Kitchen Chaos

by Deborah A. Levine

  When I hang up, I realize that I appreciate the fact that Lillian was instantly willing to spring into action. At least she’s on her way over, which is more than I can say for Liza.

  I take a deep breath and go back into the kitchen. All three of my brothers are here now, cleaning the oven and helping Mom open all the sticky windows. We have less than two hours before we’re supposed to be at school, and we have to start from scratch.

  The boys take one look at me and leave the room. I guess I have that “storm cloud” look my dad sometimes talks about. My mom looks up from scooping more foam.

  “Hey, bella. I know you’re upset, but let’s try to come up with a solution, okay? We can run to Mazzola’s and pick up—”

  “No,” I interrupt her. “We have to make something, that’s the whole point. That’s why we took the class and everything.” My fists are clenched; I’m still having a hard time with “using my words.”

  “Frankie,” Mom says, “whether you make something from scratch or not, the class was worth it. For lots of reasons.” She comes over and kisses the top of my head and then looks me right in the eyes. “I may not be a chef yet, but I loved hanging out with my big, brilliant girl for a few hours every week. And we made some new friends.”

  That’s all great, but I cannot think about mother-daughter bonding right now. And you know how when someone’s trying to be nice to you while you’re upset, it actually makes it harder not to cry? That is totally happening.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, ducking away from my mom. “But now what do we do?”

  The doorbell rings. Lillian must have flown here. I run to the front door, and she’s standing there, out of breath, holding her bike. I guess she did pretty much fly here. I have to admit I’m happy to see her.

  Back in the kitchen Mom gives Lillian a hug. I guess she’s happy to see her too.

  I tell Lillian exactly what happened and how everything got so messed up. She takes a long look around the room and then turns to me with that calm, kittenlike expression of hers.

  “You’re right, Frankie, your text did not lie. This is a disaster.” On another day that might have made me mad, but somehow, right now, it was the perfect thing to say. We both laugh harder than we should, but it makes total sense.

  Mom looks confused, but she’s not about to question any improvement in my mood. She claps her hands like the second-grade teacher that she is and says, “Ladies, what can we do to make this right? Is there anything else from your project we can make, anything that might be easy?”

  Lillian scrunches up her forehead like she’s thinking hard, but I’ve got nothing. And I’m more than a little worried about my mom using the word “we.” I watch her shovel more foam into a garbage bag, which probably also contains the remnants of our rolls and Dad’s gnocchi. To stop myself from obsessing over damage that can’t be undone, I run to get our carefully packed-up dioramas. Maybe if we look at what we’ve made, something will strike us. Another big idea would come in handy right about now.

  The table is relatively clutter-free, so I spread out all our stuff: the dioramas, the papier-mâché food, the reports and illustrations mounted on poster boards. My mom stops trying to come up with a solution to the disaster (that she was partially responsible for) and takes a good look at our project. “You girls did all that? It’s amazing!”

  I catch Lillian’s eye and we smile. Then Mom asks, “I hate to be dense, but what’s the pink thing with the waffle-y base?”

  I sigh, not really in the mood to explain. “That’s our ice-cream cone, can’t you tell? Ice cream was brought to America by a bunch of different immigrant groups—”

  Lillian stops my mini-lecture and grabs the papier-mâché cone and practically dances around the room. “That’s it! That’s what we can do!”

  “Huh?” Mom and I both say together.

  Lillian is so excited, she squeaks. “We can make the ice-cream cone! I mean, we can buy ice cream and take it in a cooler full of ice—do you guys have a cooler? And who doesn’t love waffle cones, right? They may not be exactly like the ones you get at an ice-cream parlor, but we can run out and buy a bunch of boxes of frozen waffles, defrost them, try to flatten them out a bit somehow with a rolling pin or something, maybe fold them into a cone shape to hold a scoop of ice cream?”

  That’s brilliant. Totally brilliant. I can tell my mom thinks so too. “Actually, Lillian, we don’t have to buy the waffles,” she says. “I’m married to a master waffle maker and we have a waffle iron right here.”

