THE NEXT MORNING I DIDN’T BURN THE OATMEAL. Instead I took it off too early and served up cold oats al dente. The whole experience was getting too close to Cold Comfort Farm. If not for the kids’ forgiveness and gentle teasing, I might have hurled the pot—regardless of the damage and subsequent apologies.
“You know,” Danny said, “I don’t like oatmeal anyway.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“You were so excited about the almonds and the strawberries.”
I smiled. Then like the indomitable Flora Poste, he requested toast.
“That’s not enough for breakfast, ‘Robert Poste’s child.’ ”
“Who?”
“She’s the pragmatic modernist in Cold Comfort Farm, and she likes toast.”
Danny looked lost.
“Never mind.” I chuckled and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.
“You laugh at your own jokes a lot.”
His comment stopped me. “I guess I do. Most of them I say to myself. I’m at work most of the time, and I don’t joke much there.”
“Why not?”
“Hmm . . . ’cause I’m the boss, I guess.” I snatched up the toast.
“This is a little boring, but I’ve got just the thing for tomorrow.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“W—”
Kate cut across Danny’s next question. “Aunt Elizabeth, we’re going to be late.”
I spread peanut butter across the toast and shoved it into their hands. “Move.”
They both stared at the toast, then back at me.
“Come on. Eat and run.” I turned them around and pushed them toward the door. I caught Danny throw Kate a look that shouted, She does not know what she’s doing! He was right.
I stood on the porch and watched them book it across the blocks to school. Danny’s backpack swung back and forth, threatening to topple him, and Kate snatched bites between strides.
With the kids out the door, I headed to the guest room and remembered that Dad had upped our departure. No breakfast surprise. My heart sank into my stomach. Danny mattered to me, and I was about to let him down. And Kate? She didn’t smile much, and that made me sad.
I sat on the bed and absorbed the mess of clothing sprawled before me—mounds of flats, boots, sweaters, blouses, leggings, and indescribable junk. It reminded me of the day I had left home—I closed my eyes—almost half a lifetime ago. While all my high school friends celebrated at graduation parties, I headed home and packed—everything in my closet. I’d been admitted to a summer program at the Institute of Culinary Education and then to a college nearby. I told everyone I was going for the summer and I would return for the month before college started, but it was a lie. I knew that once gone I would stay gone. And as it turned out, the communication between the coasts was so terse and infrequent that I had no incentive to return. It felt as if Dad hadn’t noticed my absence at all.
I snatched shoes and sweaters from the floor, feeling that same sense of loss. But it wasn’t the same—couldn’t be. I wasn’t running away. This wasn’t home, and Jane didn’t need me. I’d done my duty, and now I needed to focus on Feast. Wasn’t that the whole point of this trip in the first place—to feel alive about cooking again?
But where could I go to do that? Hood River with Dad? His life and fire safety presentations held no room for me. He loved me, I knew, but we didn’t hold more than that between us. We didn’t talk. We didn’t relate. Return to Feast? Not yet. My one meal here constituted a complete failure. I needed to show Paul more.
Dad poked his head in. “Ten minutes?”
“Dad?” I flopped on the bed, defeated. “I can’t go.”
“Where? Home?”
“Anywhere.” My voice cracked.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I’ll go back to Hood River and turn in your rental. You stay here.”
“With Jane? That’s not what I meant. I could find a kitchen somewhere. I just need to cook.”
“You need to stay here.” Dad’s look disarmed me. “My girls are hurting. Both my girls.”
I opened my mouth to protest and closed it again.
“It’ll also give me an excuse to come back on Saturday. Jane needs more help than she’ll admit.” Dad leaned down, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out of the room.
I still had no words when Dad pulled out of the driveway minutes later. I tripped forward, perhaps to run after the car. I’ll never know . . .
“Elizabeth, right?”
I spun around. Nick, the guy from the park, stood close behind me.
“Yes.”
“Is Jane here?”
“She’s still asleep. Was she expecting you?”
“No worries. We planned to meet tomorrow. I just wanted to bring her these.” He stretched a brown paper bag in front of him.
I expected something light by the way he held it, but my arm dropped with the weight. “What is it?” I opened the bag, and the scent of apples, sweet and ripe, wafted up. They were brown and shriveled and resting in a Pyrex bowl. The sight was incongruent with the wonderful fragrant smell.
“I have a fantastic tree, cooking apples really—too tart to eat. But I freeze a lot. Jane mentioned last week that she loved applesauce, so I defrosted my last batch for her. They make the best applesauce I’ve ever had.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know how to make applesauce?”
