Laid Bare: Essays and Observations, Judson, Tom [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

5 Italian sausages

2 fennel bulbs, stalks removed, feathery ends set aside.

chicken stock

olive oil, salt & pepper to taste, handful fresh dill (chopped together with the feathery ends of the fennel), grated parmigiano reggiano

1 bottle good champagne

1. Heat a large, heavy skillet on medium-high heat and place sausages in it. Split the sausages with a knife and, using a wooden spoon, force the meat out of the casings. I use turkey sausage for this recipe because it's ostensibly less awful for you. Also, I get naked in front of a camera from time to time, so any place I can save on my fat intake is good. Besides, I saw this documentary called "American Dream" about the Hormel packing plant strike and, jeez, what goes on in meat processing plants is gross.

2. Contemplate the sad fate of cattle and the like as you pour a glass (preferably a flute) of champagne and drink to the turkeys that have found their ground-up way into your pan.

3. When the sausage is browned and cooked through, transfer it to a bowl and set aside. Cut the fennel bulbs in half and cut out the core. Slice them from top to bottom (or side to side if you're feeling contrary; you're certainly not going to hurt my feelings if you do) and throw them into the hot pan, where you've placed a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Take a piece of fennel from the pan and marvel at how well it goes with champagne as you take another sip.

4. Once the fennel is caramelized add the sausage and keep cooking. Throw in half the dill and add a cup or so of the stock. When the stock reduces add some more. When the champagne in your glass reduces, add some more to that, too.

5. Let out a yelp as the twice-risen bread dough falls to the floor and the dish shatters. Curse the god-damn bad luck of it all and say, "Oh, well, good thing I didn't put the pasta in yet". See if everyone needs a refill and announce that you're not going to let a minor setback like this ruin your dinner party and that you'll make a fresh batch stat! Ignore the protestations of your guests and open a second bottle of champagne.

6. When the dough is ready to go into the oven put the pasta into the boiling water. Add some more chicken stock to the pan and let reduce as the pasta cooks. For that matter, go ahead and throw a ladle of the pasta water into the pan as well. I don't know why, but they do it on TV and it makes it look like you know what you're doing.

7. Drain the cooked pasta and put it back into the pot along with the sauce, the rest of the dill and the grated cheese. Give it a good stir and transfer to a serving bowl. Place on the table and shrug modestly as your guests ooh and ahh. "Oh, I just threw it together", goes nicely with this dish, along with a green salad.

8. Jump up from the table when you realize the bread is burning in the oven and tell your guests they've been eating too many carbs, anyway.

9. Sit back down and finish the meal.

HIM AND HIS SHADOW

The phone rang twice before I could answer it. Could I do an overnight? In Pennsylvania?

I’m not fond of overnight jobs. They’re inherently risky, for one thing. If you and the client don’t click and decide to call it off, you’re forced into an uncomfortable renegotiation for the time you’ve spent together. If the client doesn’t appeal to you, you’ve got to put on the act for hours longer than normal. But, the real reason I try to avoid overnight gigs is that I don’t like morning sex. I jump out of bed upon waking. I want my coffee and I want to read the paper. I don’t want to kiss anybody before I’ve brushed my teeth.

But, there’s this arts-and-crafts sideboard I’ve had my eye on and a quick thousand bucks would somewhat alleviate my guilt if I were to buy it.

Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll do it.

The client wanted to chat a bit before our date. I hate feeling like I’m giving it away over the phone, but for a thousand dollars you get a little extra. We arranged to meet two days later and he told me about where he lived; he was a college professor in Pennsylvania, just a little older then me, and lived near the university in a house he had just had built. He lived there with his brother.

And did his brother know why I would be coming? “He thinks we met through a personal ad and this is our first date.” What does your brother do? He’s a professor, too? Computer science, both of you? Interesting.

That Friday was gray and rainy. As I drove from Manhattan into the wilds of Pennsylvania I tried to put a positive light on things. I had never been to this part of the state before, and the guy had to be intelligent, at least, if he was a professor at the university there.

After leaving the Turnpike I drove across the state towards, and then through town. The directions my client had provided soon found me in an area that was strangely barren; the wooded suburbs of the picturesque college town seemed to end abruptly and left me driving through a flat, treeless district. The rain had let up and the late-afternoon sun sent frail rays through the greasy gray clouds, coating the oil-slicked road with a weak film of autumnal light. In the distance I saw four houses--two on either side of the road--lined up perfectly flat with the street on which they sat. The street sign told me this was my destination.

As I drew closer