Lady Fingers
Imagine a dinner party composed of every flavor of beauty: the black licorice of a sharp cat eye, the red apples of a blushing cheek, bubbling laughter like Grand Cru champagne. Rich and umami, funny and intelligent, all delicacies in different shapes. For every aroma there is a perfect complement. A sour note, a burst of sweet.
I smiled at my guests and mimed the opening of a cloche. “Ostrich steaks and fennel risotto. Bon appetit.”
Pink mouths in perfect O’s, the ladies clapped in their seats.
“And just when we thought you’d never top the wagyu filets!”
They were good girls I’d met in my early twenties when I first moved to the city. Fellow interns and baristas, friends met through friends. You might expect these to be transient bonds, as they often are, but we were steadfast. Our friendships held even as we chose different pursuits, blossoming into cooks and artists, teachers and social justice advocates. We created a sorority of ourselves. This was our twelfth consecutive girls’ dinner, and we sat elbow to elbow at a rickety card table. I couldn’t afford anything larger or grander on my sous chef salary.
The table was set to feast, and we would go at it like lions, snarling into our plates between ladylike sips of merlot. I’d been in the kitchen since seven that morning, peeling and frying rocky mountain oysters. Grating sweet potatoes, home-curing meat I’d butchered myself, right there on the coffee table like it was a mortuary slab. Pickling things, glazing others. And tenderizing the ostrich, my expensive leading lady, the thing placed lovingly on my grandma’s heirloom charger. It was the fanciest thing I owned.
We topped off our glasses and raised them. I hid my bandaged bicep behind my back. A cooking injury. Blood seeped through the wrap, and I didn’t want to worry them.
“Cheers,” we crooned.
“To good food and better company.”
Clink.
“To our very own Martha Stewart.”
Hear, hear!
“And to me finally getting a good lay,” said Ellen. We all laughed and dug in. Ellen took a bite of steak and sighed. “Tastes even better than Ryan’s you know.”
We knew all about Ryan’s you know. Like accidental newsletter subscribers, we got updates weekly or daily. Even so, we were Ellen’s friends and we had to ask. What’s this about Ryan? Spill! We thought you and Ryan broke up? We thought Ryan had a dirty apartment and a pencil dick? We thought Ryan was the worst man ever to have lived?
“Things are complicated with his wife,” Ellen said, and we nodded with our full cheeks. We understood. Life was complicated. Infidelity was wrong, we all agreed, but Ellen was her own complicated, chaotic person. She was our friend. We had to forgive her for her transgressions. Ellen’s eyes welled up. Red juice leaked from the corner of her mouth, and that thin trickle transfixed me—was the ostrich undercooked? No, it was moist, wasn’t it? Were they really enjoying the food or were these false moans of satisfaction, put on to protect my ego? Shit, how selfish was I, how stupidly distracted while my friend was upset.
“What’s wrong, Ellen?” We huddled around her, pack animals knocking over wine glasses to cast our protective spells. We asked Ellen what Ryan did to make those tears fall. If his wife kept her car inside a garage. If we should sneak in and smear the handles with peanut butter. What do you need? How can we help? Who can we kill?
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In May, I hosted a brunch. We crammed our bodies onto my tiny apartment balcony, pulling the card table out into the sun. Ellen was doing better that day, all jokes and smiles, chewing on grilled sourdough slathered in fat. Did you know the fattiest organ in the human body is the brain? I read about it in a medical journal. Of course, if we’re talking subcutaneous fat, the best sources are in the waist, hips, upper back, ass, and thighs. Surely it varies from person to person. Me, for instance, a true pear shape, I carry much of my weight in my lower body. We’re such interesting collections of meat, aren’t we?
“This flavor! Lardons? Bacon grease?” My friends speculated, cradling their bloated bellies. I gave a coy smile and bowed. A chef shouldn’t reveal her recipes.