“I can figure it out.”
“It’s super easy; just add sugar and stew them over a low heat.”
And cinnamon? You should also add nutmeg or a little chili, but not too much. I shrugged and simply said, “Thank you.” I wasn’t feeling much like a chef or like talking. I glanced down the road. Dad was gone.
“You’re welcome.” He paused. “Are you okay?”
I turned to find him staring at me. “Fine. Why?”
“You . . . you look lost.”
“I’m fine.” My words lacked conviction.
Nick smiled, and I noticed his eyes crinkle in the corners. “I almost didn’t recognize you, you know?”
“Why’s that?”
He wiggled a finger up and down, drawing lines from my head to my toes. I looked down. I was wearing jeans and an oversize sweatshirt of Peter’s I’d grabbed from the hall closet, and I stood barefoot.
“Yes?” I arched my tone, daring him to comment.
The grin disappeared. “You look . . . different.” Nick paused and we stared at each other. His eyes softened, and I reinforced my glare until he shifted his gaze. He broke contact first as he turned to walk away. Four strides and he called over his shoulder, “Thanks for passing those along.”
I turned and stalked back into the house, now angry—not about what he’d said, but about how I’d treated him. Then my next thought stopped me dead in my tracks: Jane doesn’t know I’m still here. I pulled the apples from the bag, hoping they might ease the shock. I was also impressed at how quickly Nick must have frozen them last fall and how well he’d done the job. They still retained a firm skin and texture.
I set them to slow cook with salt, pepper, sugar, cinnamon, and a scant touch of nutmeg. Very traditional. Very English. I looked around the kitchen. The anticipation of confronting Jane, of nothing to do for a few days, of failure, made me jittery, and I tried to formulate a list. I came up with nothing, so I started straightening Jane’s house: the kids’ scattered clothing; Peter’s books; Jane’s keys, tissues, mugs, glasses . . .
It reminded me of our house growing up. Mom was cluttery as well—and I might be, too, but for Suzanne, my dear borderline OCD roommate. I’d migrated her direction to keep the peace in our tiny apartment over the past four years, and it had worked—a serene apartment and a more organized kitchen at work. Now, faced with clutter everywhere, including my eruption in the guest room, I laughed at how foreign but comforting it felt.
I paused in the living room. The sun’s rays shot over Lake Washington and ignited the room’s beige walls, warming them from ginger to gold. New York had been cloudy this spring, and I’d been cloudy with it, but in this moment all my cloudy spaces felt ablaze with light. Jane’s Red Sunshine comment bounced before me.
What will the blaze find in me? The thought came unbidden to my mind. In New York such thoughts didn’t break in over work, traffic, and chaos, but in Jane’s living room I had no list, no restaurant, no friends, and now no clutter. I sipped my coffee and snuggled into the couch as I watched the light bounce off flecks of dust in the air, making it look like fairy dust dancing around me.
I chuckled. This fairy dusting would upset Jane. She’d take it as a sign that her housekeeping, her work ethic, and her life weren’t up to snuff. Just like when she said she was letting her clients down and had to give up her business. Jane was a pro at self-flogging.
Another thought crept in. How different am I? I knew how to hurt Jane because I knew what would hurt me. For years I’d defined myself by my work, my skills, my résumé, and my restaurant. Without that, what was left?
I reached for my phone and texted Suzanne: JANE IS MESSY. YOU’D GO NUTS. I’VE PICKED UP EVERYTHING AND NOW I’M BORED. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
She replied: IT’S NOON. MARKET WELL UNDERWAY. SUPER BUSY. ENJOY YOUR BOREDOM. IT’S CALLED VACATION.
Clearly I couldn’t bug her. So I texted Tabitha: VACATION IS TOO QUIET. ALL GOOD THERE?
She replied immediately: I’M HEADING TO FEAST NOW—PREPARING MORE BROTH. KEEPING LOBSTER RISOTTO WITH SAFFRON ON MENU FOR COUPLE MORE DAYS. LOVE THAT DISH. OTHERWISE A TYPICAL DAY. GO HAVE FUN.
If I wanted out of exile, I needed to recapture my zing. So I quit pestering people and returned to the applesauce. It smelled delicious and comforting; the nutmeg played against the tart of the apple and the sweet of the brown sugar. Nick came to mind. Jane would appreciate the apples—his apples—as I had appreciated the flattering light dancing in his eyes and the tone of his voice . . . before I’d shot him down.