by Cathy Lamb
Some families watch movies together. Some families drink together. Some families camp. We bake cakes. And eat them. The eating is the best part.
“Chloe,” I said, “would you hand me the buttermilk?”
She handed me pepper. My grandma couldn’t hide her laugh as she added marshmallows and coconut to a mixture. Chloe seemed confused by Grandma’s laughter.
“Anyhow, I’m thinking about getting a boob job to get littler knockers. Look how mongo these suckers are.” She lifted up her shirt. I have seen her girls before. They are impressive. “They hurt. I can’t run because my boobs will hit me in the face and knock me out. I can’t golf because the girls get in the way of my swing. Last time I tried to golf I was afraid my boobs were coming off with the ball. I’ve got porn star boobs and I don’t want porn star boobs.”
“Then have them reduced, Nutmeg,” my grandma said. “Can you hand me a fork, Chloe?”
Chloe opened a drawer, pulled out a carrot peeler, and gave it to my grandma. My grandma said, “Thank you, dear,” and Chloe said, “You’re welcome, Grandma.”
“There’s a problem with reduction.” My sister sat down on a stool. “I don’t like the idea of a knife on my girls.”
“Don’t think about knives,” my mother said, “think about how freeing it’ll feel to get the udders reduced.”
“Right,” Chloe said. “Not so cowlike then.” She tapped her beer bottle on each boob.
The cake batter was done, and my grandma and I poured it into four pans, as it would be four layers. I handed two of the pans to Chloe. “Can you put these in the oven?”
“Sure, Olivia.” She took the pans and put them on the kitchen table. Grandma laughed. Chloe seemed confused, once again, by the laughter. I went behind her back and put them into one of my mother’s two ovens.
“Yeah. I might have to take the girls down a notch,” Chloe said, holding her boobs up with both hands and staring down at them. “I mean, the men go crazy when they see them. Crazy. They lose it. I don’t blame them. Look at these. If I were a man I’d lose it, too.”
“They’re eyeball catchers,” I said.
My grandma said, “But you do a nice job of not flaunting them around and about.”
Chloe always wore high-collar shirts and sweaters.
“Drives them crazier still, Grandma. They can’t see ’em, they can’t touch ’em, they can only envision what’s underneath. The men.” She waved her beer around. “They can’t stay sane.”
We laughed, even though Chloe was semi-serious.
We cleaned up. Then we had wine and waited for the cake to bake. Later we’d ice it and drop the coconut and chocolate chips on the top layer with the girls. Our tradition with this cake was to yell, “Giddyap, cowgirl! Get that carefree cow!” and clink our milk glasses together before we ate it. It was going to be delicious. The smell of Carefree Cowgirl Coconut Chocolate Cake wafted through our home.
Measure. Mix. Stir. Whip. Bake.
There’s something comforting about good old fashioned cake.
* * *
I walked Chloe out to her car that evening.
“Chloe, I have to talk to you.”
“I know.” She turned and put a hand on my shoulder.
“You know?”
“Yes. You have to talk to me about how you shut me out of your life when you lived here that last year, and when you moved to Portland, and how that banged up my heart and my head and hurt my feelings and made me feel sad and lonely.”
“Yes.” That was exactly it. “Chloe, I am sorry. I was so depressed here, for so long. I could hardly get up. I lost it.”
“I know, but you had me. I’m your sister. I’m your best friend, and you cut me out like you’d cut the fat off a steak. You cut me out like you’d cut a sausage out of an apple pie because I know you don’t like sausage. You cut me out like you’d cut a rat out of a bag of caramel morsels.”
I paused on the graphicness of her rant. She is creative. “I did. I had nothing in me, Chloe. I am so sorry.” I put my hands to my face, so ashamed of what I’d done, so guilty for the pain I’d caused her, and she pulled them away and we went nose to nose, like when we were kids, and held hands.
“I’m sorry, too, Olivia. We’ve both been through bad times. Like moths trapped in bottles and the bottles are being shaken up and down. Like we used to do when we were kids. Those moths had a bad time getting all shook up, and we had bad times.”