  Uh-oh, just when I was finally seeing some light at the end of this disastrous tunnel . . . “Um, Mom? Dad is the master waffle maker. Dad. And he’s not here, remember?”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder and leans in to my scowling face. “Have a little faith, Francesca. I’m going to make the waffles. How about you believe in me, just like I believe in you? Besides”—she winks—“I have a secret weapon this time: you two!”

  I look at her for a minute. She raises her eyebrows as if to say, Well? Finally, I shrug and throw up my hands. What else can I do? It’s a plan. The only plan we have.

  She and Lillian start bustling around the kitchen, cracking eggs, sifting flour, plugging in the waffle iron. They seem to really want me to go out and get tons of ice cream, so Mom yells for one of The Goons to help me and the other to come finish cleaning the kitchen. And the amazing thing is that they do. No complaining, no wisecracks, they just do it.

  Joey, Nicky, and I take Mom’s wallet and run to the grocery store, picking out a bunch of different ice creams and loads of ice. We decide to get flavors like French vanilla and dulce de leche that were invented in other countries—or at least sound like they were. By the time we get home, the kitchen is a waffle factory. Leo has basically removed all evidence of the Catastrophe, and my mom and Lillian are churning out doughy, golden waffles in perfect harmony. While they’re still warm from the iron, Lillian artfully folds the waffles and ties them with string in a perfect little bow. Good thing Nicky keeps a giant ball of string around!

  Leo found a bunch of large sneaker boxes somewhere that he’s lined with wax paper to hold the waffle cones (hopefully, the only sneakers in these boxes were brand new!). My mom, who is covered in flour and still has a little foam in her hair, is more pleased with herself than I’ve ever seen her look in a kitchen. Only a few of the waffles burned around the edges, and Lillian and I just scrape those bites off. Nobody will ever know.

  As for the traditional Italian dish that we’re supposed to bring to the potluck, Mom and Lillian are all over that, too. There’s always a ton of pasta in our pantry, and Mom has assigned Joey the job of boiling the noodles, which reduces the possibility of injuries. Who knew my brothers were actually this capable? Even Nicky is helping. He found some jars of my dad’s famous marinara sauce in the cabinet, so we’ll just dump that on the pasta and top it with some fresh basil leaves from the plant Dad always has growing on the windowsill. As Chef Antonio would say, bueno, bueno.

  Watching Lillian quietly skipping around our kitchen, making little jokes with my brothers, having fun cooking with my mother, and maintaining her cool when I absolutely lost mine, I realize something about her that I probably should have known a long time ago: She’s a true friend. She came to my rescue when I was never that nice to her, when I never even wanted her around. But here she is. And, if I haven’t completely scared her away, I hope she’ll stick around.

  CHAPTER 30

  Lillian

  My mother parks outside of Frankie’s house so we can all walk together to school. When the Caputos (all of them) and I go out to meet her, Frankie’s mom wraps her arms around Mama in a big hug. My mother is not a hugger, but not to accept one would be disrespectful, so she hugs back. I have to force myself not to laugh as I watch her smile politely and awkwardly pat Mrs. Caputo—er, Theresa, as she just told me to call her—on the back.

  The big bowl my mother is carrying makes the hug even more awkward. It’s covered in aluminum
foil, and I realize that in my frenzy to get over to Frankie’s to help fix the disaster, I didn’t even bother to ask what she was making. And now she refuses to tell me what’s in the bowl. I could probably figure it out just from the “aroma”—one of Chef Antonio’s favorite words—but I think my nostrils might be permanently seared with the smells of smoke and whatever those chemicals are in fire extinguishers.

  When we reach Clinton Middle School’s big red doors, there’s a crowd of seventh graders and their families already filing in, but Liza’s nowhere to be seen. I look at Frankie, wondering if we’re thinking the same thing: Is Liza going to be late because Cole’s babysitter bailed again at the last minute? Is her mom even going to make it? Frankie bites her lip, and I can tell she’s worried too. We enter the building with all of the other kids and parents, and we’re carried along by the current of bodies like a school of fish, up the flight of stairs and out into the sea of the social studies corridor.

