I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti Read online

  Food Club Pork Roast

  6 garlic cloves

  ¼ cup fresh rosemary

  2 teaspoons salt

  Freshly ground pepper

  1 (4 ½- to 5-pound) rib section center-cut pork loin (have the butcher bone the meat and then reassemble the roast with string)

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  ½ cup white wine

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Mince the garlic and rosemary by hand (or better yet, in a food processor). Mix them in a small bowl with the salt and freshly ground pepper. Rub the meat with olive oil and then the garlic-rosemary mixture. Let it sit at room temperature for 30 minutes.

  Place pork fat side up on a rack in roasting pan, then pour white wine over it. Roast in center of the oven until a thermometer registers 140 degrees, about 90 minutes. Remove from oven and let the meat rest on a cutting board, tented with foil, for about 20 minutes before slicing.

  Discard string, separate bones from the loin, and slice meat to desired thickness. You may cut the ribs and serve them, too, or save them to add them to a tomato sauce. (Pork ribs add richness to sauce.)

  Yield: 6 servings.

  The lactose onslaught proved too much even for a sturdy constitution like mine. I awoke the next day with stabbing pains in my stomach, which were exacerbated by an e-mail from Lachlan, whom I hadn’t heard from for two days. He had descended the mountain and was now in Milan. “Maybe I could live here,” he wrote. I took to my bed. The next day he was in Rome, and a week after that, he was still in the Eternal City, bristling under the stagnancy of Italian culture, which he found “quite stifling if I’m to be honest.” I felt positive when he went negative on Italy. As much as I love the land of my ancestors, I didn’t want my Scotsman there; I wanted him in New York with me.

  Lachlan was concentrating on the novel while living on borrowed couches and Internet connections. Meanwhile, I was doing research on agents at book parties and in phone conversations with editor friends. I couldn’t imagine how Lachlan could get any work done the way he was living, and even he would admit from time to time that the lifestyle was dragging on him.

  “What are you thinking about the future?” he wrote on a day in which he felt particularly lost.

  “I’m thinking about a future with you,” I replied, assuming that he was looking for the home I wanted to give him along with the book deal.

  “I can’t think of any kind of future, all I can think of is finishing my novel. Once that’s done I don’t mind if I have to sleep under a bridge,” he wrote.

  Apparently, that bridge was going to connect to a multiplex.

  “When is the Borat movie coming out?” Lachlan asked the next morning.

  “The Borat movie is coming out in early November.”

  “Oh, that sounds like very good timing to me,” he’d reply, and I’d think, Oh, he’s coming back in early November. In retrospect, I realize he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, but he enjoyed keeping my hopes up until he made “a very beautiful, rational, and romantic decision,” something he was going to do when he was done with the book.

  That took seven weeks plus some additional hours of computer fumbling on Lachlan’s end. A few simple instructions from me had it on its way, and I stayed up most of the night reading. The novel was polished: less rambling, more funny. Lachlan had pulled it off!

  Finding him an agent wouldn’t be tough, yet it seemed absolutely grueling. This endeavor was above and beyond the call of duty for any friend; I wouldn’t do such a thing for my mother, and she wasn’t sending me mixed signals from across the Atlantic. But I was going to do it for our future, the one I thought about while listening to that Zero 7 song on my iPod on the subway every morning: “Even though we’re miles apart, we are each other’s deeeeeeestinyyyyyyy.”

  The first agent I called was a friend of a friend I vaguely knew, a formerly hot agent who was getting back on his feet after a little, shall we say, health problem. He was all over the novel as I explained it to him on the phone. He professed himself to be a Scotophile—he had studied in Edinburgh and venerated Sir Walter Scott. “E-mail it over,” he said, “I’ll get back to you early next week.” I put the finishing touches on the cover letter I worked on for two days and had both Kit and Anne edit, and off it went.

  As early next week became late next week, and then early the week after that turned to two weeks later, I began to lose hope and added looking for an agent to real estate under the heading of “Things That Are Like Dating.” Really, everything in life is like dating—if you didn’t get the call, you didn’t get the agent (the apartment, the boyfriend). Lachlan sent his support from overseas and slept with his rented phone by his bed just in case there was any breaking news overnight. When I finally screwed up the courage to make the follow-up call, I got the answer I expected. I was bummed, mostly because I didn’t want to go through it all again, and who knew how many times I would have to. The prospect of this Sisyphean task made me want to lie down. Instead, I picked up the phone and called the agent I’d had in mind for Lachlan from the very beginning, the one who I knew for sure would get the book, the one I was afraid to call because she was that formidable.

  I had worked on some of her eccentric authors in the energetic early days of my book publicity career, and I had done a damn good job with them. But she was a woman with much on her plate, and I didn’t expect her to remember me. Her assistant answered, and I left a rambling message with her recounting my history with her boss, then went to lunch. I despaired over making that call in the heat of my devastation, not to mention hunger. I was sure I had blown it and would never hear back.

