Spooning Read online

  “That woman is going to drive us all mad,” Tara moaned. “But,” she acquiesced, “I do love her!”

  “You know she's right, C.” Macie, my third roommate, appeared on the doorjamb wearing full workout gear and holding a glass of OJ.

  “Mace, where did you just come from?” I said observing her spandex and sweaty ponytail.

  “Oh, I went for a jog in the park and just did some abs and now I'm gonna hit the showers,” she said.

  Meet Macie, the queen of organization. The queen of time management. Always striving to be the best and look the best. She was absolutely perfect. Perfect, but in the sense that you couldn't hate her. Think petite, think perfectly put together. Voilà, Macie. She was our motivator. I often suspected that my mother wished that Macie was her child. Every time they saw one another, it was like I didn't exist.

  “Oh Macie, you look so wonderful!” my mother would coo.

  “Why hello, Mrs. Brown. You're looking just as marvelous as ever. Playing tons of tennis I can tell.” Their encounters usually made me want to puke. Throughout college, Macie was the one who never melted a hotpot or mistakenly bleached her laundry. She went to all her classes during school, took perfect notes, and even put those little tabs in her notebooks to categorize the notes by subject matter and date. Around finals time, we would all swarm around her like bees on honey, just to get a quick glimpse of them. Not surprisingly, she made straight A's and, more important, now already had a job here in the city (we'll get to my situation later). She was Super Woman reincarnated—she could even pull off the slutty panty-slash-gold-belt ensemble, if she was into that kind of thing (it was more Tara's territory). But beyond her “Perfect Woman” stigma, Macie was our protector and our voice of reason. When in doubt, you always asked Macie and she'd give you the straight-up answer from her heart.

  “You're the Energizer bunny,” I said. “I didn't even know you were gone.”

  “So what's the problem with your dear sweet mother? God, I love that woman,” she replied.

  “My mom thinks that I ought to take cooking classes. She thinks that it will get me a man,” I said.

  “She's right,” Macie said. “No man wants a girl who can't cook. It's simple fact. No cook, no guy. End of story.”

  “What? You think so? I mean, she does have a point, but you think that's still really important nowadays? The whole idea just sounds so 1950s-ish,” I grumbled. From afar, I could hear Syd singing the Flintstone's theme song. I wasn't about to face the reality that I needed to go domestic on my first day in New York City alone. This was a conversation to have with all the girls and a little liquid libation.

  “Is everyone around tonight?”

  I asked. “Yes,” all three replied in unison.

  “Great! I'm going to invite the other girls over. How does that sound?” I asked. Our other old college housemates, Sage and Wade (who already scored a job as well), had also moved to New York City right after graduation.

  “Sounds great.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Count me in!”

  “Y'all, we need a Cooking Club to solve this dilemma, not to mention to quell your mother's deepest fears!” Wade emphatically announced in that sweet southern accent of hers when we gathered that evening.

  “A Cooking Club? What the hell is that?” we all scoffed.

  Take the most undomesticated girls you could find, put them in the same neighborhood, and you'd have us six. But Wade was undeterred. A proper southern girl with a strong proclivity for sweater sets, thank-you notes, and separate monogrammed guest towels in the bathroom, she suggested that we “come together” once a month with a creative dish and recipe cards in hand. We'd “taste test” one another's dishes, then swap recipes.

  “Then what do we do with the recipe cards?” we all wondered (though it was actually Sydney who said it out loud).

  “My Latin teacher had us keep our index vocab cards in an old shoebox,” I suggested.

  “Or you could scrapbook them,” suggested Wade.

  “What kind of recipes? Oh, I'll make cheese and crackers!” yelled Tara.

  “Cheese and crackers do not qualify as a recipe or a dish,” Wade protested.

  “Wouldn't it be a dish if you put it on a platter or something?” Sydney reasoned. Syd had a way of stating the obvious and interpreting everything far too literally. She also had a habit of redundantly stating things twice (we soon came to call it her “ADD,” as in AdDendum Disorder—“I went to BC College!” she'd announce time and time again).

  “You have not had my ensemble of exotic cheeses, like the triple-cream brie,” Tara argued.

  “Maybe my mother can ship me some of her cannolis?” Syd asked.

