Page 468 - WhyAsInY

Why (as in yaverbaum)
selected a pullout couch, a matching “love seat,” a glass coffee table, a glass-topped dinette-type table (to this day, nothing can go near such a piece of furniture in the presence of one of the kids without that fan of mine advising caution, mocking me, and intoning in a drawn-out fash- ion, “It’s a glass-top table”), dinette chairs, an easy chair, a black-lacquered platform bed (with, it turned out, rim lights!), a matching dresser, a black-lacquered matching mirror, two nightstands, two end tables, two rugs, four lamps (two of which, as you will see, played a major role in my introduction of basic contract law to Rachel and Peter), a table to put behind the love seat, and some other stuff that I can’t recall. My walls were ultimately adorned with posters, of very large and moderate size, from the Lincoln Center gift shop. There was a huge poster that com- bined Beethoven’s and Verdi’s visages superimposed on, and formed by, a map of Italy, a number of Mostly Mozarts, and, my favorite, a large and colorful abstract that said “Live from Lincoln Center.” That one was hung horizontally, directly over the Richard Sachs. I also recall having to buy linens, from Laura Ashley of all places (what was I thinking?), towels for the two bathrooms, and the real essentials: a TV set and a small stereo setup.
This was all good, because I had made my new life a project, and projects were often the key to keeping me from the realities of difficult or depressing situations. And to add to the assembling of the furniture, I had the project of outfitting the kitchen to contend with. That too kept me occupied, almost frenetically. I bought Pierre Franey’s Kitchen, a book about necessary kitchen equipment—necessary, that is, for the gourmet cook, which I decidedly was not. That didn’t matter. I was going to assem- ble a virtuoso kitchen, whether or not I had a clue about cooking. And where better to go than to The Bridge and Zabar’s second floor? Loaded with Calphalon pans (including one which would cook scaloppini for, it seemed, ten); Le Creuset copper pots and pans (a saucier, what’s that?); knives (which, as I had learned from Pierre, were essential not only for slicing—that I knew—but for chopping as well); and bowls and whisks, none of which I knew how to use. I was therefore ready to purchase cook- books, none of which I knew how to follow. The most memorable of such
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