  Lachlan wasn’t as crushed by the first rejection as I was, but then, what did he care, he didn’t have to do any of the work. Plus, it was in his best interest to keep my spirits up and me on the case. I was feeling crushed by the weight of his need, a load I alone seemed to be carrying while he sent “pillows and downies and the comfiest mattresses over the Atlantic.” I had to escape for a weekend with Jen and Jeff to their house in the Berkshires, where there were plenty of “pillows and downies,” but no cell phone signal or wi-fi, just to get a break from him.

  Naturally, it was when I was getting a little bloody sick of it all that he started to seriously consider returning.

  “I’m reading F. Scott Fitzgerald while staring at a postcard of Park Slope,” he wrote after my retreat. I didn’t reply; he tried again. “Now, I’m looking at travel sites.” That got my attention. The flights were expensive, the only affordable ones connected through Heathrow, and Lachlan wanted to limit his takeoffs and landings to as few as possible. He still wasn’t sure. Then, “I’m tipping, tipping,” he wrote a few hours later. But which way? I wondered.

  It would have to be a connecting flight, a connecting flight arriving at JFK that very Saturday. But before he entered his credit card number, he spent a few hours surfing weather sites, interpreting the direction of the winds. “I don’t know about the red arrows over the Atlantic,” he wrote, describing the seven-day forecast map. By lunchtime he had purchased his ticket. I was so excited, I called Ginia right away. Ginia was weary of Lachlan, and rightly so, but she didn’t stomp on my dreams. Right after I hung up with her, THE AGENT called me back. I nervously described the complicated art of Lachlan’s novel for her and she was interested! She asked me to messenger the manuscript right over. I was ricocheting off the wall. I called Lachlan immediately, even more excited about having my call returned by THE AGENT than by his imminent return. I couldn’t get the right degree of worshipfulness from him over what I had made happen. He didn’t know the difference between this agent or that agent or how capable I was. I didn’t either, but I was starting to get an idea.

  Lachlan was on to more pressing issues for the moment, like how much space he would have in my “cupboard” (British for closet). He had picked up a peacoat and a couple of moldy sweaters while sorting out his things, and they too needed a home. Since mine came complete with four cu
pboards, I was willing to clear out a quarter of one for him and an entire drawer; that would be plenty.

  I bounded out of bed that Saturday morning after a text from Lachlan, who had just taken a Xanax and was waiting to board the plane in Rome, woke me. There were a thousand things to do to prepare for his arrival. I dragged my little rolling shopping bag to the supermarket, where I loaded up on all his favorite foods. I bought a box of clementines and all the ingredients for apple muffins. I spent a blissful afternoon baking in my kitchen in anticipation of reuniting with Lachlan. After ten weeks of wondering, I couldn’t believe he was actually on his way back.

  Welcome Back to the Big Apple Apple Muffins

  Butter, softened, for greasing muffin pan

  2 cups whole-wheat flour (because Lachlan worries about his health!)

  ½ cup sugar

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted (because Lachlan is too thin!)

  1 egg, beaten

  1 cup milk

  2 medium apples, peeled, cored, and chopped

  Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Grease a 12-cup muffin pan with softened butter.

  In one large bowl, mix together all the dry ingredients. In another bowl, mix together all the wet ingredients. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and mix with a spoon by hand until just combined, then fold in the chopped apples.

  Spoon batter into muffin cups and bake for 20 minutes; cool in pan for 10 minutes and then let sit on cooling rack. Serve warm if you don’t have to pick up someone from the airport.

  Yield: 12 muffins (if you fill the cups to the rim, as I do, you’ll get only 9 muffins from this recipe).

  I spotted his silhouette first, a small man with a big pack on his back. When he emerged at the British Airways terminal at JFK, we hugged and Lachlan took my hand the way he always did as we walked to my mother’s car.

  “When we get home we’ll take our clothes off and have a shower and kiss,” he said, which was a lot more than I was expecting to hear from him, let alone do with him. Adding two planes and jet lag to the equation of Lachlan’s low libido and inclination toward exhaustion under the best of circumstances had me poised for a joyous but chaste reunion. Our stunted sex life had entered my mind while Lachlan was away, but I really didn’t care that much about it. Just looking at him made me smile: his elfin face, his slim body wrapped in a boy’s-size navy blue Lacoste shirt that was worn and old. I washed that shirt carefully for him and made sure not to put it in the dryer. Lachlan wanted to preserve it, and it merited preservation.

  We took a shower and kissed and did all the things that Lachlan’s surprising statement implied. Even more astounding was the stack of presents he’d brought for me—there was a rather nice camel-hair scarf, a book of essays by Aldo Buzzi, a little sequined star for our impending Christmas tree, and a package of breadsticks called Kissini, which he had bought for their name. When I got out of bed to make coffee, the sight of the clementines decanted into a clear glass bowl and the honey-colored apple muffins on the dining table was almost as beautiful as that of Lachlan emerging from the bedroom in his T-shirt and Marks & Spencer boxer briefs. I had been thinking my apartment was perfect as it was, but that wasn’t the case. I needed something to fill it, and that something was Lachlan.

  As much I was over the moon about the place, I was having a hard time finding peace there. I constantly had the urge to fix it—there was always one more thing to buy, or arrange, or clean—making it difficult to read, or watch TV, or kick back in any way. Whenever I tried to take a bath, I would manage for five minutes or so, then I’d feel compelled to leap out to attend to something or other. From the day I arrived with my furniture and boxes of things that I would mostly end up getting rid of to make way for new things, I never felt as relaxed as I did that Sunday.

