Francine Levinson's kitchen is spotless. The coffeemaker has no brown stains. The blender sparkles. The Cuisinart, though it is six years old, looks as if it has never been used.
As a matter of fact, it hasn't. Except once, in Francine's disastrous flirtation with making a corn flan.
Diet she's got in spades, but you won't find much else in Francine Levinson's refrigerator.
(Kyoko Hamada)
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Francine Levinson, mother of three grown daughters and now a grandmother, is clearly a family woman. The white-on-white living room of her Northwest apartment has photos of children, parents and siblings covering nearly every horizontal space, and the sofa pillows were made from her wedding gown. She loves to entertain -- luncheons, engagement parties, monthly dinners and an annual Christmas Day party for up to 100 people. Countless serving platters, bowls and baskets on kitchen shelves are poised for action.
, she has basically never cooked. This perfectly turned out woman, her puff of coppery hair and high heels elevating her to the neighborhood of 5 feet, says cooking is too much trouble. "You work, then you eat it, and it's gone. There is nothing to show for it."
Her parties are catered, and every other meal, day after day, Francine eats out.
Look in Francine's refrigerator: It contains just about nothing that could rightly be called food. On the shelves are 33 bottles of Diet Dr Pepper for her and 10 Diet Pepsis for her husband, Mel. There are a couple of Snapples. There is a gallon jar of mayonnaise and -- the single item of substance -- canned tuna fish "in case it snows."
In the interest of entertaining, her refrigerator door is stocked with olives, pickles, ketchup, a tall jar of white asparagus, a jar of Sarabeth's jam (a gift) and a quart of capers. There are mustards galore. A can of cranberry sauce sits on a lower shelf, where it has been since Thanksgiving. And large plastic bottles of chocolate syrup remain from Francine's last Christmas Day party, awaiting the next, when they'll again be used for the children's chocolate milk.
The freezer holds coffee and the odd stick of butter, as well as a cold-pack eye shade and a party-size bag of mini bagel dogs. Two bowls of frozen grapes are at the ready for decorating a party table.
And the pantry? Its floor-to-ceiling shelves could store a family's dry goods with room to spare, but in this case they are yawning, almost empty, holding nothing but oatmeal -- which Mel prepares every morning for his lone breakfast -- plus packs of Pez and cans of party nuts.
Against all this nonfood, un-food and food-for-future-guests, one splendid note of freshness stands out. On Francine's pristine stove is a worn aluminum saucepan brimming over with tiny dewy blueberries.
They're fake. A joke. A piece of sculpture.
Everyone knows Francine doesn't cook. She gets non-cook gifts -- a T-shirt that reads, "Domestically Disabled." Her birthday cards make jokes about not knowing what a kitchen is. The apron that hangs beside her refrigerator is not something you'd want to splatter with tomato sauce. It's fake fur.
LOTS OF PEOPLE DON'T COOK. They haven't learned yet, or they've cooked for their growing family but don't bother after the children are gone. They may eventually cook, or they may have once cooked, or they may cook only Sunday breakfast or company dinners.
But Francine never truly cooked -- not even when her children were young, not even when the housekeeper had the day off. And, nowadays, the only thing you could call a dish that she prepares is her annual kugel, made with noodles, raisins and pineapple, which she learned from her mother, Lily Gordon, and makes only for her Christmas party. She hates making it, but she bites the bullet and produces enough for 100 people because "I don't want it all to look so sterile." Even Francine admits, "It looks nice to have something homemade."
