Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant: Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone

What do you cook for yourself when you are cooking and eating alone? This anthology is full of musings, great ideas, and confessions from a variety of writers who spill the beans on their solitary dining habits. It's definitely not a cookbook though there are some recipes included in the essays. Truffled Egg Toast and Single Girl Salmon; Salsa Rosa for One and White-on-White Lunch for When No One Is Looking (egg noodles and cottage cheese); Kippers Mash. See what I mean? Not a cookbook. But if you are interested in the diversity of U.S. attitudes toward cooking and eating, you will find the twenty-six essays in this book entertaining. Phoebe Nobles, for example, eats fresh asparagus every day of its short season in Michigan, inspired by a bronze Spargelfrau statue in "some famous little asparagus town in Germany." Steamed, roasted, grilled, it's the perfect finger food. Late in the season when you are "flagging," break it into pieces and hide it inside things. In a particularly personal section of this essay, Ms. Nobles advises us that she enjoys the fresh vegetable aroma of the urine of asparagus eaters. Having never seen this fact mentioned in my five decades as a reader, I was surprised to find it referenced in two books within a month (this one, and Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult). The ever-entertaining Steve Almond cheated a bit on the brief. Pleading Jewishness, he claims to be bound by Mosaic law to feed anyone who comes to call, whether they want to eat or not. He claims that cooking for others is a "tremendous rush" and that writers, forced to work alone, are denied that pleasure of ulteriority in their work. He feels guilty about cooking well for himself and does anything in his power to lure others to eat with him. As a last resort he eats alone but denies himself the extra touches. His recipe contribution may be the most appealing in the book: Grill-Curried Shrimp Quesarito with Avocado Raita. Several of the writers claim that when cooking for themselves they eat the same thing day after day; beans, or potatoes, or rice. One woman eats in the bathtub, one man changes to a jacket and tie and uses a freshly ironed cloth napkin. The possibilities are endless. Finances, time, and the size and equipage of the kitchen are considerations, but the main consideration is how you feel about treating yourself as an honored guest at your table. Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant is a pleasant read for anyone who enjoys memoirs and food. Recommended. Linda Bulger, 2008

Reading these stories is an intensely cathartic experience - while I can't identify with all of the writers, I can see myself in most of them and they are all enjoyable to read. They take a universal experience, feeding yourself, and manage to interpret it in as many different ways as possible. And the best part of this book is that the stories are dinner-length!

Each essay makes me chuckle. I can relate to so many of these writers' comments. I too gorge on fresh asparagus while in season, and have noticed a particular oder after eating this tasty vegetable. I know bachelors who keep spoiled milk in the fridge to sniff once in a while, and food snobs who wouldn't dream of making a meal from canned goods. If you are single and find that cooking is a way to relax, you will identify with what these writers have to say.

I would have picked up this book based on the Laurie Colwin quote alone (and the gorgeous jacket!), but was thrilled by the diverse essays--some of which are really about food ("Asparagus Superhero" by Phoebe Nobles, which is also really a bit of a body confessional), some about loneliness (Haruki Murakami's stylish "The Year of Spaghetti," and Jeremy Jackson's impressions of exile in "Beans and Me"), and some more tangental, even abstract. I loved the relationship between the essays, recurring themes and variations. Ferrari-Adler's eloquent introduction is like a welcome into a bread-scented kitchen--I felt entirely at ease, taking up a wine glass to join the conversation. Delicious!

Alone in the Kitchen With An Eggplant is a tribute not only to food, but to the act of eating and preparing it, the savoring of a specific meal, or simply the privacy to enjoy it. With a range of writers, some known for food writing (M.F.K. Fisher, Marcella Hazan, Amanda Hesser) and fiction writers (Jami Attenberg, Dan Chaon, Ann Patchett) covering basic to fancier dishes, it's got something for everyone, even the non-foodies. For some of the authors, eating alone can be, well, lonely, and I'm glad this perspective was included, while for others, such as Holly Hughes in "Luxury," because of the constant demands of her kids ("Yuck, Mom, why is the rice so slimy?" "Mom, this has boogers in it."), eating alone is a treasured treat. She has meals she only eats alone, like liver, because she "couldn't bear it if" her kids spit it out. The authors who tackle a specific food do so with an urgency bordering on lust, and their unusual choices (most contributors aren't choosing traditional comfort foods here like macaroni and cheese or pizza, or, okay, maybe those are just mine) may make you reconsider certain foods. Haruki Murakami eats spaghetti for a year, "as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge," and his preference for eating it alone is balanced with the intrusion of a phone call that tears him away from his favorite meal. Phoebe Nobles eats asparagus every day for two months in her quest to become an "asparagus superhero." Erin Ergenbright shares a tale from the other side of the spectrum, as an observer of a solo female diner (aka "NGL," No Garlic Lady") at the Portland restaurant where she waits tables, clarklewis. Her tricky relationship with this diner, as well as her own (mis)adventures in the world of food, are interspersed and contrasted and, by the end, made me want to dine at clarklewis, alone or otherwise. I especially enjoyed Laura Dave's humorous yet very real rules on "How To Cook in a New York Apartment" ("Don't cook that which leaves its smell behind" is #1) and what could be considered its counterpoint, Courtney Eldridge's biting "Thanks But No Thanks," in which she documents how her foodie ex-husband and his food critic mother made the act of eating almost a chore (but did introduce her to sushi so delicious "it was all I could do, biting my tongue, to keep a postcoital I love you from escaping my lips." Even so, her husband's class bias and food snobbery drive a wedge between them, and Eldridge's straightforward style is especially welcome.