Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,92

money, the limos, and the clothing allowance were just the beginning: He kept us so thoroughly insulated from ordinary life that for ten years I never balanced a checkbook, made a reservation, or knew where I was meant to be at any given moment. Someone was always there to see to the quotidian details, and the job often seemed too comfortable to quit.

There were certainly times in those first few months that I trudged to the subway in the snow thinking wistfully of Mustafa’s magic chariot. I hated every hour wasted on the phone arguing over health-insurance bills or simply being stuck on hold. And I’ll admit that I occasionally longed to eat a three-star meal.

But I’d prepared myself for that; Paris had shown me how little those things really mattered. Before long the life I’d led at Condé Nast began to fade, until it seemed like a distant dream.

But I had not anticipated the fear. As the months passed, I began to think I might never get another job and we’d end up losing everything: our house, our car, our savings. I had dreams about being a bag lady.

What surprised me most was how much the solitude unnerved me. I had worked with people all my life and now, alone at the computer, I missed my colleagues with a pain that was nearly physical. I’d loved the collaborative nature of magazine-making, and the long solitary days at my desk were deeply depressing.

With that feeling came a terrible sense of failure. I loved my Gourmet family and felt that I had let them down. Sixty-five people I cared about had lost their jobs, and as the days wore on this feeling overwhelmed me.

The best antidote for sadness, I have always believed, is tackling something that you don’t know how to do. Now I decided it was time to try my hand at fiction. But it was hopeless. I sat at my desk, staring at an empty screen, incapable of finding words. My family and friends gathered around me, offering solace, and I did what I have always done in times of crisis: I began to feed them. And in the kitchen I found comfort.

Then the Gourmet people started finding jobs. Doc went back to Cook’s Illustrated, Richard became creative director of Coach, and Sertl took a chance on an Internet start-up. Larry, to nobody’s surprise, was courted by half the publications at Condé Nast. But going back to simply counting beans no longer satisfied him, and he eventually went off to find his fortune as a writer. Meanwhile, Jane became an editor at Martha Stewart Living, and most of the cooks were snapped up by other epicurean magazines. Gina Marie opened a baking business (she specializes in birthday cakes), and Robin became the reservationist at a famous restaurant. Life, in other words, moved on. It was time for me to do that too.

Finally, haltingly, I began to write again. I was sitting at my computer, lost in a made-up world, when Giulio called to say his mother had passed away. He wanted to bequeath me her treasure trove of old Gourmets. Did I want them?

I hesitated. The issues from my own Gourmet years stared down from the bookshelf, but I could hardly bear to look at them. Still, it was a sweet and generous offer and I could not figure out how to turn him down. “I’d love your mother’s magazines,” I told Giulio. I did not add that they were headed straight for the basement.

But when the postman rang the bell, I couldn’t fight the urge to peek into the boxes, just to see what they contained. The topmost issue sported a fine old Henry Stahlhut drawing on the cover. I remembered this romantic cake, and it gave me a warm feeling, like encountering an old friend after a long time apart.

I pulled out the next issue. And the next, unable to resist the lure of those old drawings. Hours passed, and still I sat there, magazines piling up around me.

Suddenly, there was the leaping swordfish. It was a very ancient issue—1946—but even after all this time the fish had the vibrant panache that had called to me so long ago. Almost unconsciously, I opened the magazine to “Night of Lobster” and found myself, once again, on a midnight island off the coast of Maine, the sky above me bright with stars. Once again I smelled the ocean brine, the seaweed, felt damp sand beneath my feet.