Apron Anxiety by Alyssa Shelasky Page A

is vintage—and rides off into a fifteen-hour day in the weeds. Being “in the weeds” is a restaurant term for an insane kitchen situation where a chef is busting his or her ass with no end in sight. It’s all I really know about Chef’s work: he is always in the weeds.
    The second he leaves the apartment, my world is silent. After a few months on C Street, I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, especially now that the decorating is done. There is no in-box to empty, no morning meetings, no breaking news, no tight deadlines, no lunch dates, no après-work appletinis. No one needs to borrow a tampon, tell me a secret, or raid my closet. As much as I adored them, I had no idea how important my girlfriends were until they weren’t around.
    With hours and hours of time to kill, I Google “Best coffee shops for writers,” and find my way to “quirky cafés” that areneither quirky nor cafés. I graze around new neighborhoods, with my laptop and notebooks, but I can’t get comfortable anywhere. Either the couches are itchy, the Wi-Fi connection won’t work, or the scones taste like sneakers. I ride the Metro—thinking of New York’s freestyle rappers, teenage runaways, and impeccably dressed women who all would enwrap me in their world for the short duration of my commute to wherever—but it’s dead air in here, dead on arrival, devoid of emotion, a snoozefest of political stiffs and school marms. Dejected, I always come home to C Street, where at least our apartment has style that the city does not.
    Halfheartedly, I contact some local magazines, but my stories lack enthusiasm, and I never follow up. Between my savings account and Chef’s pathological generosity, I don’t feel the need to make serious money, and for the first time in my life, I am utterly unmotivated. The only work I really want to do is on Chef’s marketing. It helps me stay connected to him and his career in a way that doesn’t involve the kitchen. Plus, any time I’ve met a successful chef’s significant other, they say that working with them—whether it’s as their pastry chef, general manager, or marketing director—is the only way to ever see them. I take that advice very seriously. By now, Chef has a publicist, an agent, a manager, and a bunch of partners, but I push myself into all their projects, demanding to be cc’ed on everything, like I’m Chef’s CEO. I have a feeling this embarrasses him, but I just really, desperately, want to stay in the loop.
    We cherish Sundays, as the restaurant is closed, which means we sleep late and Chef makes us pancakes in any rendition I desire (always with chocolate chips). In the spring, which marks four months on C Street and seven months together, we incorporate gardening into our Sunday ritual. Early in the morning, we drive to the local nursery, discussing which producewe’ll want to eat come fall, and what flowers my purple thumb can’t kill, since I’ll be chief waterer. We load the car with dirt and shovels and spend the day planting our garden, which essentially entails me sipping spiked lemonade on the stoop, and Chef raking, digging, and planting our oregano, basil, arugula, tomatoes, bell peppers, and brussels sprouts. I play music and feed him fresh fruit, and just sit there and love him.
    On most Sunday nights, we explore new restaurants in the D.C. food scene, trying to integrate ourselves into the community that has been so kind and generous to Chef. Sometimes he experiments with recipes at home. One night he serves us a Vietnamese-style whole fish but doesn’t do a thorough job filleting it because I keep making him lie with me on the couch instead. So he accidentally serves the dish with lots of little bones in it. He tries to save face by saying that’s how it’s done in Asia, but he’s busted and he knows it. In my best Padma impression, I tell him to pack his knives and go, and we both get our kicks. The fun we have on Sundays carries me through those stagnant