An Instagram Frittata: Meaty by Samantha Irby

meaty ESSAYS

samantha irby

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First published in the UK in 2020

by Faber & Faber Ltd Bloomsbury House 74–77 Great Russell Street London WC1B 3DA Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in different form,

by Curbside Splendor Publishing Inc., Chicago, Illinois, in 2013.

All rights reserved Copyright © 2013, 2018 by Samantha Irby The right of Samantha Irby to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 “My Mother, My Daughter” previously appeared on The Rumpus.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978–0–571–34983–8

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This book is dedicated to that kid Maurice in my US history class junior year who called me a fucking idiot.

LOL, BRUH.

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brunch an instagram frittata

Back in the olden days when everyone was shouting into Nokia flip phones and scratched-­ up Razrs and you didn’t have to worry about whether your breakfast would look cute in someone’s newsfeed, when people would come over to my crib (i.e., wake up in my apartment to find themselves disappointed by my lack of a coffeemaker or anything resembling a wholesome breakfast food), I would do that thing where I throw a bunch of leftover garbage into however many eggs I could salvage from the dented carton of them chilling in the back of the fridge and bake it in a superhot oven until it sort of resembled a brown egg flatbread, then emerge from the kitchen like “Ta-­da! I am a capable adult-­type human!”

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Ingredients 1 potato 1 red pepper, cored and seeded, sliced into thin strips 1 onion, sliced not diced, because it looks more elegant that way 6–­8 eggs sea salt and pepper some bagged spinach or kale, unless you’re the kind of asshole who has that shit growing outside your well-­ tended home oil or butter, it doesn’t matter maybe some bacon if you want, or ham could be good too!

2 teaspoons rosemary, if you like that kind of thing 1 cup of whatever grated cheese you have left over from your last nacho day I am not an egg person. Egg people enjoy thick, slimy yolks splooging over their tongues as they take a bite of their fried-­ egg sandwiches; they like rivulets of yellow slime cascading from under their hamburger buns; they squeal with delight as a puddle of neon goo oozes from their freshly poached eggs to settle wetly around the edge of their avocado toasts. But eggs are so cheap, and people always buy them, and making a frittata is way better than saying “Sunny-­side-­up eggs make me want to die” when they are your only option for food.

1. Crack the eggs into a bowl and beat them with a whisk.

If owning a whisk is the kind of thing that is too fancy for you, throw this book in the trash.

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2. Add to the eggs a couple of pinches of salt and a grind or two of pepper. I never measure, because am I really supposed to grind the peppermill over a teaspoon and see how much I can catch? I’m not doing that! Just shake your sea salt container a few times and grind the pepper three or four times so that you can see black specks floating around after you stir it again to mix it all up.

3. Suddenly remember that you forgot the actual first steps, which are: wash and slice your potato into thin disks (use a mandoline and watch your fingers); wash, core, and seed your red pepper, slicing into skinny strips; cut your onion, but not into chunks, because chunks are weird feeling in eggs. Okay, here’s how I do it: I cut off both the top and the bottom of the onion so that I have a flat surface to balance them on, then I take a sharp paring knife and cut from top to bottom while turning the onion an eighth of an inch at a time, until it all falls apart and looks like rainbows scattered across the cutting board.

Now is about the time I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot. So I usually take a break, which often involves admiring my beautiful pile of uniformly cut vegetables while drinking coffee and wondering whether this will actually be worth it in the end.

4. I always forget until it’s too late that lettuce should probably be cleaned, so now is a good time to find whatever moldering kale or spinach is hanging out at the bottom

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of your crisper drawer and dump it into a bowl that is 1 cup distilled white vinegar to 3 cups cold water and soak it for 2 minutes, then rinse it in a colander and maybe shake it a little to get some of the water out. I know it feels like a lot of work—­and I’m not going to lie, I’ve probably eaten forty-­seven E. coli salads since last Tuesday—­but now that I’m thinking about it, if you gotta eat greens, at least maybe try not to die from them.

5. Set your responsibly washed old salad aside and heat up some oil or butter in a deep cast-­iron pan and preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit (cue Juvenile’s “400 Degreez”). Cook the potatoes first, for five minutes, over medium heat, moving them around a little bit so they don’t stick or burn. Then add the onions and peppers and cook for another five minutes, moving everything around but not so rough that you turn it into gross mush. At this point you could add some crumbled cooked bacon, but that adds a series of extra steps that I’m not gonna do while hungover on a Sunday. So it’s a no from me, dog. But I might chop some deli ham and toss it in there if I have it, but again, probably not. Anyway, if you’re putting meat in this, chop it up and throw it in now. Also, at some point during this process, sprinkle salt and pepper on it.

6. Add the rosemary and the shredded cheese dregs to your beaten eggs (remember them?!) and stir. Then flatten out the vegetables in the hot pan as best you can and pour the egg mixture over it. Shake off your ripped-­up

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chard or kale or spinach and kinda just gently press it into everything; don’t add so much that it doesn’t mix in, eyeball the right amount. Scroll through your Insta feed and look at pretty brunch spreads. No one wants a glorified egg pizza with a bunch of dried-­up grass sitting on top of it.

7. Bake it for twenty minutes, give or take, until it’s set.

Keep an eye on it starting around the fifteen-­minute mark. I like mine a little brown on top, because jiggly eggs in my mouth make me want to cry, but you can eat yours however you want.

I’m not an expert on how to pose food to ensure maximum jealousy from people you went to high school with twenty years ago, but here is what I’d try: 1. Use a trivet so you can set the pan on your nicest table surface without fear of ruining it. Oh, you eat on TV trays but you have a rustic chest of drawers next to your bed? You better run that skillet upstairs, girl!

2. So people know that you actually made it with your own hands, scatter some eggshells and salmonella around the countertops so potential dates know that you don’t go to the farmers’ market just to take pictures of purple carrots. (I go to the farmers’ market just to take pictures of purple carrots.)

3. Buy one nice plate. It doesn’t even have to be a fancy plate; just get something that looks good through the

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lens of a dying iPhone. SpaghettiOs look like high art in a gleaming Crate and Barrel square cereal bowl.

4. Nice napkins can serve the dual purpose of making you feel like a capable adult and also making pictures of your revolting home food look more palatable. Plus they’re pretty cheap, and if you buy one of each color/style, no one has to know that you don’t have the whole set unless they swing by demanding to look at your linen cabinet, but even then you can just brush them off like, “Who cares about matching?” and their eyes will widen in awe at how breezy and bohemian you are when really you just wanted a prop for some gluten-­free brownies.

I have this dream of one day working up the courage to post pictures of the remnants of food that I’ve already maxed: miserable-­ looking hot dog butts, dried soup ring crusts on a tower of stacked bowls, gnawed-­on breadsticks, the last two pieces of cereal floating in some rancid milk skin. Until then, I guess I’ll just be over here artfully setting my fork at a ninety-­degree angle next to this perfect cassoulet I made for the express purpose of hopefully impressing that guy who once laughed at me for pronouncing the t.

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