Whenever I cook, I think of Missy Mandelbaum. She was the only kid in the Shake, Bake, and Make elective back in my old school who got an A-plus. I wish she were here now to help me prepare this meal. It may turn into a dinner my father will never forget because it’ll be the pits.
I’m not a fantastic cook—or even a good one. In fact, I’m a pretty lousy cook. I’ve been trying, but it’s not easy.
Before the divorce I helped out in the kitchen, but helping out is not the same as making an entire meal.
How do people get complicated meals together, set the table, and smile at the same time?
I started out my cooking career after I returned from camp. Macaroni and cheese from the package was my first solo attempt. “Not bad,” my father said, so I made it every night for three nights. “Boring,” he said, so I made it the next time with tuna fish, thinking maybe he wouldn’t notice that I was still using boxed macaroni and cheese.
He noticed. He also read the ingredients on the package.
“Enough” was his response.
Now I’m trying out new menus, but there have been several disasters, like the time the recipe said “Blend the salad” and I threw it in the blender. That night we had salad soup.
I want everything to be special tonight, to celebrate Rocky’s release and going to the Café Expresso to listen to live music.
The main course is easy. Cheese fondue. The bread cubes are cut and the cheese is grated. All I have to do is melt the cheese down with some wine in the chafing dish. The vegetables are cut and ready to steam. The salad is made, tossed—not thrown in a blender.
It’s the dessert that’s driving me nuts. My father loves mocha Bavarian cream, even if he is trying to stay away from sweets. It should be easy to make. My mother never had any problems with it. The recipe calls for two tablespoons of strong coffee and heavy cream. I’ve used the beaters on it, but it looks pretty weird.
I put my finger in the mixture and lick it.
It tastes pretty weird.
Times like this (and other times), I miss my mother.
She’s out of town on a job and left a number to call in case of emergencies.
This dessert is a disaster.
Disasters are emergencies.
Therefore I can call her.
I dial the number my mother’s given me.
I ask the person who answers to please put my mother on the phone.
The voice that answered sounded southern. I sometimes wonder about the people my mother decorates for. What they look like . . . what their houses looked like before . . . what they look like after she’s done . . . . Sometimes I resent the people because my mother has to meet with them when it’s convenient for them—like on a weekend I’m supposed to spend with her.
Finally my mother comes to the phone. “Phoebe, what’s wrong?”
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “How are you?”
“Out of breath from running to get to this phone.” She takes a deep breath. “Is everything all right? Are you okay? Has anything happened to your father?”
I realize that I’m probably going to be in deep trouble for making this call. “Mom, everything’s okay. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to make mocha Bavarian cream and I’m having trouble. I need your help.”
There’s a long pause, a very long pause.
“Mom, you don’t have to help me if you don’t have time,” I say.
“You shouldn’t have called me at a client’s home unless it was an emergency. I was frightened to death. You should be more responsible.”
“I’m sorry.”
There’s another pause and then a sigh. “Okay, just don’t do it again.”
“I promise,” I say. “And, Mom, I guess I just wanted to talk to you. I miss you.”
As I say that, I realize it’s true. I do miss her. Whenever I’m with one parent, even if I’m having fun, there are times when I miss the other one.
She calms down. “I know, but you should have called tonight at the hotel, not here. Use the emergency numbers just for that.”
“I promise. Honest.” Sometimes parents think they have to tell you something twelve times before it sinks in.
“Now, as long as you’ve already gotten me out of the consultation, tell me what the problem is with the recipe.”
I explain. “I took out the coffee beans, ground them up, and put them in the cream and beat them. The mixture tastes awful, gritty and yucky, not the way it is when you make it.”
She laughs. “Phoebe, you’re supposed to make the coffee first and then put in two tablespoons of liquid. That’s what went wrong.”
No wonder.
I feel like a real airhead.
She keeps laughing.
That doesn’t help.
Finally she stops and says, “Don’t feel bad. It happens to all of us. When I first got married, I wanted to make your father a lemon meringue pie. The recipe said to beat the egg whites. I boiled the eggs first and tried to beat them. How was I supposed to know you were supposed to beat them raw? So don’t feel bad.”
We talk for a few minutes more, then she says, “I’ve got to go. They’re trying to decide whether to furnish the rec room in Art Deco or Hi-tech. Every time I do a job in the suburbs, I swear that I’ll never do another.”
The suburbs on a Sunday—I wonder if she’s caught poison ivy yet.
We tell each other that we love each other and then hang up.
I remake the dessert, brewing the coffee first. This time it works.
The dinner’s a success. My father loves it.
As we’re eating dessert I tell him that I called my mother.
“How’s Kathy doing?” he asks quietly.
“Fine. Busy. Working hard.” I pour myself more milk. “She told me how to make the dessert right. I goofed it up at first.”
He smiles. “She always was good in the kitchen. Except for a few early disasters.”
“Like the lemon meringue? She told me about that.”
He takes more dessert. “Did she tell you about the time I tried to make a meat loaf?”
“No. I think she was kind of busy.”
“I put hard-boiled eggs in it.”
“That sounds right to me,” I say.
“Without taking the shells off first?”
“No wonder you gave up red meat.”
“It was for your mother’s twenty-third birthday. She was pregnant with you. It was my first attempt at making anything that wasn’t barbecued. She was so good about it, smiled as she picked the shells out of her teeth.”
“Sounds like it was fun in a weird way.”
“It was.” He sighs. “There were some really good times between your mother and me. It’s a shame it changed.”
I just sit still, folding my paper napkin into a tiny square.
He looks at me. “The good memories and the fact that we have you make it worthwhile, Phoebe.”
I put the napkin down and pat him on the hand. “Maybe it could still work out if you both really tried.”
“We really did try, honey. It was no one’s fault. I married someone who fit right in with the way I was brought up. Only one day I realized I didn’t want to live the way I was brought up. Look, let’s not talk about it. I’ll do the dishes. You better get changed if we’re going to leave in half an hour. Thanks for the dinner. You did a great job.”
I look down at my clothes. They’ve got mocha Bavarian cream and coffee grounds spattered all over. That’s because I turned on the beaters before I put them into the mixture. Gunk all over my new clothes. Now I’ll have to wash them before wearing them to school. That’s okay though. New clothes always have to look used to look right.
While I’m changing I think about the marriage and the divorce. I do that a lot.
I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it and it won’t hurt so much.
I hope so.