  “No shipping and absolutely, I repeat, absolutely no delivery allowed, ladies,” Wade ruled. “You must always make or bake. No exceptions.” She was getting quite firm with these rules. She was a kindergarten teacher, and she was good at it. “Come on girls, let's make our mommas proud.”

  “I had a bad experience with a rule-ridden girls' club when I was little,” I began.

  “Oh and y'all, no photocopying of recipes,” continued Wade. “Actually, you should handwrite the recipes on the cards. That way you can add your own little flair to each one. And y'all know how I love a little flair. I sure as hell don't want this big city to take away my little ole southern sense of style.” Wade had that look on her face: the one she got when she dove into her ultracreative teacher mood zone. I could see flowered recipe cards of various colors adorned with stickers and glitter, and laminated in good firm plastic, floating above her head. I, for one, knew that my personal twists would probably be a bit scary for her. Boy, our little Scarlett O'Hara was in for a real treat with this crew.

  Ten minutes later, Wade had declared this powwow our first ever unofficial Cooking Club meeting. We might not all know how to cook, she proclaimed, but baby steps were just what the chef had ordered.

  “I think in honor of tonight, we should whip up a Cooking Club specialty!” Sage sang.

  “We already have a specialty? Damn, we're good!” Tara giggled. Sage swung open our fridge and stared, dismayed at the lack of contents. Then again, Skinny Sage always frowned and looked fraught with inner battles when she encountered visible signs of actual food.

  Syd laughed, “We just moved in!” But like Vanna in front of the letters, Sage proceeded to highlight the bare necessities that had already made it into our humble icebox: a half-empty bottle of club soda, a jar of pickles (Tara's obsession—she was going to be a scary pregnant woman), a crisper drawer full of lemons and limes (courtesy of Mom, ever worried about the “dressings”), and a bottle of rum chilling in the freezer.

  “How about some of Macie's Mojitos?” she threw out to us.

  “Sage, you read our minds,” Macie eagerly replied.

  Now Macie knows her mojitos, hence the name. She introduced us to her dirty little secret during our senior year. A mere drop of her sneaky cocktail concoction will tingle your spine. The sweet and sour juice had a way of wrapping itself around every inch of your tongue and making it swell with glee. It was like going to Disneyland for the first time. You couldn't sleep before it happened and you wanted more after you'd experienced it. It was deadly—really easy to make and really good going down. What a kickoff! What a recipe!

  “Hydration is important,” rationalized Macie. The mojito actually tasted sophisticated—tangy yet minty with ice clinking ever so delicately. So there we were, embarking on the virgin voyage of our Cooking Club. How fitting we had chosen alcohol as the main dish.

  By eleven o'clock all us roomies were piled into our barely there bathroom, mojitos in hand, for some last-minute adjustments before heading out. Macie brushed her Bright Smile pearly whites. Tara was bent over, meticulously rubbing raspberry lotion onto her perfectly shaped legs. And Syd was sipping her mojito on the toilet.

  “Mace, take off that top. You look like you're expecting!” Tara chided. Macie had put on an empire wa
ist, peasant-looking top. It was a pretty green color and looked good with her eyes, but the free-flowing material was a little much.

  “I'm not as trampy as you,” Macie countered.

  “I'm not telling you to be a ho, but I do think you should flaunt those abs you work so hard on.” Backward encouragement, but encouragement no less coming from Tara.

  “I work them so hard, because I don't have any. I am cursed with the McDougal middle,” explained Macie. She lifted the green chiffony thing and grabbed at the white flesh covering her stomach. “Pinch an inch …” she quoted gleefully with her fist full of fat. Truthfully, she really wouldn't have had much to pinch if she stood up straight and wasn't grabbing as if she had to hold on for dear life.

