A La Carte (4 page)

3

The best things about the weekend are

No physics

No trigonometry

No physics or trigonometry

It's pouring—again—and a nasty little wind is ripping all the blossoms off the trees on our street. As I gloomily slog through puddles, fighting to keep my grip on my umbrella, I'm feeling sorry for myself.
Other
people have mothers who make them soup.
Other
people have mothers who are home when they're not feeling good.
Other
people live in states where spring doesn't randomly decide to revert back to winter.

I pull up my collar as I step under the awning in front of Smith's Pharmacy. A gust of warm air from the front door convinces me I need to go inside. I have to at least buy a packet of tissues, maybe a cooking magazine or something. But just as I pull open the door, I remember why I never stop by Smith's after school.

“Elaine!”

Oh, crap. I let the door fall closed and turn around reluctantly. “Hi, Christopher.”

“How are ya?” Wrapped in a green apron from Smith's Pharmacy, Christopher Haines stands on the sidewalk, his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his arms. Anyone can see that he's cold, even in his gray sweater. Anyone with sense would have at least put a coat on before going outside. Of course, Chris Haines has no sense.

“I'm fine.” My voice sounds like lead, even to me.

“So…” Christopher shifts, biting his bottom lip nervously. “I haven't seen you much outside of Vocal Jazz.”

That's because I've seen you first.
“I've been busy,” I say lamely.

“Oh.” The conversation dies. How long am I going to be trapped here in the wet because Christopher Haines is an idiot?

I shouldn't be so mean. Christopher is the son of one of Mom's best friends. Our families used to hang out when we were in grade school, both of us missing teeth and singing our hearts out in the middle school chorus. Back then, Christopher used to be plain old Chris: short, tan-skinned, dark curly-haired, and nerdy—pretty average like the rest of the boys in our class. He was okay—even Sim said he was a good kid, since he never tattled when Sim teased him. But somewhere between our sophomore and junior year, his family went to Europe or something, and he turned into someone else—someone tall, okay-looking, better-dressed, with bleached dreads, with less acne, and without a mouthful of braces. Someone who changed his name to Topher.

“So, what are you doing?”

“Standing in front of the store?”

Christopher ducks his head, his light brown skin flushing. “Dumb question, huh?”

“Actually, I think I'll just go home,” I say, and open my umbrella. “I think I have a cold coming on.”

“We have chicken soup,” Christopher says immediately. “Oh, wait, you're vegetarian. But we have cold medicine. Aisle five.”

“Thanks, Christopher, but…no. I'm just going home.”

“I hope you feel better,” Christopher says dutifully.

“Yep. See you, Chris.”

“Um, Elaine?”

Sighing, I half turn. The wind is slanting the rain down at an angle, and Christopher is getting wet. I shift so my umbrella is blocking the rain from the back of my neck. “What?”

“Do you…Are you ever going to call me Topher?”

I shrug wearily. “Maybe. Maybe not. Bye.”

I know I shouldn't mess with him. He's just too easy.

I push off my hood, running my fingers through my damply snarled hair as I walk up the stairs to our front door. In the mailbox, I see an envelope from
Southern Cooking
and rip the thin letter open quickly.

Congratulations,
blah blah blah,
honorable mention,
blah blah blah,
subscription to our magazine,
blah blah.

Honorable mention. Not bad, since the category I entered was for a main course using turkey, and I've never cooked a whole turkey in my life. I wish I'd won money, since I'm still saving up for my pilgrimage to Saint Julia's at the Smithsonian, but a free magazine is okay too.

I change into sweats and restlessly poke through the fridge, trying to find something I'm in the mood to eat. The phone rings, and the clattering noises in the background let me know who it is even without checking caller ID.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, Laineybelle. Not coming down for dinner?”

“Nope…I'm pretty tired. My throat is scratchy, and I just want to go to bed and watch a movie.”

“I wish I could,” Mom says enviously. “With all this rain, it'll probably be a pretty quiet night, though. Maybe I'll get home early.”

