“So, today is going to be fun! This class is about being loose and free and in our bodies and celebrating the fabulous sensual power that we all have within us. Everyone will get a chance to do all three techniques that we are exploring here today: fan dancing, chair dancing, and pole dancing. We’ll be working in small groups. We’ll get started in just about five minutes—in the meantime, you’ll see some costumes and accessories on the racks and bins in the back of the room. Deck yourselves out in something that makes you feel sexy!”
“I hate you,” Lynne says to Teresa.
“C’mon, it will be fun, we’ll just stick together,” Teresa says, pulling us both over to a bin and draping a blue boa around Lynne’s shoulders.
“Yeah, Lynne, it will be fun,” I say, pulling out a pink satin stretchy waist cincher and snapping it around my thick middle.
“What the hell. Let’s get this over with.” Lynne hands Teresa a sheer silver scarf and we all head over to the other side of the room where there is a set of shiny chrome poles calling our names.
• • •
Well, this is not exactly how I had hoped to spend my Sunday,” Lynne says, handing me a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, me either.” I take it gratefully.
“Nurse says she should be in recovery for about another hour before we can see her.”
Giorgio comes flying into the waiting room, trailed by three enormous dark-haired boys. He comes over and hugs Lynne and turns to me.
“It’s so good to see you, Eloise, really, Teresa is very glad to have you both back.” He gives me a powerful hug. He’s just as I remember him, dark hair now sparkling with gray, and thinning a bit around the hairline, but still a big handsome guy with a broad smile. “Come meet the boys. Gio Junior, Francis, Antony, this is your auntie Eloise.” They all shake my hand deferentially. The honorific sounds strange since I’ve never met any of them.
“Boys, here’s some money, go find yourselves a snack or something.” He hands over a handful of bills to Gio Junior, and the three boys head off down the hall. Giorgio turns to us. “What the hell happened?”
“She fell. Broke her ankle in a couple of places. They are putting in some pins,” Lynne says matter-of-factly.
“She’s going to be bionic!” I say, in a very lame attempt at humor. Lynne and Gio both look at me awkwardly.
“How did she fall?” he says.
“We were in an exercise class,” Lynne says pointedly, sending me a message that I shouldn’t elaborate. After all, while Teresa wants to spice up her marriage, she wants it to be organic, and she certainly would not want to embarrass Gio by talking to us about feeling neglected. I suddenly realize that Teresa likely hasn’t told Gio about the bet at all, let alone that part of it.
“Yep,” I say. “My fault, trying out some new things, wanted to get back into shape.”
“Well, I know she was looking forward to hanging out with you girls.”
Lynne snorts. I can’t look at her or I’m going to laugh.
Because hanging was exactly what got Teresa in trouble. She was very enthusiastically executing a spin in a pair of borrowed Lucite heels when she tried to put down her foot at the end of the spin, the heel caught, the ankle turned, and she lost her grip on the pole, and her full weight just snapped the ankle with a loud crunching noise.
“Well, we are having a good time reconnecting, but obviously we’ll have to plan some less athletic events in the future,” Lynne says.
“I’ll bring over some dinners and things this week,” I say, my first impulse always to cook for someone.
“I can help with shuttling the boys to things if you need,” Lynne says, in a way that makes me think she is more likely to give them all access to her Uber account than actually take them anywhere.
“Not to worry, ladies. Between the women at the church and the PTA girls, not to mention my aunts and sisters, we’ll have the home front covered. You can be on cheering-up and keeping-company duty. Because if my T can’t cook and keep the house and run our boys around, she’s gonna go sixteen types of crazy. So plan on some quality time, capeesh?”
“Of course,” I say.
“That goes without saying,” Lynne says.
A doctor comes out. “Teresa Minetti?”
We all wave.