“Yes.” I sniffled and snorted. “We did.” I told her I was sorry, again.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” She cupped my face with her hands. “I know what happened to you, and one apology is more than enough. Let’s bake a cake together, you and me, all right? You and me. A healing cake. Something with layers and layers of icing. I have to feed this two-hundred-pound proud woman. Men like stuff to hold, which is what you don’t have, skinny chicken. We’ll bake a cake together again and fatten you right up so you can curve like me.” She tapped my nose with hers.
“I think that’s a sweet idea, sister.”
“Me too. Love you, Olivia, you bow-and-arrow-shooting warrior woman.”
“Love you, too, Chloe, you tough-talkin’, hip-rockin’ Montana woman heroine.”
* * *
Chloe is a heroine. She saves people all the time as a paramedic and a search and rescue helicopter pilot. She has people who have seriously said they would die for her because she saved their son/daughter/wife/husband.
They mean it.
* * *
I had arranged for painters to come immediately to Larry’s. Larry would pay time-and-a-half to get them working into the night. I had new floors, toilets, and sinks put in the staff and customer bathrooms. The old ones were cesspools of goopy germs. Larry whined about the cost until I told him that his restaurant was so off the charts for a lack of sanitation it was surprising no one had died eating his food. Undoubtedly he got the money from his mommy, but that was not my business.
I had the carpet ripped out and new fake wood put in. I had new lights hung over each table and bought tablecloths to cover the ugly brown. I bought candles and vases for flowers for each table. I ripped down all the dusty curtains. The new décor was now Montana cowboy. I hung cowboy hats and huge photos of Montana and cowgirls and cowboys. I hired a cleaning service.
Most important, I revamped the menu. I made it smaller, better.
I made Earl, Justin, Dinah, and Larry a meal. Tossed salad with a strawberry vinaigrette, chicken sandwiches with avocado and a secret sauce I concocted, and crisp onion rings stacked up into a tower. Montana mountain food with elegance, which is how they like it here.
“Best food I’ve ever had,” Earl said.
“Me too, ma’am,” Justin said.
Dinah said, “This is dang tasty.” Dinah is twenty-three and named after her grandma, a showgirl in Vegas. Today she had a purple streak through her platinum-colored hair and a lot of black makeup. She went to school at the local university and was studying engineering.
“I needed a job and that’s why I’m here,” she whispered to me when the men weren’t listening. “Glad you’re here. We need sanity to balance out the dick.” She pointed to Larry.
We laughed.
Larry smacked his sausage lips over the sandwich. I’ve never liked sausage. “Not bad, Chef Feisty. I’ll keep you on for another day.”
Larry’s a jerk, but I had a paycheck. I would move on as soon as I could. But first I had to keep Larry in business so I could keep myself in business.
* * *
“How was school today?” I poured Lucy and Stephi glasses of chocolate milk when we got home early Tuesday evening. Lucy accidentally knocked her glass over and started crying. The milk spilled onto my red cotton shirt with embroidered flowers I’d bought in Mexico, my black skirt, my wool leggings, and down into my red cowgirl boots.
“I don’t have any friends,” Lucy said. She put her hands to her face, her blond curls all over.
“I don’t th
ink anyone likes me,” Stephi said, those deep brown eyes despairing. She took a few rocks out of her pocket and fiddled with them. They’re like her worry beads.
“I sat by myself at lunch.” Lucy cried into her new glass of chocolate milk. “Someone said my sandwich smelled like poop and they didn’t want to sit with poop.”
That sandwich was one of her favorites: egg salad with celery. It did not smell like poop. I ached for her. Sitting all alone with a poopy-smelling sandwich.
I had arranged for the girls to go to after-school classes when school got out at three o’clock. I knew they would rather come home, but it is what it is. I work. I’m a single mother. We can’t all do what we want.
Monday they had art, Tuesday and Thursday they had indoor soccer, and Wednesday was science class. On Friday my grandma said she would leave the clinic early and pick them up for Grandma Gisela and Granddaughter time. They were thrilled. They knew that meant cooking treats with Grandma Gisela in her kitchen at the farmhouse.
