Spooning (21 page)

E
xhausted 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 despite 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.

T
o 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.

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.