Dear Opl (12 page)

When it wasn't my night to cook, I often sat on the kitchen stool, watching or talking while G-pa did. He spent time each day going through Grandma Mae's old cookbooks—the ones he'd brought with him when he moved into our house just after Dad…you know. Most of them looked a little complicated for me. But G-pa had said, “You don't always have to follow all the written down rules when cooking. You can throw anything into a pot and chances are it'll be okay. But baking is science. You can't fool around with those ingredients because you'll come out with a hockey puck on the other side.”

I also figured I should make an apology to Pop Diggerman because I was making fewer visits. Even though Mom and Dr. Friedman said I needed to cut back on my daily amount of sugar, it happened more by accident than effort. I was so busy writing back to people on my blog, going to yoga class, researching recipes, and learning about Rudy, I hadn't noticed how my candy stash remained full.

Seeing Summer's gleeful face after telling her about the Grunch gave me a spectacular idea. I knew just what Mom needed to make her bookshop Grand Opening the best anyone in this town would ever remember. And it wasn't kimchi.

Dear Mr. Adam,

Congratulations! Feel free to bring out your bookkeeping tally tablet and put another slash in the success column. After much resistance, you have won me over and I was a hard sell. It was like trying to convince a cat it wants to go swimming.

My name is Opl Oppenheimer and there is a very good chance you have read my blog. My friend Summer used to live in England and knows a lot of people there. From the way she talks, I'd guess maybe half the country. She's forwarded my blog on to all of them. Since England is such a tiny place, it wouldn't surprise me to find out after two or three further forwards, you'd be included in the loop. So chances are I owe you an apology. You may have seen I oftentimes refer to you as the Grunch. I'm trying not to do that as much, but it's a catchy nickname and it got stuck in my head.

My blog addresses things that interest your Average Joe thirteen-year-old. And my struggles with you during the last two months. But changing my ways was like a change of administration in the White House. It was more than just switching the paint, the carpets, the curtains, and the furniture. It was creating a whole new brain.

Change is more than a headache since I have made a routine of engraving my daily habits in stone. And ask any tombstone chiseler, they'll agree: you can't take an eraser to a whoopsie-poo at work. I like to wake up knowing what's in store. No surprises. Surprises kill people who are ill prepared for them. Or who have congenital heart disease. For me, change equals death. Well, this had been my theme up until Dr. Friedman told me if I didn't change, I'd get an effective dose of those killer surprises.

Dr. Friedman—not unlike you—was one of those people I was suspicious of at first. Although you really take the cake in that category. Literally, you took my cake. She just suggested I move around a little and eat less of it. You tried showing me my cake contained chicken and pig parts that even chicken and pigs don't wish to have as a part of them. I got your point though. And now I make my own cake. I know exactly what goes into it and there isn't a farm animal for miles around.

I figure since I have put such an investment of time and effort into doing what you've asked of me, maybe you could do something for me in return. I would like for you to be the Master of Ceremonies at my mother's new bookstore Grand Opening. She will be selling your books, so it wouldn't hurt for you to be there, blowing your own horn. Plus, there will be others attending, and many of them in my town could use a little encouragement in the diet department.

You're welcome to stay at my house, which would help with your expenses now that you have four little mouths to feed. My mom says things can get tight when your whole budget goes to the grocery store.

I have tried a good number of your recipes and, apart from one minor mishap with a chunk of my thumb, have found most of them nearly perfect. The ones that aren't, we can work on when you get here.

I don't have a specific date for the Grand Opening yet, but you can plan your visit for sometime in the middle of December. Chances are Rudy and Mom will have most things worked out by then.

I know from watching your videos that you're a fairly dressed-down kind of guy, and even though I don't think you'll need to rent a suit for the big day, it might be a nice effort if you brushed your hair.

I will wait excitedly for your reply.

Namaste,

Opl

It has been four weeks since I wrote to the Grunch. In that space of time, I have cooked spaghetti and meatballs, chicken chow mein, fish pie—which tastes much better than it sounds—homemade pizzas, kebabs, and a dreadful recipe of salmon with a funky yogurt sauce (where everyone complained I must have done something wrong, because afterward it gave us the Hershey squirts for three wretched days). I also made peas and pasta, oatmeal 352 ways, and all sorts of puddings, tarts, and pies. In my opinion, tarts and pies are the same, but if you tell people you've made a tart, it sounds a heck of a lot more impressive. They are both basically crusts holding heaven in a flaky, crumbly hug.

I have attended exactly twenty-two and one half yoga classes. It would have been twenty-three except I was forced to leave after the Fishbowl stunk up the room so badly I could no longer breathe. Regardless, the distance from my toes to my fingers grows shorter. Ugly as they are, I have had to paint them a pretty color to encourage myself to touch them. Ollie suggested I put Skittles in between each of my toes.

My yoga teacher is like ChapStick for sore lips, or the laundry room iron for G-pa's starchy shirts because she smooths out our wrinkles. Even my breathing is spongy and soft.

