Spooning Page 14

  “You want us to eat paper?” I asked. I wasn't trying to be funny. Knowing Sage, she had found some newfangled diet from the other side of the world based on the nutrients found in trees or something.

  “No, Charlie, we are going to get our bulbous butts to the gym!” she announced, pulling five gym passes from the bag. She handed them out as if they were tickets to Hawaii. No, not Hawaii, I wanted to scream. We were on our way to hell. (Note to self: Remember to ask Sage why the hell she keeps her gym passes in the fridge.)

  Exhausted and starving after a grueling kickboxing class, we all made our way back to Wade's apartment for our monthly Cooking Club dinner. I could've eaten a cow at this particular moment. But given the urban setting, a nice filet would've been just fine. I had made my mother's creamy mashed potatoes for this month's meeting but ingeniously had added a little twist inspired by the chefs at Sunshine & Sensibility: horseradish! However, I'd first had to conduct some in-depth research to make sure that horseradish had nothing to do with horses (thank God) or radishes (second amen). My recipe cards for horseradish mashed potatoes were safely stuffed into my back pocket. Somehow, I always seemed to pick those recipes with three to five ingredients.

  Wade lived in a doorman building, subsidized by her parents since they knew she could never afford it on her teacher's salary and her mother couldn't stand the thought of her living on her own in the big city without a doorman to protect her. Exiting the elevator, I was overwhelmed by the scent of garlic. “Italian,” I thought. Great—my body was already craving carbs.

  After a quick trip to the bathroom—how could I still have any water in me after sweating the Dead Sea during my work- out? Must be retaining—I found the girls huddled around Syd who was clearly in the middle of sharing something interesting.

  “I am training to run the New York Marathon,” she confided. “I want to be a Road Runner in the Dust Busters group next fall. That's the group that runs six- to eight-minute miles.”

  “Sydney, I didn't know you were a runner!” Sage exclaimed. “Good for you!” Sage applauded anything that burned calories. She and Tara had once had a heated argument over the calorie- burning potential of sex. Tara claimed she could burn off at least three brownies. Sage had argued against the mathematical feasibility of it, but we all knew Tara's unusual potential when it came to physical exertion in the bedroom.

  “Well, I don't really run that far yet,” Syd continued.

  “But you think you can do six-minute miles?” Macie asked.

  “Hopefully. I ran about a mile today.”

  “How long did it take you?” Wade asked.

  “Oh, about eighteen minutes. But I stopped to look for a bathroom. You know, they need more bathrooms in the park. And I'm not talking about those Porta-Potty type deals. They should put in really nice ones with running water and flowers …”

  “And two-ply toilet paper?” joked Macie.

  “Well, I had to use leaves,” Syd concluded.

  “Why did you have to use leaves?”

  “I couldn't find a bathroom, so I went in the woods.”

  “The woods?” shrieked Tara. “There are no woods in Central Park.”

  “I just got off the trail and went under a bush. I couldn't help it!”

  “The trail? You mean the road that they close on the weekend, right? That's not really a trail. That's a street. Did you know that? People could probably see you, girl!”

  “I don't think so. Anyway, it wouldn't have mattered. I couldn't help it.” Sydney shrugged. What I couldn't help was notice that her “running” jacket was hung on the back of Sage's front door. It was bright neon orange. I'm sure the salesman convinced Syd to buy the brightest for safety reasons. She was a sucker for gear. I was also sure that Syd, in her bright neon jacket, had been like a deer in a clearing as she squatted to relieve herself. The city is full of interesting people.

  “Y'all, can't we at least sit in the dining room and eat our meal like civilized people?” Wade bemoaned.

  “Wade, you don't have a dining room,” I reminded her. From Wade's intonation, you would have thought there was a grand room beyond the doorway dripping with crystal and enveloped in soft candlelight.

