Goddess of Suburbia

by Stephanie Kepke

  When I was a pastry chef I perfected this balance and my rugelach were a best-seller. The restaurant served them atop my homemade cinnamon raisin ice cream with a dollop of fresh whipped cream and a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar. Sometimes I miss working in a kitchen, creating a delicious experience—not just dessert, but an experience—so much that it’s a visceral pain. To peer out of the kitchen and see the patrons tilt their heads back, eyes closed, a blissful look on their faces, filled me with joy and satisfaction. And I hated Nick for making me give it up. The hate thinned out after a while, but deep down inside I don’t know if it ever truly went away. Another reason that the end of our marriage is not the tragedy that by all rights it should be—and, another reason why I’m actually kind of excited to embark on this second act in my life.

  I pull out the cream cheese and butter from the refrigerator and the flour from the pantry. I measure everything out into my favorite mixing bowl, robin’s egg blue with just the most subtle crackle in the glaze. I saw it in a little shop out East on the North Fork and fell in love with it. I was pregnant with Emma, and Nick and I had escaped for the weekend before lack of sleep and diapers hit. I was beyond exhausted caring for my mother, and Walter promised me he would be with her every minute. He assured me that he would call me right away if anything terrible happened. I was close enough that I could get back quickly.

  After lunch, we strolled through the charming town and wandered into that little gift shop. It beckoned with intricate jewelry, jewel-toned scarves, supple leather tote bags, but I was drawn right to that bowl. I picked it up, inspecting it. I turned it over and held it up in the sun streaming through the windows. It almost shimmered. It was so beautiful. But when I checked the tiny price sticker on the side and saw that it was over $70, I put it back. We had a baby coming, and a frivolous purchase like a beautiful mixing bowl was just not in the cards right then.

  We left the shop, and after walking through the town a bit more, returned to the hotel and settled into two Adirondack chairs facing the Long Island Sound. Sunlight glistened off the water, and for that very tiny moment in time I felt completely at peace. I wasn’t worried about labor; I wasn’t worried about money. I wasn’t even worried about my mother. Just for a moment, I wasn’t worried about anything. Nick took my hand over the small table between us. We didn’t say a word—we just sat in the most comfortable silence we ever had and probably would ever have again.

  After about an hour, Nick suggested I go back to the room to take a nap. It was getting late in the afternoon and I was sleepy, so I was happy to oblige. When I woke up, there was a large box on the bed next to me. Wrapped in lavender paisley paper, it was heavier than I expected when I lifted it. “What’s this?” I asked, confused in my post-nap state.

  Nick sat on the edge of a chair. “Open it.” His blue eyes were luminous in the fading light of dusk as he watched me.

  I carefully removed the paper, opening it on the taped seams—it was so beautiful, I wanted to fold it up and keep it. “Just tear into it, Max. Come on, enjoy it. That’s half the fun of opening a gift.”

  “I love the paper, though. I want to save it,” I explained as I lifted the cover off of the box. Inside, nestled in mint green gossamer-thin tissue paper, was the blue bowl. I should have realized that’s what it was, but I gasped in surprise anyway. Nick beamed.

  “You like it?” he asked, even though I’m sure he knew the answer. He loved to hear it anyway.

  “I love it!” I jumped off the bed as quickly as my massive belly would let me and threw my arms around him. Nick was a master gift giver. He always knew the exact perfect thing to buy—thoughtful and often something I didn’t even realize I wanted until I had it. Like I always say, it was one of the things that made me fall for him.

  As I carefully mix the butter, cream cheese and flour in that beautiful bowl, I’m surprised to find myself tearing up, remembering the moment Nick gave it to me. We really were happy at one point, I guess. With everything that’s happened, it’s so easy to forget that. I wonder if Nick gives Sloane thoughtful gifts just because. I’m fairly certain he does. And I wonder if she tears right into the paper excitedly—if she gives Nick the whole experience of watching someone you love gleefully open a gift, instead of carefully opening a gift. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to preserve things as much as I did. I was always more about figuring out a way to keep the memory of something alive, rather than being just in the moment. Nick said to me once, “If you’re so busy recording everything with pictures and carefully saving things, you’ll miss living. You’ll miss the moments you’re so determined to remember.”