I have meditated on tons of important issues. Like why a new section in the school cafeteria serves food made from the Good Intentions Incarnation Monastery. They make tofu (in plain, garlic, or one blessed with a healing spell), tempeh (which I read comes from fermented moldy soybeans and is then pressed into a block for easy slicing), mushroom pâté (still mushrooms, no matter how squished up you make them), and vegetarian sausage (extra chewy chorizo). I spent too much time meditating on what makes it extra chewy and ended up with an extra upset stomach. I'm still trying to figure out if the folks from the monastery are repeating their life in order to get their recipes right or are forced to eat this gunk because of something evil they did in a prior lifetime.

And during these past weeks, I have also written thank-you posts to a whole bunch of you for all of your recipes and tips on how to chop, slice, dice, peel, sauté, shred, grate, broil, bake, and garnish. If I haven't written you one, it's because I haven't cooked up your suggestion yet. I'll get to it. Except for WebMan101's Deep-Fried Frog Legs. Yeah, I like frogs too, but, dude, these guys eat flies! Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.

I stopped typing and scrolled down to look at all the posts. I also answered a lot of questions on my blog. For instance,
How
much
deeper
would
the
ocean
be
if
sponges
didn't grow in it?
And,
If
there's a speed of sound and a speed of light, is there a speed of smell?
Better yet,
If
a
bee
is
allergic
to
pollen
,
what
could
they
do
for
a
living?
And lastly,
If
you
put
a
thousand
seagulls
in
an
airplane
while
it's flying, each weighing two pounds, but made them all fly inside the airplane, would the airplane weigh 2000 pounds more?
After the last one, I'd figured out Ollie was writing them.

My mind strayed further from my blog. Every day after school, I played Meals On Wheels, or maybe Food on Foot. I delivered leftovers from last night's dinner to Rudy, and he thanked me with a smile and empty Tupperware. We talked a lot about our dads and how we both wished we had them back. But today Rudy had other things on his mind.

“Is she getting suspicious?” he asked me after gobbling up the huevos rancheros I made especially for him. I had scrambled some eggs with chopped-up tomatoes, peppers, and black beans, topped them with sour cream and salsa, and then wrapped everything in a flour tortilla. The breakfast of champions and past-life rodeo clowns.

The concrete steps of the soup kitchen made a buttsicle out of my bottom. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “You have to have your eyelids in the upright position and a functioning brain to see something and grow suspicious over it. She's not just sleepwalking; she's sleepworking.”

Rudy cocked his head and squinted at me through one eye, like he was sizing up what I'd said.

“Okay, maybe a little, since she thinks I'm the one working at the store, but I guess she's just too tired to ask me much about it. She looks like a zombie when she sits down for supper.” I chewed on my lip and looked at Rudy. “I feel a little guilty taking all the credit, but it won't be for long. It's December. Since the Grand Opening is a couple weeks away, she's got to start searching for someone to help out in the store soon. I don't know how many people are willing to work for a someday paycheck. I hope she'll hear our story and leap with joy right on the spot. It could happen.”

Rudy gave me the same look Summer has practiced and perfected. It's the one that says,
You
have
idiot
tattooed
on
your
forehead
. I shook it off. “The place looks better and better. Mom loves that it's getting cleaner. And she keeps making comments about the fact that I—or rather you—find such clever ways to put stuff away. You've made all these cool nooks and crannies.” I smiled and nodded at him.

Rudy shrugged. “When you're working with animals, space counts for everything. You can't have nothing on the floor they might trip up on. And no bits poking out from places they might brush up against. You damage an animal and there goes the price of a sale. Plus, they depend on you to watch out for them.” He scratched under his chin. “I kinda like working in that shop. It's almost time to start unpacking all the boxes of books coming in. That's the thing I miss most 'bout the farm—all the tall tales. Late at night, after we'd finished our chores, we'd sit on the porch and swap stories. I s'pose working in a bookshop will be a bit like that. All those people with stories to tell. It'd be nice to read some of them.”

“I don't mind reading stories—as long as they're happy ones. I hate books about people who are always in
bind
.” I slapped my knee. “Get it? A bind?”

Rudy shook his head and sighed. “You sure do like to josh with folks, dontcha?”

I wrapped my arms across my chest and tucked my head down, squeezing away the cold. “Like to? I have to,” I mumbled into the crook of my elbow. “Humor helps.”

“Helps you hide, maybe.”

“From what?” I looked at him from the corner of my eye, my jaw growing tight.

“I think you wear your humor like I used to wear my bright, clownin' costume. We're kinda one and the same. I used to rustle up a bunch of tomfoolery to keep a bull busy from hurting anyone. And you dress yourself up with layer after layer of wisecrackin' quips to keep life from giving you a sharp horn in the ribs. We're both just trying to distract life.”

“As long as I'm laughing, I can't be crying.”

Rudy clucked his tongue. “Problem is, that takes a whole lotta energy. You can't do it for long, Opal. Life won't sit down and wait for you to catch up once you've caught your breath and had a rest. Sometimes you just gotta grab the bull by the horns and deal with it.”