Off the Menu (45 page)

Drain potatoes and transfer to large bowl. Add vinegar and, using rubber spatula, toss gently to combine. Let stand until potatoes are just warm, about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in small bowl, put the minced onion and stir in one tablespoon of vinegar and a half teaspoon of sugar and let sit for ten to fifteen minutes, and then drain. Stir together celery, onion, pickle relish, mayonnaise, mustard powder, celery seed, parsley, pepper, and ½ teaspoon salt. Using rubber spatula, gently fold in dressing and eggs, if using, into potatoes. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until chilled, about 1 hour; serve. (Potato salad can be covered and refrigerated for up to 2 days.)

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a loaf pan well and line the bottom with parchment paper. Grease and flour the pan.

Heat the marmalade in a small saucepan with one tablespoon of the grapefruit juice until liquid, and set aside to cool.
Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into one bowl, and in another bowl, whisk together the sour cream, 1 cup sugar, the eggs, grapefruit zest, and vanilla. Slowly whisk the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. With a rubber spatula, fold the olive oil into the batter, making sure it’s all incorporated. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, drizzle the marmalade mixture around the top and swirl it into the batter with the tip of a knife, and bake for about 50 minutes, or until a cake tester placed in the center of the loaf comes out clean.

Meanwhile, cook the
cup grapefruit juice and remaining 1 tablespoon sugar in a small pan until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is clear. Set aside.

When the cake is done, allow it to cool in the pan for 10 minutes. Carefully place on a baking rack over a sheet pan. While the cake is still warm, poke some holes in the cake with a long, thin skewer, and slowly pour the grapefruit-sugar mixture over the cake and allow it to soak in. Cool.

For the glaze, combine the confectioners’ sugar, Campari, and grapefruit juice and pour over the cake.

Read on for a sneak peek at another
delicious novel from Stacey Ballis

Good Enough to Eat

Available now from Berkley

T
he first conscious memory I have of food being significant was the Thanksgiving after Dad died. I was four. We gathered at my grandparents’ house, made all the right noises; there was football on the television and a fire in the fireplace. But no one seemed to really be there. My mom was still nursing Gillian, and spent most of the day off in the guest bedroom with her. And the food was awful. Overcooked, underseasoned. I remember thinking that Daddy would have hated it. He loved to eat. It’s what killed him. Well, sort of. The police found a half-eaten Big Mac in his lap after the accident. They assumed that he was distracted by eating when he ran the red light and into the truck. I remember looking at my family and feeling like Daddy would be so mad at us for not having a good time, for not having a good meal. And halfway through dinner my grandmother said, “Oh my god, I forgot the mashed potatoes. They were Abraham’s favorite. How could I forget!” And then she ran off crying. And I thought, I’d better learn how to make mashed potatoes quickly or the family would completely disintegrate.

O
kay, Mel, let’s start with something good,” Carey says. “What happened this week that was really great?”

I have to think about this for a moment. “Well, the store showed a small profit this week ….”

“Wow, that’s like three weeks in a row, right?”

“Yeah. Not anything huge, but my accountant says that all we need is a trend. If I can do three more consecutive weeks in the black, we should be able to project the rest of the year’s income. You know, since this is the slow season.”

“Why slow?” Carey asks.

“Well, it’s February. The New Year’s resolutions to eat healthy and exercise have worn off, it’s four degrees below zero, and everyone wants comfort food. Chicago in February is no time to run a healthy take-out establishment. No one wants to get out of their cars to pick up a decent good-for-you meal, they want stick-to-your-ribs fare and they want it delivered.” I’m babbling.

“Well, then, I’m even more proud of you that you’re doing so well in such a tough time.” Carey is unflaggingly supportive. She’s so much more than a nutritional counselor; she is like my life guru, friend, and therapist all rolled into one bundle of positive energy, and I’d never have gotten through the last three months without her. “But I’d like to hear about something good for you personally, not related to the business. Did
you
have anything good this week?”

“Well.” I take a deep breath. “I threw out my bed. I just put it out in the alley, along with all the pillows and bedding, and went and bought a new one.”

“Well, that sounds like fun! A little shopping spree for your new place, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, when I moved out it seemed logical to take the bed, since Andrew was staying at Charlene’s.” I hate having to say their names out loud. “But, I don’t know, it just felt like …”

“Bad ex-husband juju in the bedroom.”

“Yeah. Exactly. I got home from the store, exhausted, went
to go collapse, and couldn’t bring myself to get in the bed. It was like his fucking ghost was in the fibers or something. And I know that he said he never brought her there, I mean they never did it in our bed, but still. I slept on the couch. In the morning I remembered that the nice woman who did all my window treatments had given me her husband’s card. He’s over at American Mattress on Clybourn, and she said that he would hook me up if I ever needed a bed, so I just went over there and picked out the tallest, biggest, squishiest, most indulgent bed they had. And then went to Bed Bath and Beyond to fit it out with down pillows and eight-hundred-thread-count sheets.”

“That’s awesome!”

“It was ridiculous. And I couldn’t really afford it, but I felt like I couldn’t afford not to either. Wanna know the weird thing? The bed is named Waking Hours. And at first, I wasn’t really sure why Serta would name a bed that, since the point of a bed is supposed to be sleeping hours. Except that after the first night, I wanted to spend all my waking hours in it too!”

“And how has the sleeping been since?”

“Better. Much better. But I’m dreaming about cakes again.”

Never fails. Stress or sadness, my dream life is all about food. When I decided to lose the weight two years ago, I left the law and went to culinary school, and then got a degree in holistic nutrition. That’s where I met Carey. She was one of my teachers in the nutrition program. My store, Dining by Design, is a healthy gourmet take-out café, amazing food that is amazingly good for you.

But no matter how much I feel in control of my relationship with food, my subconscious craves the habits of my
former life. The days when Andrew and I would eat spaghetti carbonara as a midnight snack after sex, when there were always cookies in the cookie jar and a cake under the glass dome in the kitchen. The days when food was celebration and joy and reason for living and cure-all. A substitute for two dead parents and a little sister who lives in London and rarely calls. A replacement for the children I never got around to having, and now don’t have the energy, money, or husband to make feasible. A way to patch the holes created by a soulless job. A way to fill up that empty pit of hunger that seemed never satisfied.

“And how do you feel about these dreams?” Carey asks. “Are they still about denial, or are you getting to eat the cakes?”

Carey has been with me through everything, the hardest-to-lose last twenty-five pounds, the purchase and opening of the store, the surprising end of my marriage. She knows my dreams almost as well as I do.

“I don’t get to eat the cake. I’m just in the room with the buffet, and the cakes are everywhere, and I’m loading up plates with every possible flavor, and putting them aside to take home, to eat in secret, but then there are people and I have to mingle, and then I can’t find the plates I put aside. It’s extraordinarily pathetic.”

“Not pathetic. Natural. You’re feeling deprived, physically and emotionally. It’s February in Chicago, and your desire is for comfort food. And you’re working very hard and going home to a place you haven’t fully embraced as home yet. And you are probably a little lonely …”