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Last night, we had nothing in particular in the house for dinner, so I threw together a “cupboard supper” out of roots and tubers and frozen things. It was, I’m not exaggerating, a sublime meal. Cupboard suppers always are, for some reason. We ate every scrap and washed it down with rioja, then port, then hard cider. I felt it was my duty to drink up all the liquor in the house, and Brendan kept me company. I was holding a sort of wake for my friend Michael, who died of a heart attack in his sleep 2 nights ago at 49. He was the best guitar player no one’s heard of. He took terrible care of his body. He didn’t eat much food or drink water, and he could put away more liquor than you’d think was humanly possible. He also smoked constantly, and he did God knows how many drugs, or what kinds, but it’s unclear whether taking better care of himself would have prevented his heart attack. He was adopted and didn’t know his family health history. According to the coroner’s report, his arteries were hardened, and his heart was a “ticking time bomb.”

I loved him. Everyone did. He lived in New Orleans and came from Philadelphia. He was an instigator of three-day benders, a sly, brilliant provocateur, a merry chuckler, a generous friend, one of the great eggs. No one could have thought he’d live forever, or even for long, but he had an aura of indestructibility, permanence, like an institution. My memories of Michael piled up like billowing cloud-pictures in my head last night, the way they do when someone dies, with a finality: these are all the memories there’ll be of him, no more.

Today we’re hosting a small afternoon party in honor of Brendan’s friend, Colie, who died a year ago at 29 — a solstice party in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, in Brendan’s family farmhouse, the house he was born in, in this beautiful, remote place where he and Colie grew up together. They believed in druids, they played Battle Beasts, and they had each others’ backs all their lives. Last time we saw Colie, he described the wedding he wanted to have, some day when he met the woman he’d marry. We’re going to have that wedding ourselves, for him.

Colie died in a car accident not too far from his house. He was on his way to buy a Christmas tree. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and his car went off the road — no one knows how or why.

There’s no easy way to say goodbye to a friend who dies unexpectedly and suddenly and young — Michael and Colie were both self-destructive, and, paradoxically, fully alive. They were free of bullshit, both of them, unencumbered by dogma, obligatory proscription, and niceties. They were two charming, wild, badass, generous, straightforward, kind, brilliant, funny men, and I am going to bake a big, fat, juicy, amazing ham today in their honor.

Cupboard Supper

You get a phone call from your ex-husband telling you a beloved old friend has died. You haven’t bought groceries in days, and it’s time to make dinner, and it’s too late now to shop, and you don’t feel like going out. Look in the freezer; look in the pantry and cabinets; check the basket where you keep potatoes and onions. You have the makings of dinner, it’s just a matter of figuring out where they are.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. You’ll want a hot oven, no matter what you find.

From the freezer, unearth a package of frozen chicken thighs and that ancient half-bag of peas. Dump the peas in a pot with some water. After thawing the package of chicken in a bowl of hot water for 15 minutes, put the thighs on a cookie sheet with some peanut oil and salt and pepper.

From the basket on the counter, take five potatoes that are beginning to sprout and a yellow onion that’s in pretty good shape. Wash and trim and cut the potatoes into wedges, peel and slice the onion. Spread them on a cookie sheet with peanut oil and salt and pepper them. Put them into the oven.

After a while, timing it so they’re all done at the same time, put the thighs in the oven on a lower rack. Boil the peas, eventually. Throw a bit of butter on them. Make a dipping sauce for the chicken and potatoes out of a dollop of ketchup mixed with a dollop of mayonnaise.

Serve up two big platefuls of everything. Eat it all. Wash it all down with whatever you have on hand — rioja, port, and hard cider will do nicely. Toast the recent dead with every sip.

It’s good to be alive, it’s good to make a hearty dinner out of nothing, and it’s good to drink, remember, and cry.