  “J. Lo wouldn't wear that top. J. Lo doesn't hide!” Tara had just recited one of our mantras. Macie nodded and turned back to her bedroom. If you ever wanted the last word among us all, you only had to somehow bring J. Lo into the mix. J. Lo. Those two simple words signified so much. Take a typical name like Jennifer, so American, so bland, so predictably the name you would find on a mug or a license plate key chain at a rest stop along Route 66. But now shorten it to a simple letter, and ta da! You have a superstar. Maybe my name could be shortened to C. C. Bro. But then again, I was no J. Lo. With her ample derriére and low-slung pants, J. Lo could shorten her name any way she damn well liked. And what a superstar—to have a big old bootie and never make one single excuse! Have you ever heard J. Lo complain that she missed the gym this week, or that she indulged in just a little too much Häagen-Dazs? As if! No, she swings that butt out there with pride. Every girl should take a lesson or two from her. Macie came back out in an adorable tube top.

  “Notice the placement of the wide black stripe,” she pointed to her midriff area, “Pure genius on the designer's part. Had to be a woman!” Ah, black—the essential color of New York City.

  It was our first night out. No curfew, no homework, no worries, no nothing. It was our maiden voyage as single, soon-tobe professional ladies and we were on the prowl looking for love, drinks, and some Top 10 cheesy songs to ease our minds. Pink might say, “I'm coming out.” Well, we were already out and ready to go … ready to get this party started right.

  Part of me felt silly being so excited about all these “firsts.” But you have to understand, for some of us, the only thing we had to get excited about back at school was the fact that “drink or drown” at the local bars started at 4:30 P.M. sharp on Fridays. For ten bucks, you could drink either really watered-down beer or imbibe on the themed shots of the evening (with such charming names as the Buttery Nipple or the Blow Job). Can you tell the oh-so-clever bartenders were of the male species? Overall, the whole “drink or drown” thing was pretty gross. The end result was that seven plastic beer cups later, you either felt really bloated or really tanked. Neither of which was really attractive. But we did it for four years and, by golly, we never missed a night.

  We ended up at the bar around the corner from our humble abode, Top Shelf. Tuning out all the Top 10 cheesy music, shot glasses hitting the bar, and sultry whispers from boy to girl, I sat back and gazed at the endless possibilities life now had to offer. As I watched a girl daintily feed bar nuts into a cute boy's mouth, I had to consider that Mom could be right—the way to a man's heart might be through his stomach. Perhaps it was time to be proactive. I had lost too many possible boyfriends in college by not calling them back. My mother had never allowed me to make a call if the intended recipient was of the male species, but now that I was out on my own and an adult, I was going to be a hunter. So I began to assess the prospects at Top Shelf and immediately felt glum … How was I ever to find a desirable boyfriend/husband? I had grown up on Disney movies. I was waiting for my Prince Charming. Dark hair or blond … made no difference to me. But I was too cognizant of those random flaws that shouldn't matter. That one over there had a mole beneath his ear, the one by the stairs was biting his nails, the one talking to Tara had a bit of a mullet. (Hockey hair is so undesirable.) I knew that Prince Charming only existed in the movies, but what did I give up on? Where did I compromise?

  As the night wore on, I thought about the road that lay ahead. Robert Frost said, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by …” Okay, so moving to NYC had not been so original, but I was determined to make my own path in this world from here on out. Although, as I felt myself getting sleepy, my current concern became finding my way back to my new apartment. What was my address again? Two roads diverged … and I was lost. The bar door opened to the sticky August night and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. But then the girls beckoned me back to do another shot at the end of the bar. Tara had her arm around Syd's neck—was it a friendly buddy gesture or a you-will-drink wrestling hold? There was a change in the air, like the wind shift in Mary Pop-pins. I looked at the dark sky and hoped for sunshine the next day. For the moment though, I was content to step back inside and bask in the amber glow (kind of like sunshine) of the numerous Amstel Light bottles lined up before us as we bonded.

  Ever So Creamy Cheesecake

  Easy Crust

  Buy a ready-made graham cracker pie crust at grocery store

  Filling

  1 pound cream cheese (two 8-ounce packages)

  1 cup sugar

  3 teaspoons vanilla

  2 large egg yolks, beaten

  ½ pint sour cream

  Preheat the oven to 350° F. Mix the cream cheese, ¾ cup of the sugar, 2 teaspoons of the vanilla, and the egg yolks together. Pour the filling into the crust and bake for 17 minutes.

  Take the cake out of the oven and let it stand for 10 minutes to cool. Raise oven temperature to 450°F.

