Slim to None by Jenny Gardiner Page A

peanut oil in the wok, quickly stir-frying the chicken on high, then stir in chicken broth and a few other flavorings, then set them aside to assemble the ingredients in a baking dish.
    Now comes the time-consuming work of building my phyllo feast. Phyllo dough, the gossamer of the food world, requires deft handling. Can’t be too cold or too warm. Can’t be exposed to air or it flakes to bits. And so I peel off one sheet at a time and spread it out on the counter, covering the roll with a damp towel, quickly brushing melted butter across it. I build layer upon layer and then pop it into the oven.
    I light some romantic candles on the table and put Michael Bublé on the stereo for a little mood music. I’ve pulled out the fancy Villeroy and Boch china and the Baccarat crystal—seldom used relics acquired during our traveling days of yore. Because I am avoiding all things white, I use the burgundy tablecloth instead of the usual ecru linen one. And I’ve instead opened a bottle of a one of our favorite Brunellos. A little food critic rebellion of sorts. I hope it doesn’t overpower a dish for which white wine would seem a natural, but I think with the strength of the gruyere cheese, we’ll be okay. Plus, William prefers reds, and my goal really is to please him with this lovely dinner.
    I ring the dinner bell, and William comes up from the basement and washes the grease off of his hands with pumice soap we keep in the task sink. He peels off his coveralls to reveal his blue jeans and a black t-shirt. He looks like a high-end grease monkey, with that contrasting banker/biker boy charm. I love that about him.
    "Dinner smells great!" He smiles at me and I know all will be right with us.
    We sit down and I cut into my "casserole" and I serve William a large portion. I dish out a helping of the token salad I threw in at the last minute, thinking a salad isn’t such a bad idea for a dieter. The creamy poppy seed dressing and the caramelized walnuts probably offer a lot of protein as well.
    He takes a bit of the entrée and his eyes grow wider with each chew.
    "Honey, I thought you said you were avoiding everything white?"
    I nod my head and take a bite, savoring the heavenly blending of ingredients that is melting on my tongue. "I am."
    He takes his fork and begins to dissect his meal on the good china. "Let’s see here...Chicken. White. Crabmeat. White. I know you said those were okay to be white. But what about all this gooey cheese?"
    "Cheese is allowed in high-protein diets," I say, feeling a bit defensive, after all the effort that went into this meal.
    "Isn’t it awfully high in fat?"
    "According to my sources, fat is fine as long as you’re avoiding those carbs." I beam at him, assuring him—and me—that all is right.
    "But I’m afraid your sources are Escoffier and Julia Childs. Neither of whom met a pound of fat they couldn’t put to good use somewhere."
    I scrunch my face up and clench my fists, my food-related defensive reflexes suddenly on high alert.
    He picks about with his fork some more. "And isn’t this phyllo pastry white? And slathered with white butter? If I’m not mistaken, the main ingredient of phyllo is flour. White flour, to be exact."
    I have to defend my honor! "Butter is yellow ! And so is phyllo! Totally legal and in the books!"
    William shakes his head. "Nice try. I’m not a chef, but I play one on TV ." He smirks at me. He actually smirks at me! "I’ve seen you cook with this enough to know that phyllo dough starts out white. Virgin white. Pure as the driven snow white. It changes to a golden color once it’s baked—thanks to the fattening butter slathered on it."
    My face falls. My feast of salvation is rapidly devolving into a feast of an epiphany—I guess the epiphany is that my meal is an imposter! What sort of inquisition is this?
    "Urgghhhh!" I shriek. "Why are you trying to ruin my perfect Sunday dinner by telling me how to eat? You’re being just like Mortie. I’ve