with each chew.

  "Honey, I thought you said you were avoiding everything white?"

  I nod my head and take a bite, savoring the heavenly blending of ingredients that is melting on my tongue. "I am."

  He takes his fork and begins to dissect his meal on the good china. "Let’s see here...Chicken. White. Crabmeat. White. I know you said those were okay to be white. But what about all this gooey cheese?"

  "Cheese is allowed in high-protein diets," I say, feeling a bit defensive, after all the effort that went into this meal.

  "Isn’t it awfully high in fat?"

  "According to my sources, fat is fine as long as you’re avoiding those carbs." I beam at him, assuring him—and me—that all is right.

  "But I’m afraid your sources are Escoffier and Julia Childs. Neither of whom met a pound of fat they couldn’t put to good use somewhere."

  I scrunch my face up and clench my fists, my food-related defensive reflexes suddenly on high alert.

  He picks about with his fork some more. "And isn’t this phyllo pastry white? And slathered with white butter? If I’m not mistaken, the main ingredient of phyllo is flour. White flour, to be exact."

  I have to defend my honor! "Butter is yellow! And so is phyllo! Totally legal and in the books!"

  William shakes his head. "Nice try. I’m not a chef, but I play one on TV." He smirks at me. He actually smirks at me! "I’ve seen you cook with this enough to know that phyllo dough starts out white. Virgin white. Pure as the driven snow white. It changes to a golden color once it’s baked—thanks to the fattening butter slathered on it."

  My face falls. My feast of salvation is rapidly devolving into a feast of an epiphany—I guess the epiphany is that my meal is an imposter! What sort of inquisition is this?

  "Urgghhhh!" I shriek. "Why are you trying to ruin my perfect Sunday dinner by telling me how to eat? You’re being just like Mortie. I’ve already got one boss in my life telling me I’m too fat. Are you joining in the Greek chorus of my detractors? I thought I could count on you, William. I never thought you’d be like my mother and choose to drag me down!"

  I no sooner say that than know I’ve gone too far. Accusing William of being like my mother is like saying that Santa Claus steals toys from boys and girls. We both know that William is the least controlling, least critical spouse imaginable. He’s perfectly happy with me as long as I’m perfectly happy with me. Which I am. Well, which I thought I was. Until I was called out on it. And it was pointed out by none other than my boss that I’m too fat to succeed in my job. I know I’m shooting the messenger here, but somehow I can’t seem to help myself.

  "Look, Abbie. I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. Because we both know nothing could be further from the truth. I love you just the way you are, baby. I’m just trying to keep you on task. You say you want to keep your job?"

  I shake my head yes.

  "What, pray tell, do you have to do in order to keep your job?"

  I mumble under my breath.

  "I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you."

  I mumble again.

  "A little louder please."

  "Okay fine," I holler. "Lose weight. And lots of it. Are you happy, William?" I start to cry.

  "No, in fact, I’m not happy, Abbie. Not at all. First and foremost, I’m happy when you’re happy. So if you’re not happy, then neither am I. And aside from that, well, you know how I’d vote on this whole thing, anyhow. Yet you’re not interested in that. So instead I’m going to try to protect what is in your best interest. You want to be Gotham’s high-powered food critic? It comes with a quid pro quo."

  "Fine! You want me to not eat? I’ll not eat. I’ll not eat so much that you won’t be able to find me when I turn sideways. Is that good enough for you?" Perhaps I’m overreacting, but hunger does this to me. I’m beginning to realize why I fail at diets. They make me really surly. Poor William. And here he probably thinks it’s hormones talking. If only.

  "Look, I just need to clear my head. I’ll be back later."

  With that I gather my plate and wine glass and begin to bus dishes into the kitchen. I continue this in silence till all the dishes are cleared. I pull out my disposable plastic storage containers and package up the entrée and the salad, throw in a couple of plastic plates and some utensils, then put them in an environmentally-friendly Whole Foods shopping bag. I whistle for Cognac, grab his leash, and we head out the door, leftovers in tow.