  When I thought about it, Wade should have been the one who worked at Sunshine & Sensibility, not me. It was right up her alley. She was always e-mailing me about work and asking what crafty thing Jane was working on or what new recipes Jane was whipping up in the kitchen. Wade had this craving to know everything about arts, crafts, and cooking. We all knew that she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom who threw lavish dinner parties and fancy luncheons at her gorgeous ten-acre estate in the country. Just like Jane, she wanted two Labs running in her backyard, a garden that was right out of a Monet painting, an über-wealthy hottie for a husband, and identical twin boys who would gush over her like she was the Queen of England. I think deep down inside we all wanted what Wade wanted, but we knew that she would be the one to get it one day.

  “I did set the table though.” Wade had a little bistro table in the corner (aka, the dining nook) of her living room. Who knew Julia Child could prove her mastery in such a confining space? But she sure had tried! Pots were simmering and the oven was baking, making for a cozy warm space at least.

  “We're fine right here,” determined Tara who was perched upon the kitchen's Formica countertop in her spandex and sports bra. “Plus, Charlie has news. Spill it, C.”

  “What's in this?” interrupted Sage. She was standing over a dish that Syd had brought.

  “It's a Vidalia onion pie,” Syd replied.

  “A what?”

  “No really, it's divine. Basically, you make a crushed Ritz cracker crust with drizzled butter, and add a filling of chopped onions mixed with heavy cream—”

  “Stop right there! Ugh, the lbs!” moaned Sage in utter agony. “I thought you all wanted to lose weight! Lucky for you I brought something that's actually edible.” She put a pot on the table and lifted the lid. Scents galore wafted to the top of the nine-foot ceilings.

  “Mmm, smells good, Sage. What is it?” Wade asked as we all sat up to peak into the hot pot.

  “It's my special soup,” she began. Ugh. I needed a Big Mac, not soup. “I added some extra pepper, cilantro, a whole lot of salsa, and some other secret spices that I'll tell you about later.”

  “Spices? Is there anything of real substance to your soup? Like some big hunks of beef?” Tara laughed.

  “Spices are a dieter's delight!” Sage enthused. “But there is chicken. I call it Sage's Skinny Soup and girls, trust me, it's to die for if I do say so myself.”

  “I brought horseradish mashed potatoes,” I volunteered, holding out my covered plastic bowl. I was quite proud of the feat. Mashed potatoes required boiling, mashing, measuring, and whipping. Four steps. Oh, how I had grown since August! My cooking stock was rising.

  “Thanks!” said Sage as she lifted from my hand the blue bowl that contained my glorious potatoes. She then promptly lifted the lid of the garbage can and threw it in with a thunk. She wiped her hands on her jeans, as if cleansing them from filth.

  “What!” I screeched.

  “Mashed potatoes are definitely out this month and beans are in. Trust me, girls.”

  “But that is my contribution!”

  “Was. And I thank you, but your back fat doesn't,” chastised Sage. “You can still pass out your recipe card though.” I looked to the other girls for help, but they all shrugged, helpless in the face of Sage's dictatorship. We'd asked for her help, after all. Growing up, everyone had that one friend whose mother was not to be questioned and never to be doubted. Sage was going to be that kind of mother. I sipped my skinny soup in relative silence that night. I'd been on a diet for one day and I was already struggling. I hoped this New Year wouldn't be one of starvation. Couldn't I find a man to love my extra poundage as well as me?

  “So, did I tell you all that I have now perfected the art of going into work and functioning for the first half hour d
espite being still drunk?” Tara volunteered with the utmost pride. “I figure that hour is a trade-off for the fact that I don't take umpteen smoking breaks a day, because I don't smoke, and I don't take countless coffee breaks, because I don't gossip!” Macie snickered. “Well, not office gossip,” Tara countered to defend herself. “No one there has any gossip-worthy drama in their lives as far as I'm concerned.” We, on the other hand, always seemed to have drama in spades.

  “Can we bring on the meat?” Macie interrupted.

  “You mean because there is barely any in our soup tonight?” I retorted.

  “Hey, first of all,” Sage cut in, “it can be made in under thirty minutes. That's key when you live in the city. And secondly, it is healthy, nutritious, and within your recommended dietary constraints! What more could you ask for?”

  “‘Constraints' is right!” I grumbled.

  “I see at least two slices of pie on those hips, Miss Charlie!” I tried to hip check her in the booth, but when I felt my thigh flap, I shut up.