“That would be nice. I was just wishing
someone
would make me some soup.”

“
Someone
would make you some if she could. Did you find the garlic in the broiler?”

“Garlic?”

“I baked a few cloves last night for salad dressing, remember? You could use some of them and make some garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic's good for a cold.”

“Mom,
potatoes.
Please. Just because I'm sick, I'm not going to load up on carbs.”

“Oh, you and your carbohydrates,” my mother says with disgust. “Well, don't just sit around all night drinking tea and feeling sorry for yourself. Eat something decent, all right?”

Feeling sorry for myself?
“I'm going to make some garlic roasted beets.”

“Ooh, that sounds good. There's leftover pasta in the fridge.”

“I know.”

Mom's voice softens. “Well, have a good evening, honey. I'm sorry I can't get away to make you something myself.”

“That's okay, Mom.” I hate hearing the guilt in her voice. “Besides, you know my beets are better than yours anyway.”

“Oh, they are not!” My mother is indignant.

“Bye, Mom.”

“Go eat something, you ungrateful child.”

I need mood music. I rifle through the CDs in the living room until I find one of Mom's Spanish guitar CDs, and I turn it up. The liquid trail of notes makes me relax, and I wander back into the kitchen, ready to work.

Some people skin their beets before they roast them, but Mom always freaks when I do that. She swears all the vitamins to everything are right beneath the skin, so I just do a good job of scrubbing off the mud. I find four beets—two golden, two red—and lay them on a pan on top of a square of foil. After spritzing them with olive oil and adding a bit of sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and a few sprigs of rosemary from the plant in the window, I tuck the foil around the beets and slide them into the oven. Now I need something to entertain myself with for about an hour.

I plop on the couch, turn on the TV, and mute the sound. Then I hit speed dial. Since Mom doesn't have time to baby me, it's time to whine to Grandma.

It's just me and my mom that make up our immediate family and Mom's family is in the Bay Area. My dad, whom I barely remember, died in a car accident when I was three, and he was an only child, so when Grandma Muriel died last year, Mom and I lost a whole branch of our family tree. We're lucky to have MaDea, Mom's mom. “MaDea” isn't her real name (it's actually Emily Anita) but is more a Southern-flavored short for “mother dear” (and with a Louisiana drawl it sounds more like “mutha de-ah”), which is what a lot of Southern people in Mom's generation call their mothers. Even when they're both on my last nerve, I consider myself lucky that I have the strong women in my family that I do.

MaDea has always treated me like I'm minor royalty, and going to her retirement village in Rossmoor to visit means I get to see all of Dea's friends—little old church ladies with great hats, orthopedic shoes, and purses full of peppermints for the “grandbaby.” Every time we visit, Dea's friends give me their secret recipes, little gifts of silver dollars, old jewelry, and, usually, newspaper clippings from “Dear Abby” about all the things “girls my age” should avoid. Other girls might be “going to hell in a handbasket,” but in my grandmother's opinion, I am more than perfect. A conversation with Dea is worth about a pound of chocolate as far as my ego is concerned.

“Hi, Dea!”

“It's my grandbaby! How are you?”

“I'm all right. How are you?” I settle back into the couch cushions with a blanket, waiting for my grandmother to update me on her “stories,” the endless list of soap operas she watches.

“I'm just getting ready to head out the door,” my grandmother says. “I'm going over to Eppie's next door to watch
Oprah.
”

“Oh.” I sniffle involuntarily. Is it just me, or does it seem like even a seventy-three-year-old can find more of a social life than I can?

“Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say hi.”

“I don't have to rush off. You sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine, Dee. I just have a little cold. I'm fixing some garlic, though.”

“Oh, and some chicken soup. You know you should have some of that.”

I swear, MaDea thinks chicken is a vegetable. There's no point in reminding her about “the vegetarian thing” unless I want to worry her. “Chicken soup. Right.”

