"I'm Going Back to the House to Cook, Come Home When You Get Hungry…"

Preconceived notions get us into trouble. We tend to stay in our lane and avoid new things. Sometimes, it’s better to muster a little courage and jump in – “Damn the torpedoes!”
Cooking is a necessary skill and provides the seed which, when planted, grows to form the memories of our lives. Hey, everyone gets hungry, right? Yet, as a young woman, I shunned the mastery of cooking skills. My mother was Irish and burned everything. My step-mother was an award worthy chef and party giver. I recall her attempts to educate me in the ‘art of food’ and I resisted. One time, I told her, “I didn’t need to learn how to cook because I was going to be a VP for Exxon and would hire a cook.” Yeah, that was me at 16. What a fool I was.
As a very junior exec, in Miami and Manhattan, people went OUT for dinner and we put the tab on our expense accounts. Yet, I was young, early 20’s, and dinner out was still expensive. I began the habit of inviting clients HOME for dinner, which was considered out of norm. Gosh, I had many failures in the kitchen during those years, but I learned even the failures were wins – cuz I actually invited people into my home. The wives of clients gave me extra credit for trying and having a little bit of courage (lot of torpedoes were sacrificed in those days). They actively helped me, giving me tips and tricks, sharing, in a kitchen, the way normal people do. By my mid-20’s, I had perfected many menus and loved to cook.
My secret weapon became “inviting people to dinner”. The best example of which came with one particular boyfriend. We met in a funny way. A little more about him.
The office gang was out late one night, we were celebrating a big case win at our favorite local bar. Coincidentally, it was the same bar where Donna Rice and Gary Hart were caught on the “Monkey Business”. Yes, we sometimes took cigarette boats to the Bahamas for lunch, and I swear, I still own part of a hotel in the Bahamas. I can’t quite remember where the hotel is, but I digress.
The evening went late as our bar tab grew. One of the regular bar trolls started to hit on me. He had been chasing me for a long time and I wasn’t interested. I was between boyfriends but would have to live on a desert island to ever consider this guy. In fact, if I was on a desert island, WITH HIM, I would probably consider killing him and eating his liver. He had too much to drink and was leaning all over me. To get out of the situation and not cause a scene, I told him I was dating someone. He challenged me. I lied and insisted I was “involved”. He stepped back, wobbled, and said, “Oh yeah, WHO are you dating?”
Caught in the lie and thinking fast on how to get out of it, I scanned the room. There was an attractive man, standing alone, across the LARGE bar, who was looking directly at me and the confrontation I was having with the bar troll. I took a deep breath and jumped in. Damn, there went the torpedoes.
With high drama, I pointed directly at the attractive man across the bar and insisted we were dating. The man across the bar was wise. He smiled…. then waved. I giggled a little to myself. He knew what was going on. He was reading the situation and my mind, but the bar troll didn’t believe our performance. He reared back and said, “Oh yeah? Well, I’m going to go ask him!” I panicked as the bar troll made his way around the bar. Quickly, on individual cocktail napkins, I wrote out my name in big letters and held them up so the man could see. He squinted a little bit but nodded. Message received.
I watched intently as the two men spoke. The bar was loud, but my mind was silent. After what seemed an eternity, the bar troll was satisfied and wandered away. Whew! The attractive man made his way around the bar, introduced himself, and suggested we grab a cup of coffee. It was 4:00am when we parted and he called me for lunch the next day. He was fascinating, youngest ever board member for a Fortune 50 pharma out of NY/NJ, soaring IQ, socially awkward, tall and handsome but impish and clever, and HILARIOUSly funny. We dated for two years, shuffled back and forth from Miami to NYC, and I almost married him. He was 12yrs my senior.
Back to cooking and why it’s important.