Halfway through the first course, Carmen rushed into my apartment without knocking. She felt at home here; I told myself I should be grateful for that and followed her dirty footsteps with the broom. Out on the balcony, Carmen slammed her hands on the card table. The shakshuka looked at her with its shocked, yolky eyes. I poured Carmen a mimosa, ushering her into my seat. Brows raised, we leaned in to pay our friend her dues; an eager audience was what she required.
“Sorry I’m late,” Carmen said. “HR emailed me this morning. I got the raise!”
She stabbed a fork through the French toast tower. A thrill of satisfaction slithered down my back. I knew my French toast was Carmen’s favorite, and I was glad to see her earnest nibbling. The morning prior, I’d waited in line at a Jewish bakery for fresh challah. Pillowy and decadent, it loved a strawberry compote and chocolate ganache, so I’d visited the farmer’s market on fourteenth—
“Are you listening?” Carmen waved her hand in front of my face.
“I’m sorry, how rude of me. Carmen, I’m so excited for you.”
My friends looked at me funny, eyes tight like I’d broken our covenant. You obviously didn’t hear the second part of her story, they said. Use your listening skills, silly! All this delicious food has gone to your brain! Please continue, Carmen!
Carmen hung her head, mumbling between bites. “It’s great, but…I’m still so broke with my debt repayments. I got here but I can’t afford a ride home.”
Debt, that was something we understood. We’d been students, too, and slap-happy credit card holders spending our last dimes on martinis. Anyway, the subway was so sticky this time of year. Yes, the subway was hellish. We pooled our money and promised to order Carmen an Uber Black. She deserved a little luxury in celebration of her accomplishments. Having exorcized her anxiety, divvying up the burden among her friends, Carmen smiled again and filled her plate with fondue baked eggs.
We grinned back and sipped our mimosas, thinking of ways to scrimp this week. Did we really need to visit the laundromat? Couldn’t the internet bill wait a few days? We all knew our particular sisterhood demanded sacrifice. Our offerings were like an amuse bouche exchanged for something meatier: a community, a safety net, the pressure of a hand in yours.
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“God, we can taste every dollar you spent on this bird,” they said.
I gave a humble curtsy, stiffening at the bend. Cooking for friends made me increasingly sore. I was patched up with bandages, burned, sliced, flayed to the bone.
Still, I beamed like a Stepford wife. “Who else would I spend my money on?”
They responded with good-natured catcalls. We’re in love with you, my friends said. You spoil us! And we love to be spoiled. Is that guanciale in the stuffing? Please pass the fondant potatoes.
Friendsgiving was my favorite holiday. Everybody in my neighborhood had disappeared to attend midwestern family feasts with their heaping servings of green bean casserole. My menu was less traditional, brimming with the acidic and buttery: Spiced negroni cocktails, braised leeks, a special meaty stuffing, and the fattest turkey in the tri-state area.
“So much to eat, but you seem to be losing weight,” my friends said, eying me under my dirty chef’s coat. Did you join a cycling class? Where’d your ass go, girl? They noticed how it hurt me to sit. Please, they said, tell us your secrets. Seriously, what’s in this stuffing? We can’t stop eating it.
“Speaking of weight loss, I’m down twenty pounds,” said Sarah, pinching her sides. Why hadn’t I noticed her diminishing? I wondered what else I’d missed and if I was in danger of being cast out. Did anyone have a new haircut? Were there enough potatoes? Oh, god. Had I remembered to follow Carmen’s dog on Instagram?
“Twenty pounds, that’s an achievement! But you always look beautiful,” I said to Sarah. It was in our covenant not to glorify smaller body sizes.
“It wasn’t intentional. I’m depressed, haven’t you noticed?” Sarah crossed her arms, pushing away her untouched plate. A clatter sounded: the dropping of forks, the scraping of chairs against manufactured wood, scooting closer in. Sarah, of course we’ve noticed. They glared at me. We’re your friends. Please, eat. Do you want more turkey and potatoes? Do you have enough money for groceries? What do you need? How can we help? Who can we kill?
“I just hate being single! And my job is so busy lately. This city makes me claustrophobic. And there’s my family, you know. Always butting in.”