  I didn’t have many more moments like that. Once we had kids, the romance of unexpected gifts kind of went out the window. Sure, he’d still buy me birthday and anniversary gifts, but even those showed less thought. And, much of the time they weren’t even wrapped—maybe stuck in a gift bag Nick found in the basement—Batman or Sesame Street, left over from a kid’s birthday party. I suddenly wish I had torn into that paper—wish I had that memory, instead of a folded-up piece of paisley paper tucked into a baby book.

  The dough is all mixed and I place it on wax paper and put it in the refrigerator to chill. It’s really best if it stays overnight, but I’m too impatient, so I set the oven timer for two hours—the minimum—and decide what to bake next while I’m waiting. I settle on a super easy apple Bundt cake with raisins and cinnamon. It feels very fall and makes the house smell fantastic.

  I make mine with orange juice—that’s the secret ingredient. Another recipe from my mother, but this was one of the first ones she gave me. She sat me down before I went away to college and handed me a rubber banded stack of index cards, each with an “essential” recipe, as she called them. “These are all the things any well-rounded young woman should know how to make,” she informed me. My mother was very forward thinking in some ways, but very old-fashioned in others—like that a girl should know how to cook. She never really specified that I should learn how to cook for a man, but I kind of assumed that’s what she meant. Of course, when I was still single in my late twenties and working my way up in the kitchens of a few swanky restaurants, she was so proud. “Who needs a man?” she said to me more than once.

  I carefully wash the mixing bowl and blend the oil and sugar until it dissolves. Then I crack each egg, adding them in one at a time. Grabbing another bowl and a wooden spoon, I mix together the flour, baking soda and salt and carefully pour that into the oil, eggs and sugar in batches, alternating with orange juice and vanilla. After I grease the Bundt pan, I pour a third of the batter in, then toss in the raisins and layer thinly sliced apple over them. I sprinkle it all with cinnamon and pour in the rest of the batter to cover it. Popping it in the oven, I’m overcome with a sense of calm I haven’t had since this whole debacle started—not even sitting on the beach left me this much at peace.

  While the cake is baking, I decide that I absolutely must start a business. I Google the requirements and I’m shocked to find that it’s much easier than I thought. I figured I’d need to find a commercial kitchen to rent or the Board of Health would be knocking on my door. Not so. In New York you can apparently bake in your own kitchen and sell right from there, as long as it’s just cookies, cakes, etc.—nothing perishable. There go my cheesecake bites, but anything else is fair game. I can’t believe this might actually happen. I just need to apply for a license and get a big-ass commercial mixer and maybe a rolling cooling rack. Luckily, I have a soon-to-be ex-husband who truly owes me and sells just those very things. I’ll hit Nick up for his wholesale price on both, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige out of guilt.

  I print out a business plan template I find online and start to fill it in as the smell of cinnamon mingling with apple and delicious cake fills the house. The first space asks for company name. It takes me about thirty seconds before it hits me—Maximum Cookies. A play on my name, of course, but it also invokes visions of the ultimate cookie eating experience. I grab
a piece of paper off the pile of schoolwork on my kitchen table and sketch a logo—an intertwined MC.

  This very well may be the best thing about kicking Nick out—I can finally follow my dream. I know it’s the excitement of a new project that’s giving me this adrenaline rush, and I have a lot of hard work ahead of me, but it feels like I’m taking control of my life for the first time since—oh I don’t know, culinary school, maybe. That was a huge decision for me, and I remember the fear that enveloped me. I knew I’d be taking on debt, and I really didn’t have time for a full-time job and school, but then my mother surprised me by footing the entire tuition. “Your father left a sizeable chunk of change marked for graduate school for you, if you wanted to go. It was in his will that part of his life insurance go to that. He had big dreams for you, you know,” she told me, patting my hand.