During the course of our relationship, his career took off and the social obligations of his duties mounted. I would fly-in and we entertained regularly in both Miami and NYC. Very few of the wives cooked and dinner at home was far more intimate, friendly, tactile, endearing. We formed alliances with enemies and made friends. It helped his career. A few months into the relationship, he called to tell me a story. He was in a helo with the CEO, headed into the city. It was his big chance, 20 minutes with the CEO, alone. The CEO tried to strike up a convo with him about the Dolphins/Jets game. He knew nothing about football – creating a silent ride. Bummer. It was the days of Marino/Clayton/Duper and I launched into a diatribe about the three touchdowns, last 2 minutes, the game was amazing! My boyfriend was almost mad – social skills were not his wheelhouse – and I can talk to a doorknob. He realized if I had been on the helo, I could have spoken endlessly to the CEO. Soooooo, he decided we needed to buy a ski house in Vermont, to socialize on the weekends with the generation above him, the decision makers, the movers and shakers.
Never mind that we were not married yet. Never mind that I didn’t have a primary home yet. It was time to buy a ski house. He made arrangements for us to spend a long weekend at the house to ‘check it out’ and kick the tires. Did I mention – I’ve never skied before? I mustered the courage and jumped in. More torpedoes.
Packing for the trip was frustrating, and I tried to decide what to bring. Didn’t own much flannel and LLBean, but I packed what I had. Those pesky preconceived notions, always in the way, eh? I thought it was a cabin in the woods. A picturesque, Currier and Ives, kind of a cabin, with smoke curling out of a fireplace. I packed apples, toilet paper, and granola bars, in case we could not get to a store. In fact, I left my heated curlers at home (mandatory for big hair in the 80’s), because of course, there would be no electricity in the woods. Right???? Right????
Stung again by my preconceived notions. After the airports and car ride, we finally arrived. It was the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen. Even today, 30 years later, that home ranks in my top five. It slept 14, comfortably. It was spacious and airy without being pretentious. And the kitchen………, was a dream come true.
The kitchen table was a single plank of wood, with sanded edges and a beeswax finish. It sat 20, easily. There was a long fitted bench on one side, backed by a mini-balcony, which overlooked the family room and fireplace. The opposite side of the table had regular chairs and chairs on the ends. My mouth fell open. I was ready to move in, but I had not explored the rest. Rounding the kitchen, the fridge was as big as my bed, and an extra fridge and extra freezer. Good Lord, I could have bathed triplets in the slate sink. And the pantry……., the pantry was so big, it needed a bowling lane. A commercial 6 burner stove, which was unusual for the 80’s, and 4, count’em, 4 ovens (two banks of double ovens). OMG! Remember all those holidays when we need an extra oven? My eyes lit up like I was on crack! Realtors claim a kitchen sells the house for a woman, and within 10 minutes, I was calculating how much our down payment would be. I was SOLD.
About 5 steps down was the family room, but the enormous windows rose to eye level with the kitchen and looked out to the side of a double black diamond ski hill, just steps from the front door. Of course, I had no idea what “double black diamond” meant at the time. The bedrooms were sumptuous. The baths all had steam in them, which was fun to play with, but I had no curlers. Oh well….. The next morning I had to ski.
Finding a closet full of ski equipment and clothing in every size, I was ready to jump in, full torpedoes, again. Boyfriend met up with some friends and they took off down the double black hill. Gee, it looked so easy for them. Swooshing! I could do that, surely. I was pretty athletic and in good shape. He scheduled lessons for me on the bunny hill…, which was humiliating. The kids on the bunny hill and lil’ ole me had a tough time. After hours and sweating through my gloves, I gave up, went to the clubhouse, and ordered a triple cognac. It wasn’t even 11:00am. I failed miserably and was not a skier. He found me, nursing coffee, in the clubhouse. I wanted to play in the kitchen. Hey, we all have our skill-sets. He was happy to finally play with the big boys and no longer felt like a step-child. Good! After laughing at my effort to ‘snowplow’, I told him, “I’m going back to the house to cook, come home when you are hungry.”