  “So Charlie …” Tara prompted again.

  “Yeah, how was the romantic dinner with Mr. You Know Who the other night?” Wade asked. “Did you make me proud?”

  I hung my head. “That would be a no?” she prodded.

  “A solid no.”

  “What happened? That recipe is foolproof!” My head snapped back up and I glared at her. Then I started to tell the story.

  To spice up the New Year, I had made a firm resolution to get back in the game and win Mr. J. P. Morgan's heart once and for all—or at least get him to my apartment on a regular basis that is. I wanted commitment, I wanted dates, I wanted love with a capital (and cursive) L. So far, he and I had only had one real date—and Macie had even called that one into question. I'd argued that it counted since food was involved. One morning after, we'd gone to the corner kiosk and grabbed some breakfast. He'd had a greasy egg sandwich and I'd ordered an egg- white omelet (which the counter man scorned). J. P. had paid (willingly, not because I couldn't find my wallet in my huge hobo bag) and we ate, sans plates, by the stacks of the New York Times. It was a date. He paid. We chatted. We ate. And, no alcohol was involved. (Note to self: Figure out when we should celebrate our first anniversary … which hook-up counts?)

  True, he had taken his keys back in the weeks before Christmas. But he'd shown up the first week of the New Year bearing pears. Okay, so he brought them for all of “the girls,” not just me, but I thought that was sensitive of him, not wanting to leave anyone out. Macie hinted that she thought they came from some office party fruit basket, but it is the thought that counts. Right? Plus they were nice pears; you know, the ones wrapped in gold foil with the box lined with that annoying green curly paper stuffing. And he did spend the night afterward, in my room, in my bed, and God help me if he didn't sleep like a baby.

  So in order to acknowledge all of Mr. J. P. Morgan's subtle efforts, I had decided to cook him dinner. A real home-cooked meal. I knew that he basically survived on frozen Egg McMuffins; his freezer was stocked with them (delivered of course). He and his roommates would take them out for any one of their three meals per day, nuke them, and stuff them down their throats. Needless to say, he needed a hearty meal that consisted of the basic five (or was it now six?) food groups.

  After a few months of the Cooking Club, I was confident that I could pull off some more sophisticated recipes, especially one of Wade's scrumptious yet simplistic casserole concoctions. Wade swore up and down that casseroles, those famous dishes from the seventies, were making a comeback. We all pretty much pooh-poohed the idea until she brought a casserole to dinner one night and changed our minds—delish! Now with Wade's recipe for her mother's famous artichoke casserole in my back pocket, my mom's dreams would be fulfilled. Mr. J. P. Morgan's hunger would be satisfied. Love would be in the air. Oh God, I hoped he liked casserole! I summoned up my courage and sent an e-mail.

  To: J.P.morgan

  From: Snoopy

  Subject: an invitation you can't refuse

  You.

  Me.

  Dinner at my apartment.

  Saran Wrap.

  (Not necessarily in that order.)

  To: Snoopy

  From: J.P.morgan

  Subject: Re: an invitation you can't refuse

  Yum (on all parts)! I'm in.

  I'd started my lovemaking mission in the kitchen. I whipped out the recipe card and examined Wade's very detailed instructions. Step one: Open cupboard and take out clean casserole dish (a white china one). Nuts, I was already off to a bad start. There was no casserole dish, or even a clean dish for that matter, in our cabinets. Strike one.

  I grabbed my bag and headed straight to the supermarket. Unfortunately, the chaos of Fairway, the mecca of supermarkets, overwhelmed me within minutes of entering. My first mission was to find a casserole dish. The nice store clerk directed me to aisle four for that fine little item. So far, so good. I then went in search of my main ingredient: artichoke hearts. I decided not to ask the same guy for help because I didn't want to seem like I was totally helpless, so I started going up and down the different aisles fighting many annoyed and agitated grocery shoppers. After ten minutes of searching aimlessly, I still hadn't found them. At first, I'd figured an artichoke was a vegetable, so I went to the canned veggie aisle. But after going up and down the shelves, they were nowhere to be found. I then ventured into the gourmet section and scrounged around the vats of olives. Still no artichokes. Flustered, bruised, and completely annoyed at this point, I threw in the towel and went back to the canned veggie aisle. I grabbed a couple of cans of green beans as a substitute and headed out of the chaos.

