substandard fare
i moved into a one-bedroom apartment because i wanted to have a kitchen all to myself. i craved a space in which i could dilly-dally during my cheffy endeavors without guilt gnawing at the margins of my mind. i was proud of how much i’d upleveled my food game during the pandemic’s life-on-pause, pleased by all the cookbook learnings i’d twigged together into a nest of best principles. in all my preening, i failed to recognize that i seldom set out solo on my most ambitious undertakings; i’d usually play chef for, if not alongside, my loved ones.
living alone, my motivation to tackle cooking challenges comes and goes. at my most zestful, i squeeze the eating out of my lunch break to concoct lavish summer salads. yesterday, i even trotted out my trusty kitchenaid to twirl a ball of milk bread dough round til the hook attachment swept it off of its sticky feet. though making plain milk bread would’ve been a first, i just had to plait in half a can of red bean paste. that fresh-from-the-oven loaf — dappled as it was by golden-hour rays — must be the most winsome thing i’ve whipped up since moving here. but whatever spurred me on to such starchy heights had died by morning. i woke up to apologetic texts from a friend for cancelling on our plans last minute. fog smothered the sun, unmooring the clock from the day’s usual progression. feeling down before i’d even gotten up, i pleaded with an east bay friend to let me come over to bask in warmer weather.
savor summer we did, sipping roasted matcha lattes on a bench so sun-soaked that it nearly burnt our butts. i stopped by her house on my way back to BART where she made me a sheepish offer: she’d just fished a bag of bagels out of her freezer from god-knows-when; would i like one? reader, i said yes. i saw the promise of absolution enrobed in its stale sesame seeds: that bagel could free me from trying to cook Something Good and falling short on such an off day. she crinkled it in foil and i tucked it into my tote, its freezer-recent cold numbing my thighs as i zipped under zillions of gallons of bay.
once home, i beelined to my oven and dialed it up to 300°F. recalling that kenji had written a guide to reviving old bagels without remembering the advice therein, i rinsed off the bagel before rewrapping it and shoving that questionable carb parcel onto the oven’s top rack. i opened the fridge door and chose the worst of what i could find: two wilting bok choy; leftover pesto hummus that had glutted my tupperware for days; half of a teeny-tiny avocado; a lemon wedge on its last limbs; and a few leaves of cilantro hand-ripped rather than prudently chopped. i’d left an aging japanese eggplant on my counter earlier so i brought that into the fold, too. i allowed myself a little allium, hastily peeling garlic cloves as i heated up an oiled pan and a pot of brackish water. ingredients chosen, i yielded to my instincts.
after twenty minutes of cooking, what i plated was laughable: lemon carcass and limp brassicas framing a mess of balsamic-braised eggplant piled on top of bagel halves whose crumbling form i camouflaged with thickly spread hummus and mashed avocado. i must’ve salted well because the flavors were crisp; that’s the nicest a food critic might muster if they’d deigned to dine in with me tonight. still, this subpar open-faced sandwich satisfied my needs. that the poorly bound bread fell apart in my fingers, forcing me to scavenge sesame seeds and eggplant bits, came as a welcome change of pace. solitary meals get boring after a while. why straitjacket myself to perfectionism and etiquette when no one is watching?
