The Kitchen Shrink (23 page)

He was so easy to talk to and so good to look at, which also freaked me out.

“It would be such an adventure. I love to travel, and that would pretty much be the ultimate trip.”

“Well, somebody needs to keep the home fires burning,” I said.

“And that would be you?”

I bowed. “At your service.” He looked at me like the idea of me waiting at home for him was filled with its own exciting possibilities. Or maybe that was my wishful thinking. “Seriously,” I said. “Not everyone can be footloose and fancy free gallivanters.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he replied. Again with a look that I wondered if I was misinterpreting. Let’s face it. If I was bad at flirting, and heaven knows I am in the running for that grand prize, I was an even worse flirtee. Sam folded the box closed, overlapping the edges, one underneath the next, yet another skill I’m totally dyslexic at. “Actually,” he said, “Since the astronaut thing isn’t panning out, I’m working on documentaries.”

“Really? What kind?”

“I just finished my first one on robots. A company here in San Diego is doing some amazing sci-fi stuff. It’s going to air on PBS next month.”

“Congratulations. That’s impressive. You’ll have to tell me when it airs. So, have you always been interested in photography?”

“Don’t get me started,” he said with a laugh. “I started scrapbooking my pictures when I was about eight years old. And I must warn you, I still have my photo albums that I force my friends to look at.”

Aw. He was so damn cute. I mean, “That’s great that you always had that passion.”

“I love the way pictures tell stories,” he said.

And I love the way his eyes sparkle and his t-shirt stretches over his chest and his well-cut dark brown hair with just a hint of grey that instead of making him seem world-weary, like mine does, oozes confidence. Oh, snap out of it, I warned myself. I poked my finger with the silvery edge of an ornament hook.

“I can’t believe we only have a couple of days left of shooting,” I said, hanging up Ryan’s Baby’s First Christmas ornament. “Do you think I have a chance?”

“A chance of what?” Sam asked.

“I know about the prize. $50,000.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. Daria,” he smiled.

Oh, and there she was. Back in front of me reminding me to stop flirting with her boyfriend. I didn’t answer him.

“I had a great time getting to know you,” he continued, “and I think we shot a lot of good stuff. The producers are masters at putting together compelling stories and I think you have a good shot at it. It may not be the story you are expecting, but I think it will be a lot of fun to watch. The producers want viewers to identify with you and I think people are going to love you.”

“I did a lot of stupid things. Many of them, on camera.”

“That’s part of the charm.”

“Wait. You’re supposed to say, you didn’t do any stupid things.”

“Oh. Sorry. Lisby, paragon of grace, goodness, and always putting your best foot forward, every word that spilled from your mouth was pearl of wisdom. You will be a superstar.”

“No, I don’t want to be a superstar. I would never, ever do this again. I just want the money. It would really help.”

“Well, don’t kid yourself. You may not like everything you see. I haven’t seen any of the edited stuff, but just remember, the producers and editors are just focused on creating their own reality with a story arc.”

“I think I have a story arc. I think I’ve changed. I’m mean I’m still your basic boring single mom…”

“I know my cue,” Sam interrupted. “You are anything but basic and have never been boring.”

“From your mouth to Elgin’s ear,” I said. I felt my cheeks flush. “There.” I put up the last ornament, front and center, one of the kids’ Beanie Babies that Nicole had saved and put a mini Santa hat on.

“Now that’s a tree,” Sam said. “Well loved, loved well.”

“Thank you,” I bowed and acknowledged his compliment. I couldn’t wait to show the kids, but I was really enjoying hanging out with Sam.

“I’m going to get going,” Sam said. He stood up and had something in his hand. He took a step toward me and raised his hand over his head. Mistletoe. It must have fallen out from one of the bags of decorations. Sam had a bashful grin on his face.

How my heart surged. How my brain flicked its judgmental fingers on my romantic soul. Remember Daria. I looked up at him, wishing with all my might that things were different. He leaned toward me but before he could kiss me, I stepped back and slapped Sam in the face. What a two-timing bastard.

I ran upstairs. Mad at him and mad at myself for being so tempted.

This thing with Daria had gone on long enough. I missed my friend and I needed a big dose of Daria. I wouldn’t tell her about Sam. I heard the door close as Sam left.