But a new school is tough stuff for kids.
“I sat by a boy at lunch who flipped up my skirt and I hit him and he told the teacher I hit him and she said, ‘Violence is never the way, Stephi’ and I said, ‘If he doesn’t flip up my skirt, then I won’t have to be a violent girl,’ and she gave me a mean look and seemed confused and I said is he getting in trouble for flipping up my skirt and she said yes. I told him not to do it again, but everyone likes Damon so now no one likes me.”
“It takes time, girls.” I reached out and held their hands. “You’ll make friends. Smile. Say hello. Be kind. Ask kids questions about themselves. Do they have pets? Do they have sisters or brothers? Then you can ask if they want to come over here and play.”
“I think I want to move back to Portland, Aunt Olivia,” Stephi said. “Where I had friends who wanted to eat lunch with me and didn’t treat me like I’m invisible.”
“I do, too, Aunt Olivia. A girl named Bella said I look like a blond doll. I think it means I look weird. Do you think I look weird?”
“I don’t think anyone liked my rock collection, but I like my rocks.” Stephi took more rocks out of her pockets.
They both burst into tears, and I pulled them into my lap. I knew they were upset about school, and friends, and I knew they still, every day, missed their grandmother, Annabelle.
The part about parenting that I didn’t know, but have learned quickly, is how your heart can break when your children are sad/lost/lonely/left out.
Even after being their mom for only six months, my heart felt bigger with love, but definitely beat up and battered.
* * *
I dropped the girls off at my mother’s two nights later at her request. She was going to crack open an anatomy book so they could get a “head start” on medical school. “I couldn’t get my daughters to become doctors, maybe I can with my granddaughters. It’s like I’m being given a second chance at medical fulfillment. Do you think the girls will want to take over the clinic when they’re older?”
* * *
Larry had few customers when we reopened a week later. One was drunk, one was homeless, one was a friend of his who made weird grunts and squeaked, as if he were swallowing mice as he ate.
I knew I wouldn’t have a job if Larry didn’t have more customers. I whipped up some omelets with mushrooms, a mix of cheeses, chives, avocados, diced tomatoes, and a few shakes of salt, pepper, and paprika. I put the samples in tiny plastic containers and added a plastic fork to each one.
I grabbed my red ski jacket and gave away the samples outside, from a tray, the sky blue, the air freezing cold, the snow piled up. I saw tons of people whom I knew from childhood, from school, and as my mother’s and grandparents’ friends. They hugged me, and we laughed. They did express some surprise, quickly covered, that I was working for Larry. It was demoralizing. It was humiliating. It was my reality.
No, I didn’t like coming home and working at a dive like Larry’s. But I needed the job, needed the money, and it was what it was. My grandma taught me this: When things aren’t going your way, smile harder. It will get better.
I smiled harder. Several people said, “Are you and Jace getting back together, honey? Ruthie Teal told Hank and Hank told his cousin Lou Lou, and Lou Lou told me that you two were together one night when she was cleaning her gun.”
I told them no, and they said, “That’s a shame . . . That makes me sad in my heart . . . I wish you two would try again . . .”
And “Olivia, did you know that Ruthie has a boyfriend? He’s younger.”
I smiled harder and handed them another sample. Put something in their mouth, maybe they will shut it.
Larry finally waddled his bulky self outside and bellowed, “What are you doing, little lady, giving away my food for free? You think I’ve got money up my behind?”
“That is a disgusting image, Larry. Don’t ever talk to me in a way that gives me a disgusting image.”
Larry continued to be surprised when I pushed back. He, with his bullying ways and his momma’s money, was used to dominating people. “Who works for who here?”
“I work for you. When your mother comes down from her mansion and tastes the food that I’m making, she’ll be glad that you’re making money. Maybe you can start paying her rent.”
Larry’s eyes bulged. “I pay rent.”