  Mix together the sour cream, and the remaining ¼ cup of sugar and 1 teaspoon of vanilla. Spread this mixture on top of the cheesecake. Return to the oven and bake for 5 minutes. Be sure not to let the top brown.

  Cool thoroughly, then refrigerate for a few hours and serve to your best friends with a smile.

  “Hey!” I whispered. Okay, need to raise it up a notch. “Hey!!” I whispered/screamed. “I'm being robbed … raped … pillaged and plundered! Psst!” Not one bruncher sitting outside at the restaurant in front of our building raised their hollandaise-sauce stuffed faces. I, in my pajamas and Earl Jean jacket (last-minute save), was leaning precariously over the rusty fire escape railing. I knew he, my assailant-rapist- murderer-arsonist-robber, would be throwing himself through my front door any minute. One more try, “Hey, help me!”

  Where was the whistle, or at least a can of mace to throw on one of the daft brunchers' heads when you needed one? I grabbed my cell phone. 9–1-1-CALL …

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” She had such a calm voice in my moment of despair.

  “There is this man, a man trying to get into my apartment. He has a scratchy voice and is dressed in blue.” I am such a detail-oriented person. As I proceeded to describe my would- be assailant, I pointed my left foot, reached down to the third rung, and grabbed the side rail with my right hand, while still holding my cell phone. (Note to self: Must get out of bed more often in time for those Lean and Lengthen classes.) I was ready to glide down the fire escape ladder, a modern-day, urban Grace Kelly. But as I lunged downward, my Chinatown tiger slipper dropped onto the plate of one of the brunchers. He looked up as if expecting rain, but then jumped up to catch me as I dangled from the bottom rung. Did anyone realize that fire escape ladders do not reach anywhere near the safe ground? As I finished up with the very nice emergency woman, I spun around, safe on the ground, only to find my assailant standing in front of me.

  “Ahhhhh!” I screamed as only a woman can. Out from the front door popped the superintendent of my building.

  “Charlotte!” my super interrupted. “This is Eduardo.” Great, now I had a name to put with his mug shot. “Eduardo is your utilities man.”

  “My what man?”

  “The Consolidated Edison worker. He came to read your me
ter!” See how sick that sounds? “Your electric meter.”

  Two squad cars pulled up with the lights and sirens blaring. New York cop cars have two types of sirens. They have one annoying siren when they are “in pursuit” and another when they are “merely responding” to a call. Two cops got out, one of whom had his hand on his holster.

  “Con Ed man? You?” I shouted as I spun around. My assailant nodded demurely. “Well, what was up with the scary- as-hell voice?”

  “What scary voice?” he asked sounding as smooth as Barry White. The cops were looking rather confused.

  “That one … I mean, well, what the hell is up with the jean jacket? What Con Ed man wears a jean jacket? Don't you have a name label? It's eighty degrees out, for God's sake! Who wears a stonewashed jean jacket?” I demanded. I turned to the cop, “What Con Ed man services without an official uniform? They should all wear an official uniform you know.” I wrapped my Earl jacket tighter. The second cop had realized that he did not need to pull his gun and shifted his attention to the restaurant's brunch menu. By now all of the brunchers were paying attention. Funny how whispered screams of help did no good, but if you pointed out a fashion faux pas all New Yorkers snapped to attention.

  My morning antics were the topic of conversation at our own late afternoon Sunday brunch. Some call Sunday the Sabbath, while others call it a day of rest. It's considered by Christians to be the holiest day of the week. Whatever your religion tells you to observe on Sunday, we here in New York celebrate it a little differently. We gather and congregate at various outdoor cafes and eateries and celebrate the almighty brunch. The service typically begins around noon and can go on for hours, especially if Bloody Marys or Mimosas are involved. While many repent their sins through prayer, we here in the city eat and drink them away.

  Growing up, the biggest day of the week for my family had been Sunday. Sunday was the day the entire family went to church, and better yet, went out to brunch afterward. And for somebody who preached the godliness of refined culinary skills, my mother really lived for Sundays. If this was a day of rest for the one up above, by golly, this was a day of rest for her too. She'd be damned if she would cook, clean, or do anything else on this day. I learned at an early age that Sunday was the day to repent and to stuff our faces, which I guess meant that I was destined to be a New Yorker.