I was so excited Daria was coming over I got out my good tablecloth and by good, I mean good time. Once upon a time it had been a white Irish linen tablecloth Brett had brought me from Ireland. I loved it. But, since I had to iron it every time I wanted to use it, for the longest time I tended not to use it. When I did talk myself into pulling it out I would hold my breath and and stare at everyone’s sips of red wine, my kids’ juice boxes; I even refused to light the candles. But one night, Brett, who had been drinking, big surprise, lit the candles and deliberately spilled a glass of wine.

I was furious with him.

“Look, Lisby,” he told me. “Now it’s ruined. Are you happy? You can stop treating it with kids gloves and freaking out about it. Oh, don’t spill on it, oh, don’t drip wax on it. He pointed to the ugly purple blotch in front of his plate. You’ll look at that and always think of me. He grabbed Ryan’s juice box and squired. There, there’s Ryan. He took an apple green candle in front of Nicole’s place and tipped a stream of hot wax in front of her plate. “And that’s for my girl, Nicole.” The kids were young enough to be entertained but too young to sense my fury.

“I can’t believe you,” I said, near tears. “I love this tablecloth.”

“I’m glad. Now you can use it,” he told me. “Use it, abuse it, and just enjoy it, Lisby. Now you don’t have to worry about getting every stain out, because you can’t. You don’t have to worry about ironing it and protecting it, because it’s stained. So now, maybe you’ll throw it on the table on a random Tuesday, just because you feel like it.” He had started eating and then waved his hand down the table. “Every stain, every blotch, every hole should be a memory of good times at this table. The most beautiful tablecloth is the one with the most spills, because that’s the one that saw a lot of action.”

He was right. I pulled out my yellowed, thin, mended, wrinkly, stained tablecloth to get ready for Daria’s dinner. I missed her so much. I had called her again and apologized one more time, and invited her over and said we had to talk.

She sounded more like her old self. “Lisby, I’ve missed you so much and I have so much to tell you.”

We overpowered each other with the force of our hugs once she arrived.

“Damn,” she said. “Your show producers would have loved to have gotten a hold of that.” She stepped back and fanned herself. “Is it just me, or do you wanna do it?”

I laughed. “Daria, I’ve missed you. I’m sorry we ever fought.”

“Me too and me too,” she agreed.

“You know I never meant to slap you...”

“I deserved it,” she said.

“But I didn’t slap you.”

“I know, honey. My face just threw itself at your open palm.”

I could feel my own face flush. “Daria!”

“Relax. I’m kidding. We were stoned, we were stupid, we were steamed...I’m out of esses...” She caught my eye. “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.”

“Well have you shown up at the right place.”

“What’s for dinner?” She followed me into my kitchen and stopped. “Oh. My. Gosh.” Her eyes zoomed everywhere. I forgot she hadn’t seen it since I repainted it. Her retinas were still probably trying to recover from the red walls.

“It’s so beautiful. I had no idea.”

I went and stood next to her, looking at my kitchen from her view. The teal cabinets, neatly organized, hovered above the sea glass tiles, which floated above the slick granite countertops. The rounded edges of my island beckoned visitors to come and gather, and sit a spell in comfy, tufted velvet aubergine bar stools.

“Purple?” Daria asked, running her hand across the soft nap.

I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. “Aubergine, silly.”

“Oh, in that case. Love it.” Daria sat down. “Now you really have to learn to cook, you know.”

“I know. Isn’t it great? I love it.”

She looked over into the corner at the breakfast nook and saw the table set, with my tablecloth. “Oh, what’s the special occasion?”

“You are.”

She accepted my glass of wine as I made a quick stir in the frying pan on my new stainless steel countertop stove. “Check this out,” I told her, gliding open a drawer right underneath the burners that contained my pots and pans. I opened and closed it several times until she made me stop.

“Now you really need new pots and pans,” she toasted me.

“Please don’t buy me any for Christmas.”

“Deal.”

“Now,” I jerked my head toward the table, “go sit down and I’ll bring you dinner.”

We always took turns treating each other to salads; salads always taste better when someone else makes them. Daria’s crunching, like she was eating cartoon carrots, let me know she agreed.