  Frankie and I lead our mothers to the potluck area first and settle them in next to each other at one of the tables. Still no sign of Liza and her mom. Mr. McEnroe’s here, though, and Frankie immediately turns to him and flashes one of her movie-star smiles. “Good evening, Francesca!” I hear him say in his super-enthusiastic way. “And this must be your mother! I hear the two of you are becoming professional chefs. Can’t wait to taste whatever you’ve got there.” Frankie and her mom exchange a look and then burst out laughing. Mr. Mac looks totally confused, but he chuckles with them anyway, just to be polite.

  As Frankie’s brothers scatter off somewhere, we leave our mothers to chat with the other parents and head to our table to set up our display. As soon as we get there, we both sigh with relief. Liza is waiting for us, along with her mom, who’s already poking around another group’s exhibit. I don’t see Cole anywhere, so it looks like their sitter came through. Frankie and Liza look at each other for a long time. I’m not sure what’s been going on between them, but I suspect Frankie was annoyed that Liza wasn’t there to help come up with our Plan C this afternoon. For once, I don’t feel like the odd one out.

  Whatever was up, it looks like they’re over it now. First they practically fall into each other’s arms in a massive hug, and then they start dancing around and doing that crazy handshake thing. They twist up their arms, snap in sync, high-five, fist-bump, sing “holla” . . . and then they do something new. Something totally unexpected. They each reach out one arm and pull me over into a huddle—a big, three-girl hug. “When Museum Night is over, we’ll have to teach you the handshake too,” Frankie says. Liza squeezes my hand. I picture Sierra and my cousin Chloe; I still miss them like crazy, but right now all I can think about is how much I can’t wait to tell them about my new friends.

  Liza and Frankie arrange the papier-mâché food, prop up our mounted reports, and set up an iPad running our edited demonstration clips from the cooking class videos while I get the dioramas all ready. My tiny food really did come out well, and I had so much fun making it. Maybe I’ll be a sculptor someday instead of an illustrator or graphic designer. Or, who knows? Maybe I’ll be a baker. I was pretty proud of those sourdough rolls, and Frankie’s right—these miniature bagels with their almost-microscopic poppy and sesame seeds do look almost real.

  Liza is blown away by the waffle cones—especially when she finds out that Frankie’s mom was in charge of the waffle iron. She gives us both another hug and apologizes for not being there to make them with us, even though it’s not her fault she has to help out with her brother so much. I tell her that at least she made it here, along with her mom, which is really all that matters.

  Speaking of mothers, once we’re all set up and Frankie and Liza have started scooping ice cream, I go out to the hallway to check on mine. My nostrils must be healing, because it smells incredible out here, and seeing all of this food in one place makes my stomach growl. I realize that it’s dinnertime, and with everything that happened today, I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, which is at 11:35 for seventh graders. That was a long time ago.

  I navigate through the crowd to the table where we left my mother and Theresa. Along the way I notice some of the dishes: Stella Tanaka’s dad is there with homemade sushi rolls; a woman who must be Gabriella Perez’s grandmother brought tamales that look as good as the ones at the Mexican food truck Sierra and I used to stop at after school; and Alex Vilenchitz’s mother made something that looks like pierogi, even though Chef Antonio told us those are from Poland and Alex is Russian.

  I find my mother perched over her bowl with a large spoon in one hand and a chopstick in the other. Now that the bowl is free of its foil, I can see that what she’s shoveling out is some kind of noodle dish. The fact that each bite requires lots of slurping tells me she’s made longevity noodles—only there’s something a bit different about them than usual.

  When the crowd around the table finally thins out, I grab a plate and hold it out to my mother. “Chang shou mian?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “It looks funny.”

  Mama scoops up some noodles and plops them onto my plate, using the chopstick to prevent them from sliding back into the bowl. “Yes, but how does it taste?”

  I unwrap a fresh pair of chopsticks from a box on the table and take a bite. It’s definitely not my mother’s go-to chang shou mian, but the flavor is familiar. I take another bite, and suddenly it comes to me where I’ve tasted this before.

  “This is Chef Antonio’s recipe!”

