I instructed my husband to take a flashlight to the bathroom, just to be sure of the location of the target. I am sure there are witnesses to the sight of the dorky middle-aged couple sitting in the garden after dark reading with flashlights, while the fireflies flickered.
On Tuesday night, we cleaned out the fridge and freezer, with many the pang at losing artisanal marmalade, two dozen eggs and enough Asian condiments for a long shelf at Super Hart. Cheese, dairy, meat, fish, fruit, fancy-assed French chestnut flour—it hurt, tossing it all, and not remotely about the expense. Throwing that stuff out was removing our culinary base, the fruit of the bedrock from which dinner blooms. I guess the good news is that I have a spanking clean fridge.
We have a French press coffee pot, for power failures, and again, we are lucky enough to be able to light a burner with a match when the electric starter is dead, so boiling water was no problemo.
Lunch was horrifying. I don’t rant about fast food chains because if I’m on the road I’ll submit to the cheapo charms of a McAngus or a deep-fried chicken sandwich. Hold the fries—I’ve never eaten good fast food fries, ever. Three days in a row? I can still smell that grease and the off taste, and it will be a two thousand mile road trip before I hit any outpost of a fast food empire.
You should know this about us: we eat dinner late. Like, 8:30 is early, and habits of a lifetime aren’t broken just because the house is blacker than an oil spill.
I had the remnants of a bag of votive candles from a long-ago trip to Ikea, and I placed them on saucers and platters on the counter. Tuesday night we had some half-thawed shrimp we sautéed with garlic and served over rice. It was good.
But Wednesday was a miracle of invention, economy (I repeat: we’re not rich) and invention. My husband had hit Family Foods for two undistinguished bone-in center cut pork chops, about three quarters of an inch thick. Pears, honey, and onions don’t need refrigeration, and neither does the heel of a cheap bottle of Chardonnay. The rosemary and thyme from my garden grow, thank heavens, without the power of ComEd.
BLACKOUT PORK CHOPS WITH PEARS AND ONIONS
Ingredients:
2 pork chops
1 pear, Russet or
1 onion, sliced
½ cup white wine
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons honey
1 sprig thyme
1 sprig rosemary
Dried red pepper to taste
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
Salt and pepper
Preparation
Find three saucers, place four votive candles on each, light them and situate them on the counter far away from paper towels and tea towels. Illuminate the ceiling with two flashlights set on end.
Sautee the onions in one tablespoon butter until they’re soft and translucent over low heat—eight minutes. Remove them to a plate.
Add the pears to the pan with the rest of the butter and cook them low and slow. They should be tender. Snuggle them on the same plate as the onions.
Heat up the olive oil in the same pan. Dry the pork chops well, then let them sauté until they’re a nice golden brown. Pour off the fat, then lower the heat and add the wine, honey, vinegar, herbs, salt and pepper and pears.
Cover the pan, turn the heat way down, and let the chops simmer for 30 minutes.
Grab a glass of wine, sit on the stoop gazing at the new moon and wait for the timer.
Serve the chops and the pears over a few slices of good bread and pray that the lights will go on soon.
You have better things to do with those candlelit lumens. Leave the dishes in the sink until tomorrow morning.