  I had never realized that my father’s will provided for graduate school for me. I had received a copy of it, of course, but I could never bring myself to read it. It just hurt too much and made everything seem so real. When he first passed away, I pictured a reading of his will, like in the movies—the family gathers around in a stuffy lawyer’s office and the will is read aloud. It’s not really like that; it just arrives like any other important legal document—in a manila envelope, which sat on my desk for months, unopened. Since I was over eighteen, my mother and I each got our own copy. Although I would have traded having culinary school paid for to have my dad back for even one day, finding out about the provision in it was a huge relief. That was really the only thing holding me back—money, and I wonder if that will hold me back now.

  It’s not like I get a sizeable sum from Nick each month. I get enough to survive. The amount won’t be finalized until the divorce is, but I doubt it will go up. I don’t want to go back to work until Sam is in school full-time next year, so I need to figure out if I have enough extra money for everything I need—ingredients, packaging, advertising, a website. Though, without a commercial kitchen I can only sell in the state of New York, so I wouldn’t be shipping orders through a website. I decide I can advertise for free—at first at least—with a Facebook page, and I might also be able to get packaging from Nick for wholesale. After fucking me over so spectacularly, it’s the least he can do to help me realize the dreams he squashed for so long.

  I really want to call Ben and tell him about my plans. Honestly, I’m shocked that he’s the first person who comes to mind. We’re still not anything but old friends, and I don’t know if we’ll be more or not. I keep telling myself that it’s in my control—he’s more than willing to be with me. I just don’t know if I’m ready, but I also know there’s a good chance I might not be able to handle seeing him for pizza tomorrow night without wanting to throw him on the table. And maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  I just sit at the kitchen table for way too long fantasizing about doing just that. We’re eating pizza when suddenly I just push the pie off the table and grab him. He’s got me lifted up in a second, my legs wrapped around his waist, and he’s kissing my neck. When I actually let out an audible moan, I realize it’s time to get back to reality, or I’ll risk burning my cake. I check on it in the oven and it’s puffing up nicely. I sit back down at the table and call Andi to tell her about my business plans. “Guess what?” I say as soon as she picks up.

  “You finally fucked Ben and he’s upstairs in your bed right now, but you had to call me right away and let me know because you knew how thrilled I’d be?”

  “Andi! Such language!” I exclaim. “No, that’s not it. I decided to start a cookie business. Maybe even cake, too. I’m baking that apple cake you love right now. And I’m making rugelach. The dough is chilling. I got inspired and did some research. It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”

  “Okay, I have to admit—I didn’t hear much after rugelach. Is it Judy’s rugelach?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You must save me some. I never even met Judy, but I know how amazing her rugelach was thanks to you. I’ll pay you for it. I’ll be your first customer.”

  “You can get it for free. I’m going to need someone to taste test stuff, right?”

  “A job I’ll gladly take on.”

  “What do you think of the name I came up with: Maximum Cookies?”

  “Love it. I’m really excited for you, Max. You’re like the Phoenix, rising up out of the ashes.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Andi minored in mythology, and every once in a while she throws a reference into our conversations. I have to admit, I love it. And, I love her. No other friend would be this happy for me with nothing but some rugelach and cake in it for her.

  “You are!”

  “Thanks, Andi—for everything.”

  By the time I hang up with Andi, the cake is ready to come out of the oven and the dough should be just about chilled. It needs a bit more time when I check it, so I do a little more research and place everything in a new folder in favorites titled, “Maximum!!” I doodle the logo again and try out different variations of names, “Maximum Deliciousness,” “Maximum Treats,” “Maximum Cakes and Cookies,” since I might do cakes too. But I settle on Maximum Cookies, since cakes are harder to package—especially if I just did slices. So, Maximum Cookies it is.