  My mother smiles slyly, then puts her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  “But you said his recipe wasn’t ‘authentic.’ ”

  “It isn’t,” she says. “The spices are different—mostly Chinese, but also a little bit American.” She leans in closer. “Just like you.”

  I smile—not a dutiful-daughter smile, but a smile full of genuine warmth and gratitude.

  My mother shrugs. “And Chef Antonio’s chang shou mian tastes good, don’t you think?”

  I nod. “Hĕn hăo.” Very good.

  I’m about to head back to our exhibit when I feel my mother’s hand on my arm.

  “I almost forgot,” she says, taking three fist-size balls of aluminum foil out of a Ziploc bag and placing them on the table next to the bowl of noodles. “I brought these, too.” She unwraps the foil and arranges the three surviving sourdough rolls in a perfect triangle. Yesterday, after we finished baking them, Liza and Frankie let me take a few home since they reminded me so much of, well, home.

  “The Wong family came from China like chang shou mian,” Mama says, pointing to the pile of noodles on my plate. “But our family is from San Francisco, too.” My mother tears a piece off one of the rolls, dips it into the sauce on my plate, and takes a bite. She passes the roll to me, and I do the same. It’s a strange combination of flavors that you’d never expect to go together, but somehow, it works. Just like us.

  CHAPTER 31

  Liza

  It’s kind of incredible, isn’t it—how you can feel like the whole world is against you one minute, and then that you are exactly where you’re meant to be the next? Even before the Sourdough Incident, I was seriously dreading the whole Immigration Museum thing. Between six weeks of trying to convince Frankie to play nice with Lillian and my dad canceling his trip at the last minute, I was totally over our project. We’d worked really hard, so I pretended to be excited for the sake of our “team,” but when Frankie told me about her mom and brothers totaling our rolls, I pretty much gave up.

  Before tonight, the only good things about the last thirty-six hours were baking at the studio with Frankie, Lillian, and Chef Antonio and watching my mom make her pecan pie for the first time since Dad moved away. Even though some of the thickest branches on the family tree hanging over her desk are crocheted with the names of ancestors back in Africa, according to Mom, everything they brought with them was lost when they stepped off the slave ships. She says that her “roots” are in Georgia, where she grew up, and that pecan pie
is a traditional food in her family, no matter who invented it.

  My mom claims the secret to her recipe is that she buys the pecans raw and toasts them herself. In my mind I can play back memories of her in the kitchen like an episode of a cooking show made just for me: watching her slide a sheet of freshly toasted pecans out of the oven, chop them once they’ve cooled with her favorite knife, and add them to the gooey mixture of Karo syrup, sugar, butter, and eggs—with a splash of Grandad’s favorite bourbon. Seeing my mom take the dusty old Reynolds family cookbook off the shelf for the first time in ages and burst open a bag of fresh pecans was like discovering a DVD you didn’t even realize you were missing and pressing the play button. And the way Cole looked at Mom as she moved around the kitchen—singing to herself the way she always used to—like she was an exotic animal at the Prospect Park Zoo, made me want to share my special show with him too.

  When I told my mom about our ruined rolls, she said I should go straight over to the Caputos and not to worry about watching Cole. She could keep an eye on him while she baked, and if he got to be a handful, well, showing up to the potluck with a store-bought pie wouldn’t be the end of the world. Not the end of hers, maybe, but right at that moment, not having my mom’s homemade pecan pie felt pretty close to the End Times. Frankie was on her own for this one. So I lied to my best friend for the first time ever, scooped up my brother, and pulled two stools up to the breakfast bar so that together we could watch Mom work her magic on piecrust and pecans.

  By the time the pie was ready, our apartment smelled like Christmas and my mom had changed into a black wraparound dress. She even took the time to touch up her makeup. When Cammy showed up to watch Cole five minutes early, I was actually starting to get excited about the social studies museum. I still hadn’t forgiven my dad for choosing a meeting over me, but I was beginning to realize that even without him, I’ll always be part of a family. The three of us—Mom, Cole, and me—might not be perfect, but most of the time we’re good enough.