The Icing on the Cake

by Deborah A. Levine

  Mom pops back to our table to show us how to make little slits in the dough to let out the steam while the pot pies bake. Chef calls everyone else over to watch.

  “Now those, mi gente, are perfect incisions,” he proclaims, his smile so big it’s gleaming.

  “Oh, go on, now stop,” my mom says, but it’s clear she’s enjoying herself. “Everyone can do that.”

  “Not everyone,” Frankie mutters under her breath. Theresa shoots her a look.

  “You two should take your show on the road,” Errol says to my mom and Chef Antonio.

  “Or on TV!” Margo chimes in. “You make such a great team.”

  “Hmm, buena idea,” Chef strokes his chin. “I’ll have to talk to my producers.” He’s teasing (I hope), but I can tell my mom is flattered.

  “Please,” Mom says, “I already have one job and two kids—another job and the bags under my eyes will be carrying bags.” She gives Chef a little shove, and he pretends to practically fall over.

  Maybe Nana should hire them to perform their little routine at my party.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lillian

  I think Chef Antonio sensed a little mother-daughter tension at our table—I know I did—so after the pot pies he decided we needed to “stir things up” as he likes to say. He actually made everyone put their names in a hat (a chef’s hat, of course!) and then he asked Liza’s mom, his “assistant,” to pick out four names at a time and put them at each of the tables. Don’t ask me how, but for some reason Frankie wound up at a table with Tristan, and I ended up with Javier!

  Liza and Henry are also at my table, and Liza’s mom and Margo are at Frankie’s. I can tell Mama’s not all that comfortable in her group, which includes Errol, Mrs. Caputo—I mean Theresa—and Stephen. Even though she’s sitting at a different table than I am, she keeps pushing her chair closer to mine and watching everything I’m doing. As if being paired up with Javier weren’t stressful enough!

  While my mom keeps an eye on me, I’m doing my best to sneak peeks at Frankie and Tristan without being too obvious about it. I’m hoping to get some ideas for how to talk to or act around Javier, since my usual approach of saying practically nothing isn’t exactly a recipe for romance. Mostly, I notice Frankie pretending to “accidentally” swipe Tristan’s hat, or knock him off his chair. It’s totally impressive the way she’s not shy at all, but I can’t really tell if he thinks it’s funny, or cute, or maybe a little . . . annoying. Still, at least they’re actually talking to each other, unlike Javier and me. . . .

  Chef Antonio bangs a wooden spoon on a big stainless-steel bowl to get our attention. “Now that we’re in our new groups and out of our comfort zone a bit,” he begins (and he is so right!), “we will find our inspiration for our next recipe in the beautiful country of France.”

  Frankie looks over at Liza. Ever since they were little they’ve had this “grand plan” to go to Paris together when they’re eighteen. Now that all three of us are friends, if they ever do actually end up going, I hope they take me with them.

  “The galette is a free-form pastry that originated in the French countryside, and it is both exquisito to eat and very simple to make.” Chef says this last part directly to Theresa, who smiles. I see her look over at Frankie, but she’s too busy trying to knock Tristan off his propped up elbow to notice. Like we did for the pot pies, we’re using dough that Chef and Javier already made. I’m a little disappointed that we’re not starting the dough from scratch again like last week. I actually really liked the whole process of starting with the butter, adding the flour, pinching it together, and rolling it out—it was what Tanya, our gym teacher, would call “meditative,” I think. She’s training to become a certified yoga instructor, and she’s always talking about the benefits of meditation. I don’t think I ever really understood what she meant until last week when we were working with the dough.

  According to Chef Antonio, with galettes you apparently don’t need to worry about how even the dough is, or how perfectly you slice it. That’s great news for Theresa, for sure, but not so much for my mother, who is big on order and doesn’t really get the concept of “free-form.” Javier, on the other hand, seems totally into it.

  “I’ve made these with my dad before,” he says to me (to me!). “They’re really cool—you can stuff them with anything.”

  “Anything?” Liza asks. “You mean like, even Cheerios?” She’s kidding, I think. Sometimes it’s still hard for me to tell when Liza and Frankie are being sarcastic. My best friend, Sierra, back home in San Francisco, says it’s an East Coast–West Coast thing. Back in California people don’t use sarcasm as much as they do here. It’s taken me a while to get used to it.

  “Sure,” Javier says. “If you like your pies dry and crunchy. I like mine with tomatoes, sausage, and cheese—kind of like a French pizza.”

  I clear my throat and force myself to actually look at Javier when I speak. “How about pickles?” I ask, hoping it sounds funny and not totally stupid.

  Javier actually laughs! “Well, I guess they could work. If you like your pickles hot and covered in pie crust.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Not really,” I say. “I think your pizza idea is better.”

  Javier and Liza nod their heads in agreement.