  Chicken and Crab with Cheese in Phyllo

  1/2 lb. grated cheese (equal parts gruyere, mozzarella and fontina)

  2-3 boneless chicken breasts, cubed

  1/4 lb. lump crabmeat, picked thoroughly to remove extra shells

  Stir fry chicken on high in 2 tbl. peanut oil. Drain chicken well. Using liquid from stir frying chicken, mix with 2 chicken bouillon cubes (I prefer Oxo), 3/4 c. water, and 3/4 c. half and half. Bring to boil and thicken slightly.

  Blend chicken and crabmeat together.

  prepare phyllo

  Butter 3 sheets, one on top of the other (keeping the remaining phyllo covered with a damp towel so that it does not dry out), then fold in half.

  Place layer of cheese in center of phyllo sheet. Add chicken and crab mixture. Drizzle 1 tbl. chicken broth sauce over it, and fold at 90-degree angles into triangle.

  Bake in 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes. Serve with remaining sauce.

  Serves 4

  What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.

  Lucretius

  Mix Two Parts Despair, One Part Rage, Serve with a Splash of Regret

  George is bent over a book, deeply engrossed, when I find him. It appears to be a library book, with the crinkly cellophane cover over the top of the thick tome.

  "Anything interesting?" I ask him, disturbing his solitude.

  He startles, looks up at me, and claps his hands with glee.

  "I haven’t seen you in days!" he says. "My stomach’s been rumbling." He rubs his belly for emphasis. He jiggles his shopping cart out of the way to make room for me on the bench.

  I place the bag in front of him and begin to take out the containers, handing him a plate and a napkin and utensils. He tucks a napkin into his shirt, which strikes me as funny, considering his clothes aren’t exactly dry cleaner-fresh to begin with. Although come to think of it his clothes look far cleaner than most homeless guys I see wandering the streets—they’re not exactly soiled. I wonder how he keeps himself so clean without benefit of a washer/dryer.

  "Whatcha reading?" I ask him. I know that George has unexpectedly refined taste in literature and I’m often surprised at his book choices. Two weeks ago he was reading War and Peace. He holds up the book and I see the title.

  "The Passionate Marriage: Keeping Love and Intimacy Alive in Committed Relationships," I read aloud. I smack my lips aloud, pondering the title. "Interesting light reading for a Sunday evening. Any reason in particular you chose that?"

  "Our therapist assigned it to us," he says as he dips into the dinner.

  "Your therapist?" I ask, incredulous. "Yours and whose?"

  "My wife’s. Has me going to some new guy now. He thinks this book will help."

  As I watch George greedily delve into my pastry-crusted supper, I’m taken aback that a man who takes f
reebie meals off of virtual strangers on the streets of Manhattan actually has a wife and a therapist.

  "You see a therapist?" I ask. "You’re married?"

  He nods his head. "Yep. Thirty-five years this year."

  "If you’re married, does this mean you have children, too?"

  Again he nods. "Four of ’em. Jenna’s married, ’sgot two kids. Tamara’s separated from her husband—we hope they can work things out. Josh is working down on Wall Street, and Tobin just finished up at Harvard Business School."

  My eyes are so bug-eyed open I have to squint them back into normal shape. "You have family? Nearby?"

  "Oh, sure. Everybody’s in the area now that T’s back here working with Morgan Stanley. Sally, my wife, she’s up in Pound Ridge."

  "Pound Ridge? New York?" I cannot believe this homeless man before me, the man I deliver gourmet leftovers to, hails from one of the most elite communities in the tri-state area. Pound Ridge is practically Martha Stewart territory.

  "Yeah, sure, you’ve heard of it?"

  "Of course, my husband loves to ride his motorcycles up that way. It’s where we pick apples each fall. It’s so gorgeous up there, especially when the leaves change."

  "Indeed." George takes a bite of the chicken and crab and smiles a satisfied smile. "Mind if I ask what restaurant you got this from? Damned good stuff."

  I blush. "Chez Abbie," I joke.

  "Oh yeah? New place? I haven’t heard anything about it."

  Until a few minutes ago that would not have surprised me. But now that I know he hails from the upper crust, all bets are off.

  "I made it, George. It’s just a little something I whipped up at home. Wasn’t exactly what my husband wanted tonight, so I figured you might enjoy it instead."