It’s that dark, hibernating time of year. We recently moved to a small northeastern seaside city where we know almost no one. We’re writers, but food is our greatest passion. Brendan, a native New Englander by way of Italy and California, is an expert cook who eats with as much excitement and gusto as I do. I cook improvisationally and eat indiscriminately. I lived in New York for twenty years, so this is a strange new land for me, but the rumor that Portland, Maine has more restaurants per capita than any other American city is a bit of a thrill.

As soon as we moved into our house on the West End, we got down to it: Caiola’s, the Back Bay Grill, Miyake — the sushi place and also the noodle house — Petite Jacqueline, J’s Oyster, the Front Room, Artemesia, Bonobo’s Pizza, Boda, Local 188, the schmancy, expensive Greek place on Congress Street, Bintliff’s, Hot Suppa, the Blue Spoon. We haven’t been to some highly recommended places — most notably Hugo’s, Fore Street, the White Cap, and the Pepperclub — but we’ll get there.

Our favorite restaurants in town, so far, are Saigon, a simple, cheap place that makes some of the best beef pho we’ve ever had (and they deliver!), savory boiling-hot beef broth with fresh thin-sliced beef, rice noodles, mint leaves, and bean sprouts; Artemesia for brunch, where you get huge mimosas and cozy, cheerful huevos rancheros; J’s Oyster, a crowded warm little place on the wharf that serves up lots of booze and huge buckets of succulent steamers with bowls of hot water and melted butter; and Miyake Sushi, which is costly but worth it — the $25 lobster roll is the most decadent treat in town, the sushi is sublime, and they make their own gluten-free soy sauce. Boda serves solid, easygoing Thai food, Hot Suppa has authentic, down-home jambalaya, the Front Room’s salads are fresh and good, and Bonobo’s gluten-free pizza is greasy but delicious. The Greek place, Emilitsa, has tender octopus, excellent lamb, and great spanakopita — it’s expensive, but it’s the real thing.

There have been some disappointments. Brendan got sick from the overly rich fare at the Back Bay Grill (although the bartender there, a charming red-headed cutie, makes a wicked, icy martini) – overpriced food that’s too fatty and too salty makes us feel like chumps while we’re eating it and bilious afterwards. And our brunch at Bintliff’s the other day made us stare at each other in consternation — how do you make a lobster frittata that’s literally inedible? Their chef can, and did. Petite Jacqueline’s $21 meuniere was a slab of bland white fish fried in butter and slathered in half a pint of thick cream-and-lemon sauce with 5 or 6 capers. But the steak au poivre was pretty damn good.

We’re off to New York for Christmas to have the brilliant steak tartare at Balthazar and some affordable, excellent sushi at Takahachi. We look forward most of all to a roast and Yorkshire pudding Christmas Eve dinner at our dear friend Rosie Schaap’s. New York eating at its best has a joie de vivre, an expert ease, a feeling of celebration, kibitzing, and excitement. Going to a favorite restaurant in New York is like embarking on an adventure; they’re on their toes down there, they have to be. It has its share of crappy restaurants, but the good ones are memorable, formidable, legendary.

We can’t wait to discover more legendary food in Portland. We’ve only just begun to eat here.

Lobster Frittata

serves 2, with leftovers

Clean and dice a good-sized leek. Mince a shallot or a handful of chives. Dice a red pepper and two medium red potatoes. Saute it all in a cast-iron skillet over medium heat in half high-quality oil, half butter — just enough fat so nothing sticks. Sprinkle with salt and black pepper, fresh dill or tarragon if you have it, and paprika. Beat six very fresh eggs with a dollop of sour cream. When the vegetables are soft and beginning to brown, pour the egg mixture over them. Place 1 cup of cooked lobster chunks into the pan into the wet egg mixture. When the eggs have set but are still wet on top, run the pan under the broiler to finish cooking. Serve with hot buttered toast.

Note: Do not drown the frittata in plasticky, cheap cheese; do not throw the lobster on top at the last minute as if it were an afterthought; do not undercook the eggs so they’re a runny mess; potatoes perk the whole thing up. Bon appetit!