“Well, you get yourself some rest this weekend, you hear? Tell your mother I've got some sweet peas up here for you-all. Soon as it stops raining, you can put 'em out on your front porch.”

“Okay, Dee. Have fun with
Oprah.
”

“You take care, now. Be sweet.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I flip channels awhile morosely. Friday afternoons used to be the best time of the week. Sim would come over for kindergarten, and we'd polish off leftovers from the restaurant while watching old movies to kick off the weekend. Other people have plans for the weekend and lives to lead. Why don't I have anything better to do?

I saw Sim at school today. He actually came to physics, which was a minor miracle, and while I was talking to Cheryl, he walked by my desk and knocked on it like he used to do when we were friends. It's weird. I keep wondering what he was going to say to me yesterday before Mom came in with the gingerbread. I'm still not sure why he came by. He said it was for gingerbread, but I still can't believe he really needed my notes. I wonder if it means something.

Stop, Lainey. Go cook something.

I've gotten good at cooking when I don't want to think about Sim anymore, when I need to fill up empty time and keep myself from drowning in my own head. My contest entries have more than doubled since he's been gone. Something good came out of being left alone long enough to get creative.

I'll make a new salad. Maybe Mom will put it on the restaurant menu.

Carefully, I take a soft, slippery head of roasted garlic out of the dish on the counter and slide it into the oven to warm through. Next, I open the fridge and find some salad greens to wash and tear. As I begin, I address an invisible studio audience with my best Martha Stewart impression.

“A small head of
butter
lettuce is preferable for this dish, but if you have a bit of leafy romaine, that will work just as well. Add to it a bit of arugula with the tough stems removed, some watercress for a peppery flavor, and maybe some mustard blossoms. If you don't have access to the fresh flowers, add some Dijon to your dressing, and you'll be surprised at what a difference it makes.”

I snatch a mouthful of watercress and hum a bit of song from the CD. Maybe I'll use guitar music for my cooking show.

“Test and see if your beets are ready,” I continue to lecture my audience as I open the oven and slide out the pan. I stick a fork into the biggest beet and decide it is done. “If they are, you'll want to add your garlic right away. If you want to skin your beets, wait until they cool, and rub the skin away and then proceed. However, if you want to preserve the vitamins below the skin, simply cut the beets into wedges and eat them skin on.”

I grab a plate out of the dishwasher and assemble my salad. “Take your roasted garlic head, and squeeze out the buttery soft garlic onto the beets. When you're ready to plate, add your beets atop your salad greens and, with a little more salt, a little herbed chèvre”—I open the fridge again—“some slivered almonds, and, um…some Dijon dressing. Voilà! You have a beautiful, healthy, tasty salad.”

I hold out my plate to my imaginary audience and then look at it critically. How are people supposed to use beets beautifully? Even dry-roasted, the red ones look a little gory. Maybe at my restaurant I'll only use golden beets or the red and white striped ones so it won't look like I've got gobbets of raw flesh in my salads. That's a good idea for a vegetarian restaurant anyway. I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork and taste the dressing. The mustard is just strong enough.

I open the fridge to debate eating pasta or bread or pasta and bread. I'm scowling into the shelves when the phone rings. I'm pretty sure it's Mom—I swear my mother has an alarm that tells her when I've held the refrigerator door open for too long.

“Hi, Mom.”

“I'm coming home, and guess what I've got,” my mother singsongs.

“Fresh rolls?” I love Chef Pia's version of Vietnamese fresh rolls, full of bean thread noodles, mint, vegetables, and tofu.

“Nope. Something for your cold.”

“Chicken soup!?”

“No, silly. Pumpkin.”

“Pie?”

“You wish. Did you save me any of that pasta?”

“I just started on the beets.”

“Good. The soup's still hot. It's fresh.”

“Ooh, yum. Thanks, Mom, but you didn't have to leave work just for my cold.”

“Sure I did,” my mother says easily, releasing me from feeling guilty. “Anyway, it's the weekend. Who wants to work?”