We knew all about Sarah’s family. It was a tale of trauma bonds and codependency, the kind of childhood that’s difficult to share with a therapist. Not to mention expensive. We didn’t mind sitting in for a trained professional, isn’t that what friends were for? No mental health journey was linear. Nobody was perfect. Sarah certainly wasn’t, but she didn’t need to hear that. We purred her name and stroked her hair. Was it possible all these bad feelings were just a comedown from the coke she snorted last weekend? Of course not, sorry for bringing it up. I managed to pet Sarah’s shoulder, squeezing my fingers in amongst the others.
“What if we went away for a girls’ weekend? We can get a cabin outside the city,” I said.
“I can’t. Not everyone can just throw money and food at their problems.”
I swallowed and withdrew my hand. It’s okay Sarah, my friends said. We understand how you feel. You have it the worst, definitely, probably of anyone in the world, and we all sympathize with you. It was a lie, but it was what Sarah needed. I sat back in my chair, shut out from this primal sharing of pain. If I wanted to belong, I had to give more.
I pushed the stuffing dish toward them. “Eat.”
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This is how you manifest your own cult of besties. First, you say the spell out loud: Sure, girl, I’ll help you move! You whisper it to the mirror. You shout, force, curse your bonds into existence. Good, that’s done. Now, you must verse yourself in the rules. Friends are friends no matter how one-sided it sometimes feels. They cat sit and lend you money. They don’t participate in tough love. They give just enough and never too much advice. They feed the monster in you hungry for validation. No, I’m not mad at you! Don’t be silly. I don’t mind picking up your tab. (Don’t you make ninety thousand dollars a year?) Yes, I do feel bad about your various woes. Your mother issues, your anxiety, and that dick who won’t text back. You didn’t ask, but I always have the emotional capacity to help carry your trauma. My ears are open, so is my couch. Come lay and cry a while.
I made a tiramisu for my birthday. I beat the mascarpone and sugar into submission, into stiff peaks rising up to escape the mixing bowl. I dipped my fingers in espresso and liqueur. I laid them together as though in a grave, layer upon layer, a soft marriage created by ten hacks of the cleaver. A jolt of cocoa powder, and voila.
In love and in cooking, there was always violence.
My birthday had fallen on a work night. My friends arrived wearing their slacks, their dirty performance art smocks, their graphic tee shirts with the latest slogans. Happy birthday, they said on the way in. Aquarius season! It was a terrible commute. We stepped in gum and forgot to bring a gift. We’ll get you next time, okay? We love you, don’t be upset! I hugged them in greeting, still wearing my chef’s coat and a bloody pair of oven mitts.
“You really don’t need to get me anything,” I said, and I meant it. Birthdays always embarrassed me. I didn’t want a big to-do; I only planned it to make them feel better. It was in our covenant to give, take, give, take. Taking was allowed, and more importantly, giving was expected. We all sat down and traded stories about our noisy upstairs neighbors and the mean girls at work. No, we swear, this year is the worst one of our lives, after all. Last year was only a fluke. My friends talked, and I portioned out the tiramisu, feeling lighter with every scoop.
I had been feeding them my body for months. They didn’t notice the meat they consumed was carved from this very figure. Maybe they did and felt entitled to it. Chosen family is forever, they said while chewing flesh from my inner thighs, coated in panko, and fried in its own grease. Why are you limping? Can you top off my mulled wine? It pairs so well with the Achilles tendon mince pie. This is what we did. We ate, we ooh’d and aah’d, we peppered our Instagram comments with heart emojis. We pretended our love was unconditional, we made believe there were no rules. Love you, girl. Please pass the menstrual blood remoulade.
Our conversation petered out, and we picked up our forks. My friends pushed around the cheesy mousse on their plates, glancing at one another. Red leached out from the between the layers, brilliant pools of clotting scarlet.
“We love tiramisu,” they said. What else is in this? Raspberry coulis? Pinot noir reduction? Red velvet anglaise? Please, tell us your secrets. I smiled. I loved them so much, it hurt.
“Lady fingers,” I said, and removed my oven mitts.
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