  I roll it around on my tongue, saying it out loud a few times as I finely chop up the walnuts. When the dough’s ready I cut it into four pieces and carefully roll the chunks out into disks—not too thick, not too thin. I mix up the raisins, nuts and sugar and spread jewel-toned raspberry jelly on each of the disks, topping it with the nut mixture. Cutting it into wedges and rolling it up so the point is just perfect at the end is a bit of a challenge, but I relish it. I love the intricate processes of baking—the things you need to pay attention to. Anyone can follow a recipe, but it’s the execution on some delicate desserts that matter. If you don’t roll rugelach correctly, it comes out like crap. Twenty-one minutes later, I know that mine are definitely not crap. They are gorgeous, golden packages oozing just a bit of sticky sweet raspberry and smelling divine. “This could be your future,” I tell myself as I lift them onto the cooling rack.

  ***

  Just before I leave to pick up Sam at Loving Arms, I decide to pack up some more rugelach. I had packed a few up for Andi, plus a slice of apple cake, but I figure I’ll bring some for his teachers and even cut up a few extra if any moms want to try them—why not? I’m hoping it might even start some word of mouth buzz about my baking. I’d rather be known for that than a naked video and wrecked marriage.

  I walk into the classroom—that’s what’s so wonderful about Loving Arms—unlike Happy Time, parents are actually allowed in the classroom at pick-up—and pull a few foil packets out of my giant purse. I slip one to Andi and she squeals with delight, holding it up to her nose and inhaling deeply. I hand one to Sam’s head teacher and tell her to share with her assistants. She gives me a big hug.

  A few of the other moms are standing around while their kids still play for a bit, so I walk over to them—a bit nervously, I have to admit—and introduce myself. “Would you like some rugelach?” I ask. “I just baked them.”

  “Well, this is a fantastic way to break the ice!” says one. “My name is Julia. It’s so nice to meet you.” She holds her hand out to shake mine. I do and wonder if she’s heard of me before or if there’s finally someone in this town with no preconceived notions.

  “So nice to meet you,” I respond and add, “I have to say the moms here are so much nicer than my son’s old school.”

  “We’re a friendly bunch,” she says with a smile. Then leans into me as she walks by and whispers, “Loved your video, by the way. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about owning your sexuality.”

  I stammer, “Thank you,” as I feel my cheeks flush. Not what I expected at all and I’m so grateful and surprised that I want to weep. Andi’s watching the whole exchange and comes over to me.

  “You see, I told you
everyone was nicer here.” She adds in a whisper, “They’re not stuck-up byotches. And, they’re pretty, um, open and progressive.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

  “You know what, why don’t we go to the park? I’ll tell you there. This isn’t really the place. Kids might listen—or the teachers.”

  Now my curiosity is really piqued, and as soon as we settle in on the bench, I ask Andi what she was talking about.

  “Well, one of the moms hosts, um, interesting parties every few months or so. You know how some moms at Happy Time had parties where they sold candles or jewelry or kitchen wares?”

  I nod my head.

  “Well, at this mom’s parties they sell sex toys. She’s a consultant, and she books parties at different moms’ houses. It’s actually really fun. We play games, have a few drinks and giggle a lot. The mom who hosts them was a sex therapist and she’s really amazing. She gives these tips… Let’s just say there’s a reason the moms are so happy at that school.”

  “Wow, I had no idea there was this subculture going on in East Hollow. The things you learn…” I pause for a moment, still amazed. “No wonder why the moms didn’t judge me here—they’re not stuck-up prudes, like at Happy Time and the elementary school.”

  “The moms here are the least judgmental group I’ve ever met. You’ll always feel welcome, especially if you keep bringing delicious baked goods. You should come to the next party. I think it’s next month. I was going to invite you to the last one. It was over the summer, but you were away with Nick and the kids.”

  “Oh, when we went to Massachusetts? That seems like so long ago—I can’t believe it was only a few months.” I stare at the ground as my eyes well up with tears. I’m surprised by the force of the memory. It was actually the perfect vacation. We stayed in Plymouth, right on the rocky beach, and did all of the touristy things. We visited the Mayflower. We saw Plymouth Rock. It was like one of those old-fashioned vacations that I took with my parents in the seventies. They didn’t even have wifi in the hotel room, and cell service was atrocious. It was perfect. We were actually forced to talk to each other without the distraction of cell phones or laptops.