Mess

I've really tried to hold off on this.

I've spent hours in therapy and years in denial. The time's come, though, to share this most private of issues in this most public of forums.

I'm a slob. A slob. It's hard to admit, but I can't sweep it under the rug any longer. Got to air my dirty laundry...More? No?

It's ok, I mean, I'm not horrible. I clean up my spills, I refrigerate cheese and milk, and even do the dishes right after cooking and eating (this is a recent development, but I've got four roommates, so). I shower regularly and floss when I remember. It's just that I can make, with or without cause or warning, a marvelous mess of things.

To note: the various rooms I've inhabited have, at one point or another, had a layer of clothing covering the hardwood that I've had to wade through, sometimes for days on end, before I actually do something about it. And that's ok. Somehow I can find most of my life's components, and it's even turned into sort of a game for me -- an expedition, a quest for treasure -- only the "treasure" is, say, a ballpoint pen hidden in a cave of tank tops and towels. Order eludes me, and as long as I can tiptoe through the rubble without breaking anything, I don't mind this one bit.

I'm just as haphazard in the kitchen as I am with my clothes. In culinary school this was a bit of an issue, as cooking is just as much about cleanliness as it is about knowing how much to salt the food. I suffered for two years, cleaning as I went, and you'd think that this practical technique would translate to my real life, as it makes kitchen time so VERY much easier. I don't think I need to tell you, though, that I'm just as much a maniac now as I was before school. It's kind of sexy, I think, all of the mess. Gets me going, and then I'm doubly impressed with myself after I clean it all up. If I'm just tidying up along the way, there's never a grand finale of dirty pots and pans which, when stacked all up and leaning over, give me a profound sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Or, well, that's what I tell myself.

In this vein, I slapped together a sandwich the other day. A gooey, oozy, fatty, messy sandwich that doesn't make much sense on paper, but c'mon, LOOK at this cross section:

I'm usually a lot simpler in my approach. But I made this sandwich for a joyous occasion and it had to hold its own. I took a mini ciabatta loaf and slathered one side with chimichurri (just wait until you see how often this condiment fits into my cooking). Next the ham: warmed, in a pan, until the edges just start to crisp. Over the meat: carmelized onion (I sauteed a sliced onion, low and slow with a bit of butter, olive oil and salt, until it was practically jammy and very, very sweet). Then a cheese sauce (a pat of butter sauteed with about a teaspoon of flour to make a roux - make sure to stir constantly - then about a half cup of beer, stir, and a cup or so of whichever cheese you have on-hand, grated, which you stir in until smooth and lovely. I like to add mustard and worcestershire sauce and salt to taste). More chimichurri on the other half of bread. Press it together, heat it in the oven until the bread's slightly crisp and everything's  melted into itself. Take it out and add a few pickled onions (thinly sliced red onions, lime juice and salt) and slivers of pickle (I use a vegetable peeler). Like this:

I took a bite and the juices, oh, the juices. All down my arm, onto my chin, some on my shirt...but that's what this sandwich is meant to be. It seems, for the moment, what my life is meant to be as well...a mishmash, a glorious mess, which I hope I can wade through half as gracefully as I do my room: stumbling, maybe even falling down, but always solid ground beneath it all.