  “Well, folks,” Henry says, pointing to a bowl of something purple in the middle of our table, “if I’m not mistaken, I believe we’re going to be filling our galettes with beets this afternoon.”

  “Exactamente!” cries Chef, who has been standing behind our table the entire time. He turns to the rest of the class. “Because the beet is a bit messy to prepare—purple stains on aprons are okay, but on my brand-new appliances? No, no, no—I’ve done the work of roasting and peeling them for you.” He holds up his hands and shows off his still-purple fingers. “And trust me, it was not such a pretty sight.”

  I look over at Frankie and see her dip her finger into the bowl of beets and then poke the back of Tristan’s hand, leaving a purple smudge. Tristan makes a face, but then does the same thing back to Frankie. They make spots on each other’s clean white aprons until Ms. Reynolds, who’s also at their table, pulls the beets out of their reach and gives them a look. The whole thing reminds me of the time Sierra and I got in trouble with our kindergarten teacher for being too messy with our finger paint. Still, we were five years old and Frankie and Tristan are, well, not.

  Chef tells us to chop up Brussels sprouts and sauté them with some onion until they’re soft. Then we roll out a sheet of dough and drop what he calls a “dollop” of goat cheese on top of it. Javier, Liza, and I joke around about how big a dollop actually is—is it the size of an ice-cream scoop? a spoonful of peanut butter? a squirt of shaving cream?—until Chef actually comes to our table and demonstrates (a scoop of ice cream was our closest guess). Liza pours our Brussels sprouts on top of the cheese, and then Henry adds some beets. (I think the adults have made a secret pact to keep the beets away from the kids after Frankie and Tristan’s smudge-fight.) Once all of the ingredients are in, I fold the dough around the sides to form the galette.

  Javier says, “Nice job,” and actually pats me on the back (!) before pinching the folded edges here and there. He doesn’t often remind me of Chef, but when he makes his little “improvements,” he looks and acts just like him. Liza watches and smiles at me—she must be thinking the same thing.

  While the galettes bake, Chef Antonio gives each table the option of making savory bread pudding or cheese straws. At our table Henry is the only one who votes for bread pudding—there’s something about the name, even, that’s not exactly appetizing—but he’s a good sport about being outvoted by the kids.

  Javier assures us that we made the right choice, because his dad’s cheese straws are “mad good.” Liza and I roll our eyes when he says it—sometimes he tries to act or talk like he’s tougher than he is, and it comes out sounding more silly than cool. I know it’s kind of lame that he does it, but I can’t help thinking i
t’s cute, too.

  To make the cheese straws, we start by grating extra-sharp cheddar cheese (my favorite kind—although all cheeses are pretty much my favorites), and then we add some flour and chilled butter. On top of that we toss in salt, cayenne pepper, and a little bit of milk.

  “This is a recipe for those of us who like to get our hands dirty,” Chef says, looking at Frankie and Tristan, who are also making cheese straws.

  Henry leaves it to the three of us to dig our hands into the batter and mix it until the ingredients feel like “coarse meal.” I’m not sure Liza, Javier, or I have ever felt coarse meal before, exactly, but when we think we’re pretty close, we add some more milk, and then we make a big ball out of the dough. We toss some flour on our pastry board, and Henry rolls out the dough. Then we each take turns making long, thin strips with a pizza cutter.

  “Twist them if you dare to try, mis amigos,” Chef says. That sounds like a challenge, so of course we do.

  It’s not until we’re twisting our last few straws that I realize I haven’t seen or heard from my mother since we started making the galettes. Spinning around in my seat to see what she’s up to, I am shocked to see her at the head of her table, stirring up a big bowl of bread pudding and shouting out assignments to her group mates. I mean, it’s totally like Mama to take charge in the kitchen, but usually it’s her own kitchen and she’s ordering around her own children, not other adults. Of course, Theresa is happy to follow my mother’s instructions—and bread pudding seems like the safer choice for her than twisty cheese straws—but it’s funny to see Stephen and Errol following Mama’s lead as well. She must be enjoying herself, since she won’t be teaching college kids again until next fall and I am sure she has missed bossing people around.

  “Yo,” Javier says, when our savory pies and snacks are finally finished baking and we’re chomping on our cheese straws. “These things are gooood.”

  “Mm-hm,” I mumble—talking with your mouth full is a definite no-no in my family, but I don’t want Javier to think I’m ignoring him.

  “Delicious,” Liza says. Since she doesn’t have a crush on Javier, she couldn’t care less if she lets a few crumbs fly.

  Henry finishes off his last forkful of pot pie and bites into a cheese straw. “Oh yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and savoring the salty, tangy flavor, “these are mad good.”

  We all crack up, especially Javier. He looks extra adorable when he’s laughing.

  “You know what?” Javier asks when he catches his breath. “I think ours was the best table. We make a great team, don’t you think?” He holds his hands up, and the four of us high-five all around.