  On my way home, I stopped by the local wine store. During the late afternoon the wine stores in New York tended to have wine tastings and not being a wine connoisseur, I had decided to educate myself. Half an hour later, a tad tipsy, and with a box containing four wine bottles under my arm, I felt prepared. The wine store owner was a bit perplexed as to which wine was best served with a vegetable casserole, so I had bought two not-so-cheap bottles of white wine and two definitely-not-so- cheap bottles of red.

  The actual cooking process was not as traumatic as I thought. I had even scattered pieces of the Diva's toffee throughout the apartment for dessert—a bread crumb trail of sorts to my bedroom. Syd briefly burst my bubble when she came into the kitchen and asked what the green sticks peeking out of the casserole crust were.

  “Beans!” I shouted. “Didn't you ever have veggies as a child?”

  “Yeah, but I don't remember beans in Wade's recipe,” she said as she stuck her nose closer to the dish. Goddamn, kitchen police!

  “I couldn't find the artichoke hearts, so I grabbed beans,” I explained. When she gave me one of her glazed looks, I continued, “They're both green!”

  “Oh, right,” agreed Syd. But her obvious lack of faith gave me pause. Did I want to be in the same boat as Syd when a recipe began to sink?

  Later that night, Mr. J. P. Morgan had seemed amused as I fluttered about, apron over my plunging wrap top and new jeans. The mismatched wineglasses were a bit streaked, and the cloth napkins smelled of spray starch. But I plastered on a big grin as I brought out the bubbling casserole, teetering on my one pair of Manolo Blahniks.

  “You know, we could have just gone out,” he said. Well, of course we could have gone out to a restaurant, if he'd ever bothered to ask me. But he hadn't.

  “Oh, don't be silly. I'm loving this cooking stuff. I swear, I might become a pro someday.”

  “Are you Italian?” Why did men think that only Italian women could cook?

  “I think somewhere on my mom's side,” I lied. “I'm pretty much a mutt.” Then I winced. Way to go, Charlie. Equate yourself to a dog! I unfolded my napkin on my lap, unlike my dinner date, and watched him take a minuscule bite of the casserole. I waited …

  I knew I would see his eyes light up, his crooked grin widen, as he savored the taste of my exquisite meal. Unfortunately, his
eyes crossed a bit, and he choked back a laugh.

  “C, what's in this?” he asked.

  “It's a family secret,” I began.

  “Damn, girl, put it back in the vault!”

  What? What had gone wrong? I took a bite and almost choked, choked on my tears. It tasted nothing like Wade's dish had. There was a sour taste in place of the tangy zip. What could I have possibly done wrong? I looked up just in time to see Mr. J. P. Morgan blowing out the candles.

  “Come on, let's go out, my treat. Let's grab some burgers and catch the end of the game across the street,” he suggested, twirling on his scarf as if he were Cary Grant.

  “But this was supposed to be my treat!”

  “You can treat me later in bed,” he hinted with that impish grin of his. Under normal circumstances, I would have melted, but domestic ambition had gotten the better of me.

  “No, wait. I wanted to treat you to dinner,” I began.

  “Fine. Then you can grab the bill. Let's go,” he said as he held a coat out for me. Struggling to keep my feelings inside, and struggling to get my arms into Syd's too-small-for-me coat that he had erroneously grabbed from the hook, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Once there, I burst into tears. Macie, who was ensconced in her bedroom with the flu, snuck in behind me.

  “What happened?”

  “I don't know,” I cried, trying to retouch my now smeared mascara.

  “Did you follow the recipe?”

  “Yes! Well, almost.”

  “Oh, Charlie!”

  “I used green beans instead of artichokes. But they're both green!”

  “Yes, they are,” she sympathized. “But they're still different foods and that could change the flavor of the recipe, you know. Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie. You tried, and that's all that matters.”

  “I guess not because now he wants to go watch the game, and on top of it all, he somehow suggested that I pay for dinner!”