The bus took me back to the house, I grabbed car keys and headed out to find hot rollers and groceries. I was happy and humming. As I drove out of the resort, I realized there was snow and ice on the roads, but not in the resort. Even the roads in the resort were heated. Swank place, hmmmm, definitely not a remote cabin in the woods. Again, I shook my head at the error of my preconceived notions. The grocery store was a wonderland. Spent way too much, but everything looked good. By the time I made it through the liquor store, I could barely get the supplies in the car.
Back home, in the kitchen, I found a radio and cranked up the volume. I cooked like a Tasmanian Devil. I made hors d’oeuvres for snacks. I made a double batch of bread because it was mandatory to use all four ovens! I whipped up a pot of chili using t-bones, and a big pot of shrimp gumbo. I marinated more steaks for the next day. I made grandma’s potato salad and had 4 Apple pies in the oven when boyfriend whizzed through the door with all his buddies.
Inside the house, the men stripped out of their ski gear and rounded the corner to the kitchen. “What the hell is that smell?”, one of the men was roaring, “I’m following my nose!” I knew some of the men but they looked so different, sort of sweaty, wind-tunnel-hair rumpled, very different from polished as I had seen them before. “Oh my GOD, she made bread!”, said another. True, I had 8 loaves cooling on the plank table. “It’s still HOT!”, said another, “Do you have any butter?” They were already in the frig and digging in the drawers for a knife. The were like a pack of wolves, wild and ravenous for food.
Another man stood by the ovens, whipped open all the doors, and pointed “LOOK! She’s making PIE!”, he said, and in a flash he picked me up and whirled me around, “My God, you’re an angel!”. It was the CEO. Leaving the oven doors open and putting me down, he grazed further down the kitchen and stopped to stick his nose over a stockpot. “What is this? I’ve never smelled that smell before. It smells DIVINE!”, he said. But then he lowered his voice to an 8yr old version, and came within 6″ of my face, “Can I have some….., please?” I still hadn’t said a word. Boyfriend made his way to me, kissed me on the cheek, “I think they’re hungry.”
“Wait, wait, WAIT!”, I said. I was the only woman in the room, with a bunch of hungry bears, and I seized the opportunity. I closed the oven doors. It was still my kitchen. I swatted the hand of one of the VP’s, “Not yet”, as he was tearing into a loaf of my bread. From the extra fridge, I gave them three trays of homemade hors d’oeuvres and dips, “Nibble on this and call your wives, cuz you are ruining your dinner plans.” I shook my finger at them and several lined up by the phone. The snacks were cold and the men looked at me like they had just been punished by mom. They were forlorn and practically drooling on the table. One whimpered, “….but the bread is getting cold.” I grinned. “Okay, okay”, but you need a bowl,”, I capitulated. “And the pies are not done yet”, I had just put them in.
The women arrived in moments (they were obviously waiting on their men to come home to go OUT to dinner) and looked like they just stepped out of Bonwit Teller. Beautiful jewelry. I was still in thin pants and a thermal shirt but was wearing my pearls.
There we were, boyfriend at one end of the table, happy he was Chief for a day, and me at the other end of the table. He seemed so calm and happy, like he was the genteel host. It was an odd group of uber wealthy. The men ate with a mix of their hands and utensils and the women relaxed. Candles flickered and all was right with the world. They ate 6 loaves of bread and put a big dent in the chili and gumbo. By the time dinner was done, we were all friends, laughing, and several helped me clear the table, like we were a family….., warm, endearing, tactile, unavoidable, …..my secret weapon.
Still at the table, they all looked sleepy and satisfied, but the pie timer went off and they were wide awake again. Two men jumped to help me unload the “treasure” from the oven and hovered over me. The two explained details of the pies to others, play by play,  like they were sportscasters. As most women know, sometimes the pies come out perfectly and other times, not so much. These apple pies could have been photographed. I made 4 with the intent to keep one and give the others to various houses, so I had dressed them up a bit.