  We lazed around the apartment most of the day, then took a walk to Green-Wood Cemetery, a Brooklyn landmark in whose Gothic gates lived a family of parrots. I wanted to show them to Lachlan because he had a thing for parrots— something to do with his years as a language instructor.

  I bought a bird for us to have for dinner, thinking the chilly day called for a stew of chicken and wine, which I call coq au vin, though my own version strays a bit from the traditional French recipe. While the chicken cooked in wine, I soaked in the tub, melting in the warm water and suds.

  Calming Coq au Vin

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  4 slices pancetta, chopped

  1 medium onion, chopped

  1 chicken, cut into small pieces

  ½ bottle dry white wine

  1 tablespoon butter

  6 ounces mushrooms, sliced

  ½ package (5 ounces) frozen peas

  1 cup rice

  ¼ cup chopped parsley

  Warm 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large skillet over high heat; when the oil is hot, add the chicken pieces and brown on all sides.

  Meanwhile, in a large Dutch oven warm the other tablespoon of olive oil and add the pancetta; when it is halfway to crisp, add the onion and cook until soft, about 10 minutes. When the pancetta is fully crisp, the onion is soft, and the chicken is browned, add the chicken parts to the Dutch oven and pour in the wine. Remove the fat from the chicken-browning skillet, add the butter and mushrooms, and cook until they give off their water; then add them to the chicken, cover, and cook for 45 minutes. When that time has passed, add the frozen peas and cook an additional 15 minutes.

  Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil, then add rice. Check for doneness after 10 minutes (it may take 15). Drain in a medium strainer and serve chicken over rice on plates. Garnish with chopped parsley.

  Serves 2, with leftovers.

  I was apprehensive about a few things—like Lachlan’s return ticket. The date on it—a few days shy of the absolute limit for visitors without visas to allow for weather conditions that might require Lachlan to fiddle with the date—stayed in my head like a bad song. I was also concerned about keeping up my regular activities while he was staying with me, mostly because I didn’t want to miss a moment or meal with my beloved. I would have to find a way to get in the “Core Fusion” (a compilation of yoga, Pilates, and ballet that is offered only at a fancy spa inconveniently located in Manhattan) classes I was taking four times a week and that had become a necessity for my physical and mental health, especially since I had every intention of feeding us well. Then there was my spiritual health, nurtured by Sunday Mass. I had not yet told Lachlan that I was a practicing Catholic, though I had hinted about believing in God. Lachlan didn’t chafe at any of my lifestyle requirements; in fact, my fear of being away from him for those hours was for naught. He ended up accompanying me to almost every activity except work (and he showed up there from time to time, too).

  Lachlan and I easily fell back into all the routines we had established in August. On Saturday mornings, he would listen to Scottish Premier League football on Radio Scotland, which we got by way of the Internet. He was a fan of Hibernian and would curse out all the other teams that kept his beloved “Hibs” from first-place status. I’d go to the farmer’s market and do laundry while he oched and ayed and made all sorts of Gaelic noises to vent his emotions during the game. Then we’d sit down to a British (not English!) breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and Heinz baked beans (I wasn’t so into the beans). While eating, we listened to Your Call, a show for obsessive Scottish football fans who would phone in and wail about the rich Lithuanians who were buying up the local teams, trading players, and causing mayhem. One of the hosts was a woman, and we joked that I should call her to get some sisterly advice about the Hibernian fanatic in my house. We were sure they never got a call from a place as remote as Brooklyn.

  Breakfast was the best part of the day. I loved watching Lachlan douse his toast with butter and orange marmalade. He would ask me if I wanted a second piece while he was making his third. I’d always say no, then reluctantly give in, and Lachlan never tired o
f being amused at the predictable outcome of my indecision. On weekdays, I loathed tearing myself away from him while he sat on the sofa listening to the BBC World Service on the radio. During the day, we’d e-mail each other and talk on the phone, then I’d return in the evening to find him right where I’d left him, reading and wearing two pairs of glasses, his regular distance glasses with reading glasses over them. In between he might have ventured out to the local bookstore; he’d most certainly have made himself lunch and followed that up with a long nap. He seldom left the house unless he was going somewhere with me.

  We went to see our long-anticipated Borat movie at a local theater in Park Slope. We got there early, assuming the theater would be packed with our fellow Ali G lovers. Alas, Park Slopers are a little more Charlie Rose than Ali G—there was no one in the theater but us and another woman who happened to be from London. We ended up talking to her because we were sitting there alone with her for such a long time and Lachlan had a hard time biting back on his chattiness. “I pictured seeing this in a big American theater,” he said to me right before the lights went down. I spent the entire movie fretting over the fact that I had failed in selecting the correct venue for this most important outing. Why didn’t I opt for a gigantic multiplex in Times Square? That was the coming-to-America experience Lachlan was looking for, and here we were sitting with Polly from Pimlico. It was just then that I felt my serenity beginning to take its leave.