“No, you don’t.” I saw the truth in his eyes. “I’m giving away food to show people there’s a new chef here and that you’re not serving the usual slop crap. You want business, you have to show people you’ve changed.” I handed him a sample. “Here.”
He liked it. He dragged his grunting anteater self back inside.
So I stood outside Larry’s Diner and handed out samples. Wasn’t long before we had more people inside the restaurant. Justin and Larry and I were cooking, and Earl and Dinah were waiting tables. I sent Justin out now and then to help with coffee and water and trips back and forth for condiments. Larry actually could move quick when yelled at.
We stayed open for breakfast and lunch and closed at three o’clock.
“We stay open for dinner,” Larry said.
“I already told you we don’t. We need to build a clientele for breakfast and lunch, and I have to figure out a dinner meal that won’t make people sick. That’s why you don’t have customers at dinner time. Your food makes them sick.”
“My dinners don’t make people sick. That wasn’t even my fault last year. I had a bum-ass waiter and he was a bum-ass hand washer. And the second time . . .” He seemed confused, so he burped, thumped his chest. “It happened without my knowledge. Three people that time. No one died.”
“Your dinners are slop. You have to be better. Want to know how much we made?”
He did. I showed him. His eyes widened.
I tipped Dinah and Justin and Earl in front of him.
Their mouths fell open.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“What the hell?” Larry said.
“You’re welcome. Thank you. And be quiet, Larry. They deserve it.”
Larry was thrilled, but threatened. Threatened by me, as a woman. He likes to control, he likes to make sure that women obey him.
“Don’t make my decisions for me again, Olivia.”
I stared at him until he turned away. But first he had to run his creepy gaze over my body, head to foot. It was deliberate, demeaning. He wanted me to know he saw me as a body and he had the right to evaluate it. He was the boss and I should remember that. He was the man, I was the woman. He could look if he wanted to. He wanted me to know he was envisioning me naked. He liked that power, the sick sexuality behind it, liked infuriating me.
I seethed. The worst thing about working for pig boars is that you need the money and the job, so you can’t always say what you want and you can’t walk out. Stuck, stuck, stuck. I hated that, too.
* * *
Jace had never treated me like that when we worked together. Never. We ran Martindale Ranch as a couple. We
laughed all the time. We laughed until all the laughter stopped and went straight up the hill to a quiet place with magical sunsets and there it stayed.
* * *
I kept wondering if I should say anything to my grandma about the cookbook, the old-fashioned tin box, the charm bracelets and butterfly clips, the gold lockets and the nurse’s uniform, the blue dress and her wedding dress, and the silver menorah. Should I let it be? What right did I have to bring it up, to force the conversation, to invade her privacy? Would it hurt her? Yes, I answered that question myself. It would hurt her. It was her past. Her past was painful. Probably wretched. That’s why she hid it.
I didn’t want to bring up something that she wanted to forget.
But she was eighty-eight years old. Would she want to see these things again? Especially the cookbook? She had written recipes in it herself, I recognized her handwriting. But the other recipes were written by other people who were probably no longer alive. Would it pain her to see those recipes, or would she feel relieved to talk about her family, to remember the happy memories?
I decided to bake red velvet cookies with a cream center and think about it. Cooking is soothing, so helpful thinking can take place.
Jace loved my red velvet cookies.
I bit my lips. Measure. Mix. Stir. Whip. Bake.
* * *
I saw Jace in town the next week when I was leaving work, so I skittered behind a building. It was freezing out, snowing lightly, but I felt sweaty from bending over the gas stoves and hustling for eight hours in a hot kitchen. My hair was falling out of my bun, and I knew all semblance of makeup was gone.
At least I had showered that morning. Dang. Had I showered? Had I put makeup on? Had I put on deodorant? Shoot. I hadn’t. We’d overslept. I’d yanked on jeans and a red sweatshirt, made eggs for the girls, and shuttled them out the door. They were miserable about school and having no friends, so they moved at about the same speed as lazy porcupines. Stephi insisted on running back into the log cabin to load her pockets with part of her rock collection, while Lucy pointed her finger in the air and said, “I’m moving back to Portland tonight.”