I placed the pies in the middle of the table, but they were bubbling and too hot to eat. Lots of oohhh’s and ahhhh’s. Tentatively, they looked at my pies as if they discovered a new life form, examining them from different angles. I noticed one man sneaking his fork to the edge of a pie to ‘snitch’ a taste, when the CEO took center stage. He grabbed a neighbor’s napkin and also used his napkin to pick up one whole pie and put it in front of him. “I want this one”, he said definitively, “This one is mine.” His wife laughed, admonished him, and told him he had to share. There were at least 16 of us. He looked down the table at me and fixed his stare. He curled his lip a little, took a deep breath and said, “I’ll give you $1,000 for this pie. It’s been 30 years since I’ve had homemade pie and I want the whole damn thing.”, pause, “I want to take it home if I can’t eat it all.”
“You might have to sleep with that pie.”, said his wife. Whoops! Overstepping. I laughed to diffuse and said, “Punkin (yes, I just called him punkin without realizing it), I will make you a pie any time you want one.” I moved to get plates and ice cream, but by the time we got back, they were already picking at the pies. They couldn’t wait until they cooled.
Some moved to the family room, men poked at the fire. Some of the women and I launched a big discussion about pies and cakes, I was learning more tips and tricks. I recalled finding CD’s from Sinatra and Dean Martin and put them on. Couples cuddled and some danced. I got the impression they hadn’t been “like that” in quite a while. It was a home run of an evening and oh, so…… comfortable.
I slept like a baby. Boyfriend woke up, starving again, turned to me and said, “I’ll help you make breakfast!” I grinned. We were in the kitchen and I was still wearing long johns and a robe when the doorbell rang. Muffled voices at the door and bargaining back and forth. I was working on blueberry pancakes, fresh Vermont bacon, and fried eggs – little runny in the middle. Boyfriend rounded the corner to ask me for “permission”. I was puzzled. Four of the guys from last night were at the door and wanted to invite themselves to breakfast. “Is it okay with you?” said my boyfriend, then, …….”They waited until our lights came on.” I stopped and thought, here were grown men, healthy and wealthy men, lurking outside our home, in the cold, waiting to see when our lights came on, salivating all the while, to eat breakfast. I felt sorry for them.
Poor babes….. They not only needed food, they needed a little bit of love and kindness. Cuz the kitchen is home, and love, and everyone needs that, right? Throughout the morning, people came in and out. The phone would ring, with a wife on the other end, “Do you have my husband?” I told them to throw on a coat and walk over. It was a slower pace than what they were used to. We lingered at the table, talking, and I had a mountain of help for the clean up. Several women confessed they didn’t like to ski and they stayed with me. Most had children my age and those women had nothing to prove on a ski slope. The boys went off to conquer the mountain while we curled up by the fire and planned dinner. The CEO’s wife asked me a favor.
She wanted to call the CEO’s mother’s maid (!!), and get the recipe for a pecan pie, which was his favorite, if I agreed to help. “Oooohhh,”, I loved the idea. She called, we were thrilled and planned the big surprise. The women were lovely that day. All pretense evaporated. We shopped, cooked, and cackled like a band of thieves. Dinner was casual, big salad, scratch lasagna and chicken parm. The smell of Italian food hits a hungry man broadside. The time arrived for dessert. The women twinkled because we had a secret.
A couple of the women presented the CEO with his favorite pie from childhood and told the story of the phone call. For the sides, I added maple to fresh whipped cream and we sugared some extra pecans and oranges with a splash of Grand Marnier. We even found birthday candles in the pantry and sang to him. His lower lip went down, he was genuinely touched. No $100,000 present could have been better. He looked down the table to me, searching, but I pointed to his wife and said, “She did it all.” Not entirely true but that’s a womans’ secret. He got up from the table, went over and kissed his wife sweetly, whispering something in her ear. Well done. Good day. No more torpedoes, everything was easy and calm.
When I put my head on the pillow that night, I threw up a little prayer of thanks to the division manager in heaven who handles pies. The recipe was a winner. Best damn set of pies I’ve ever made.
We bought the house.
Moral of the story: Invite someone into your home. Break bread. Don’t worry about making mistakes or try to make everything perfect. The best things happen when you don’t really plan it. Let your men be guys and don’t cling….. sooner or later, they will get hungry.