I brought the frying pan over to the table and she looked up at me, putting her hand on my arm. “You do love me.”

I nodded and served her up.

“Fried eggs and noodles.” She sniffed appreciatively, noticing that I didn’t spare the salt and pepper. “Don’t forget the ketchup,” she said.

“Right here,” I set the pan down and then presented her with a brand new 44 ounce Heinz bottle like it was a very good year.

 “Mm,” she said as she chewed. “Your mom really is a genius.” The fried eggs and noodles were another of my mom’s stretch-the-leftovers meals. Seriously, what does everyone do with their leftover spaghetti noodles? I know Martha Stewart would compost them or make Easter baskets with them. But, my mom would fry them up the next day then scramble in a few eggs, and voila; one of the worlds greatest comfort foods. Daria loved it and was threatening to put me on her Good Mood Food show with it. She had figured out that, for all its simplicity, it did contain enough protein to boost our endorphins or whatever. But then again, ketchup was her main source of lycopene, so I always took her statistics with a grain of salt.

I sat next to her and we ate our noodles, with ketchup, and continued our carb fest with Triscuit crackers and an aged English cheddar. Daria taught me to pair simple favorites with the unexpected, and we always tried to tempt each other with outlandish delicacies. Daria has always, and would always win, with her Chili Cheese Frito pie-something you could only eat maybe once a year.

Daria slurped up some fried spaghetti noodles and sighed. “I’m doing my show here in your new kitchen with this dish. You owe me,” said.

She was right and I knew I’d probably have to do it. Maybe I could get my mom in on it. She would love it and it would ease me out of that spotlight. I felt very virtuous, knowing I’d get daughter brownie points while saving my own skin.

“We’ll get back to the wine later,” I told her, as I went to the kitchen for our drinks. I came back with my last two surviving crystal goblets; the kids or Brett had managed to break the rest. I took the chipped one, and poured Daria a glassful of root beer.

She swirled her nectar of the gods, holding it up to the light and then sniffed. “Vanilla, with a hint of wintergreen.”

I raised my own glass of root beer to her.

“And, if I’m not mistaken, a soft note of cinnamon?” She arched her eyebrow.

“Only the best for you,” I said.

“You win,” she said taking a sip. “You’ve totally outdone yourself.”

“Thank you,” I acknowledged.

“I saw the dessert.”

“You were supposed to.” I may not be able to cook, but I did like to bake, especially cakes. We both looked over at my counter where I had a thick chocolate frosted layer cake sitting on a fancy cut glass platter, with the cracked side hidden toward the wall. It was a far cry from a perfectly rounded and leveled bakery cake, with it’s uneven sloping top layer tilting and screaming homemade, but it was Daria’s favorite.

I knew we wouldn’t get to the good stuff until dessert, and I was right. Daria concentrated on her noodles while I focused on not making huge gulping sounds that were all the more magnified without the white noise of conversation.

“So,” Daria began after she took a bite of her piece of cake.

“So,” I said. I couldn’t stop smiling. It was so good to see her and so good to be almost finished with the show. It was good to finally get my priorities straight.

“Lisby, I know you’ve guessed I’ve been dating.”

I nodded and smiled. “It’s me. I know you.”

“I’m a terrible friend when I date and I should know better. I put all my energies into the guy, I usually end up scaring him off and that’s probably why I find myself single. Most of the time.” Her eyes were shining.

“Well, tell me about. How’s it going?” I said.

“Lisby. I’m so happy. You can’t imagine. He’s not what I expected at first, but we get along so well.”

I listened, happy for my friend, trying to bury the pangs of my crush on Sam, and worse, knowing that Sam was a lousy cheater between two friends. Well, maybe it was all just a mistake. I would support Daria no matter what.

“I think you guys make a cute couple,” I told her, pouring her some wine.

“You do?” She tipped a splotch on the tablecloth. “Good tablecloth,” she said, patting the wet spot.

“Yes. I’m so happy for you Daria. He is really a great guy. Is it serious?”

“I think so. I’m just so relieved you’re OK with this. I thought you might give me grief.”

“Daria. I’m offended. Why would I not be happy for you? You deserve this.”