“She did great. Surgery went perfect, and the ankle should heal well. She’s in the recovery room, and a little loopy, but you should be able to take her home in a couple of hours. She’ll have a sheet that tells you everything you need to know about caring for her. She’ll have a boot on and I’m giving her a prescription for a medical knee walker so that she can get around. There are a couple of places to rent them if you prefer—might want to ask your insurance what they cover. But you can go in and see her in a moment.”
“Thank you, Doc, really appreciate it,” Gio says.
“She’s requested the ladies first . . .” the doctor says. “A nurse will be out soon to escort you in.”
• • •
You dinn’t tell him . . .” Teresa says groggily when Lynne and I come in the room.
“Of course not,” Lynne says.
“I said it was my fault, I was trying out some new exercise programs, and you guys were just helping me out.”
“Did he asssh what kind of class?” she asks.
“He didn’t, but we should know one, just in case . . .” Lynne says, turning to me.
“I’m signed up for Zumba at Lakeshore Fitness tomorrow morning?” I admit sheepishly.
“Perfect,” Lynne says. “Just the kind of fast dancing old klutzy here could injure herself on. T? That registering with you?”
“Yesh. Zuuuumba. We were Zumbaing and I twisted my ankle and fell on it,” Teresa says sleepily.
“Excellent. We’re gonna let your boys in. We’ll check in tomorrow,” Lynne says, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
“Try and get some rest. Talk to you later,” I say, squeezing her hand, and Lynne and I leave the recovery room and head out to send in her family.
• • •
Ouch!” Shawn says when I relate the details of her injury on the phone. “That is a bad one. Ankles are hard—however optimistic the doc was, they often never really fully heal. She’s likely to have some residual pain and weakness pretty much permanently. How did she do it?”
I pause. I think about telling him about the bet, but then I think it might make it look like I’m only going out with him for that, so I chicken out. “Exercise dance class. I’m trying out a whole bunch of new things to try and get into better shape, and they were keeping me company.”
“I like your shape just fine, doesn’t look like it needs any improvement from where I sit.”
I blush. “Well, thank you, but I’m sure you understand as a former athlete, when you start to think you’ve really let yourself go, it doesn’t feel great.”
“I know what you mean. You spend all those years focused on your body, conditioning it to do what you want it to do, and when that stops being its primary function, you have to figure out how to feel healthy while balancing that with more normal life.”
“Exactly! At first it feels like getting away with something to not work out as much, or as hard, but for me it was too easy to get out of the habit altogether.”
“When I was in med school, it was okay, because I could study on the treadmill, and I had a buddy who was a gym rat too, so we would quiz each other and do flashcards as part of our weight reps. But when I got into my residency? The only exercise I got was running around the hospital. I took the stairs, biked there when the weather was nice, but getting to the gym? Didn’t happen.”
“You were better than me. I finished physical therapy, went to college and did just enough to maintain my recovery, and then I moved to France and most of my exercise was walking somewhere close to eat something delicious!”
&
nbsp; He laughs. I love his laugh. Deep and resonant. “Well, if being healthier is important to you, as a medical professional, I support all of that. You said you are trying a bunch of stuff—anything you like so far?”
“I seem to do the best with swimming and water-based activities. I know water aerobics sounds like the most popular class at the senior center, but I love the weightlessness, and how easy it is for me to stretch in the water.”
“I recommend water classes for a lot of my patients. Just swimming in general is a great workout. I enjoy it myself. In fact, if you like, I’m a member at East Bank Club and sometimes I do their Power Circuit Pool Workout. It’s really good. Only on Wednesdays from six to seven in the morning. Want to meet me and we’ll do it together and then have breakfast before work?”
My heart stops. East Bank? The city’s toniest health club, full of hard-body trainers and tiny little exercise-obsessed women who glow instead of sweat? Morning isn’t exactly my best time, plus, water? This means a bathing suit and no makeup and wet hair and . . .
“No pressure, I mean, if you don’t want to . . .” he says.
“I do!” I don’t! Why did I say that?
“Great! It’s a really fun class, challenging, but the instructor is cool. And the Grill makes some very tasty omelets.”
“Sounds like fun, thank you.” Sounds like a nightmare. And it sounds like I have to buy a new bathing suit ASAP.
“I’m just excited that I get to see you two days in a row. What do you think about steak for Tuesday night? Since we’re going to be all athletic Wednesday morning . . .”
I can’t be too upset when he is already locking down a third date before our second date even happens. “I never say no to steak.”
“Have you been to Boeufhaus yet?”
“Not yet, but I hear great things.”
“Well, then, let’s give it a shot!”
Simca gives a little bark at the door. “Speaking of exercise, looks like someone is in need of a walk before bed.”
“I will let you go. Busy day tomorrow?”
“Yep, groceries bright and early and then at the Farbers’ all day getting the week organized.”
“I’ll let you work, and check in tomorrow night if that is all right?”
It’s more than all right. “Sounds good.”
“Have a good night, Eloise.”
“You too, Shawn.”
I get up off the couch and put Simca’s leash on her. We head out into the brisk November air. It’s hard to believe that Thanksgiving is just two and a half weeks off. Just thinking about it puts a little spring in my step. I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday. In the past couple of years, we’ve developed a ritual. Since the Farbers are the types who like to eat Thanksgiving dinner at around three p.m., and my family has always preferred Thanksgiving dinner at dinnertime, I get to work the morning and early afternoon, and still get to Mom’s for family dinner in plenty of time. Since I’m prepping all week anyway, I do double prep at the Farbers’, getting all their favorites organized, as well as the dishes that my family counts on. The menus are similar, but with some important differences. The Farbers like a corn bread stuffing with sausage; my family is an herb-and-onion, regular-bread stuffing group. They like their sweet potatoes mashed, with marshmallows on top; we go for sliced, with a praline pecan topping. They do green beans and we do Brussels sprouts. But both families like a classic roasted turkey with pan gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, soft yeast rolls, mashed potatoes, and apple pie for dessert.
Just thinking about Thanksgiving makes my stomach rumble, and I realize that with all the excitement of the day, I’ve pretty much forgotten to eat, which is very unlike me. Simca finishes her business, and I do my blue bag duty, grateful for a small neat dog that makes small neat poops. She looks up at me with her signature smile, and I praise her for being such a good girl, dropping the bag into the garbage can on the corner. We head for home, and I make a mental note of what is lying about my larder. It’ll be pasta for sure, fast and filling. I know there are a couple leftover roasted chicken thighs from a recipe test I was doing yesterday. We head up the front stoop, and I slip off her leash, give her a treat from the jar on the console by the door, and head for the kitchen to wash my hands.
I shred the chicken with my fingers and put it into a small skillet to warm, separate a couple of eggs, and whisk the yolks quickly until they have lightened and thickened. Pour in a healthy glug of cream, then grate a flurry of cheese over the top, mixing it in. I zest a lemon from the bowl into the mix, and then squeeze in the juice. Some salt and pepper. I go over to the pots in my window and, with the scissors I keep there, snip off some parsley and chives, which I chop roughly and add to the mix. When the pasta is al dente, I drain it quickly, reserving a bit of the cooking water, and add it to a large bowl with a knob of butter, mixing quickly to coat the pasta. I add in the lemon sauce, tossing with a pair of tongs. When the whole mass comes together in a slick velvet tumble of noodles, I taste for seasoning, add a bit more ground black pepper, and put the shredded chicken on top with a bit more grated cheese.
A fork and a cold beer out of the fridge, and I take the bowl out to the living room, tossing Simca a piece of chicken, and settle in on the couch to watch TV, twirling long strands of the creamy lemony pasta onto my fork with pieces of the savory chicken, complete comfort food. I realize that while this is something I make all the time, I’ve never really written down a recipe for it, but maybe I should. I wish I could say that I have the willpower to leave half of the enormous bowl for my lunch tomorrow, but it doesn’t take long for me to be dragging the last forkful through the dregs of sauce in the bottom of the dish. I’ll have to make it to bring to Glenn this week.
I put the bowl to the side and reach for my laptop, opening a new document. I write down the ingredients and my best guess of the amounts in the delicious meal I’ve just thrown together. In order to turn a last-minute jumble of stuff into an actual recipe, I’ll have to go back and measure everything precisely, while making very specific notes about techniques, timing, temperatures, and the like. What was the effort of about fifteen minutes will become several hours of testing and retesting so that someone who isn’t a chef can still make it with the same yummy results. I know a lot of people would dread the process, purposely complicating something that started so simply. But I love it.
It makes me think of Julia Child and her compatriots, testing over and over to make my favorite cookbook work so perfectly. It’s why my heart has always wanted to do a cookbook, so that everyone gets the scrumptious things they want when they want them and also the satisfaction of doing it themselves. That pride when you cook something and it is so satisfying; it is love on a plate.
Hmm. Love Plates. That actually might be a good title for the cookbook.
“What do you think, my little fur nugget?” I reach over to scratch between Simca’s ears. “How does Love Plates sound?”
Simca gives me a wide grin, and then settles her sweet head onto my knee. My phone rings and I reach for it, hoping it is Shawn calling to say good night, but I don’t recognize the number.
“Um, Eloise? My name is Milo. I’m a friend of Lynne’s—she said I should give you a call?”
My stomach turns over. I’d forgotten about Lynne and Teresa being so helpful with the dating part of my list. “Sure, hi, Milo, yes, Lynne mentioned that she had given you my number.” I don’t exactly know what to do with this. On the one hand, I have no real interest in dating anyone besides Shawn; on the other, we’ve technically only had one date, and while there are two more on the books, the presumption of exclusivity would be completely insane, on either side. And I do have the bet to think about. But I’m dreading having to meet yet another new person.
“Great, well, I was wondering if you might be free for drinks sometime this week,” Milo says.
I think about Tuesday night
, and my date with Shawn. Thursday night, I have a drawing class, Wednesday night I’m bringing dinner to Glenn, and I want to save the weekend for Shawn should he want to lay claim to either Friday or Saturday night. “Um, I appear to be free tomorrow evening, if that would work?” I say, hoping that he is busy.
“Darn, I’ve got an event tomorrow night. Nothing else this week?”
I scroll through my calendar again. “Sunday might work?”
“Yeah, I can probably make that work on my end as well. Should we say sixish? Webster’s Wine Bar on Kedzie?”
“Yes, that sounds good. I look forward to meeting you.”
“Me too. You’ve got my number if something comes up?”
I check my phone. “Yep, right here in my phone.”
“Terrific. I’ll text you a picture so you know what I look like.”
“That sounds great.”
I hang up and put the date into my calendar. I feel conflicted. I do like that it helps check a date off my list, and at least it is a Lynne connection, so he probably won’t be horrific. But my head is obviously elsewhere.
I pull up the chart I made for my list. So far, I’m on track for the dating part of the bet. I’ve got my drawing classes, so the nonfood hobby is underway, ditto the athletic endeavors. I’m slowly pulling together the recipes I think would be the best examples for the cookbook proposal, but I still have no idea how to write the proposal itself. I mean, who the hell am I? Some non-famous, non-restaurant-owning, non-blogging nobody who cooks for one family, one septuagenarian, and my family. Who am I to think that anyone would care about a cookbook I’ve written? I’m feeling a bit behind on the whole socializing-with-strangers thing, but I’ve done some research and found some classes that seem like they could be fun: wine tasting, a special movie screening event at the Xfinity store, and the glassblowing and such. So strangely, I’m doing okay with the whole thing. My anxiety about it has definitely diminished.
I feel like Mrs. O’Connor would be a bit proud.
How to Change a Life Page 13