  “Yeah, we do,” I say, my mouth finally free of cheese straw. “We make a mad good team.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Liza

  Every Sunday morning from ten to ten thirty my dad calls to talk to me and Cole. He used to call it our “weekly phone date,” but that sounded seriously weird (and dorky), so I made him stop last year. It’s not like he and Cole have much to talk about—-construction vehicles mostly—because Cole is not so great at a two-way conversation at this point, so Dad spends most of the time asking me questions about school and my friends and what I did that week. One time he actually asked me if I liked any boys, but I yelled, “Dad!!!” into the phone so violently that he hasn’t tried it again.

  Lately, my dad and I have been talking a lot about the party on our Sunday calls. Mostly he wants to make sure that Nana isn’t driving me too crazy with all of her planning. I think he feels guilty that I’m the one who has to deal with her . . . well . . . Nana-ness, since I’m here and he’s three thousand miles away. So far I’ve been assuring him that I can handle it. But yesterday’s cooking class made me realize that if there’s any chance of this party bringing my parents back together, it’s not going to happen while they’re on opposite coasts. And if getting them face-to-face before the big, dreaded day means telling my dad that Nana’s control freakishness has gotten completely out of control, then that’s what I’ll have to do. It’s not exactly lying, right? And even if it is, it’s all for a good cause—my new Big Idea: Operation Reconciliation.

  When the phone rings, Cole insists on being the one to answer, even though he hasn’t entirely figured out how phones work yet. Of course, it rings five times before he pushes the right button to actually answer the call. Mom puts it on speakerphone, since Cole doesn’t get the whole holding-it-up-to-your-ear thing, but as soon as she does he turns it off. I turn it back on and he turns it off again, giggling up a storm. This goes on for ages, and meanwhile poor Dad is on the other end yelling out, “Cole? Buddy? Is anyone there? Liza? Jackie?” Finally I get fed up and grab the phone. Cole howls, but I don’t care—enough is enough and I have big plans for this call.

  I peel Cole’s sticky hands off my arm and hold the phone out of his reach. “You can talk to Daddy when I’m done,” I say. I get up and head for my room, away from his wailing and, more importantly, away from my mom’s radar. No way can I have her guessing what I am trying to do, it would ruin everything. This has to seem like fate, or something.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, closing my door and turning on music so Mom and Cole can’t hear me. Not that it matters much anyway, Cole is still fussing that I took the phone away from him. “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay, kiddo. Your brother’s just being two and half. Little kids get a kick out of pushing buttons and seeing what happens. It wasn’t so long ago that you did stuff like that too.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “but there’s no way I was as annoying as Cole.”

  “You also didn’t have a dad who only talked to you out of a little box.”

  Mr. Mac would call that a “perfect segue”—a seamless transition from one subject to another.

  “Yeah,” I sigh, just a little dramatically, “I actually wish you were here in person right now.”

  “What’s up, Lize?” my dad asks, sounding concerned. “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, I’m just a little stressed out.”

  “About the party?”

  “I guess,” I sigh again, getting ready to bring out the big guns. I’m not Nana Silver’s granddaughter for nothing!

  My dad exhales loudly into the phone. “What’s Nana up to now?”

  I pick up the brochure from the super ridiculous party space Nana went nuts over. “Well, she’s been putting a lot of pressure on me to have the party at this really fancy place that’s a gazillion miles away from Brooklyn, and I’m pretty sure she’s hiring the New York Philharmonic to do the music, even though I told her I’d rather have a DJ.” Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit—it’s for a good cause, right?

  “I thought you said Nana was keeping herself under control,” Dad says. “Last time we spoke it sounded like she was willing to compromise.”

  “Well, she’s not,” I say, hoping I sound more wounded than bratty, “and I just really wish you were here so I wouldn’t have to do this alone.” I can almost hear my dad’s heart fall to his kitchen floor with a splat.

  “What about your mom, Lize, can she try to talk to Nana?”

  “Dad, you know Mom’s trying to stay out of the whole party thing. She doesn’t want to ‘overstep’ or something. Plus, she says she still has nightmares about Nana Silver ‘helping’ her plan your wedding.”

  “Yep, that’s true enough,” my dad says with a sort of sad chuckle. I think he’s starting to break down. “Don’t worry, Liza Lou, as soon as I hang up with you guys, I’ll give her a call and let her know that she’s out of bounds. I’ll also gently remind her that the party is for you, not her.”

  “But Daddy,” I whine. I probably sound like I’m five, but calling my father “Daddy” turns him to mush. “Couldn’t you just come to New York a week early? That way if Nana’s party ends up over the top, at least you’ll be here to help tone it down. Come on, Daddy—please?”

  I can hear my Dad clicking away on his keyboard. “Well, I’ll take a look
at my calendar, Lize. I’m not all that excited about tangling with Nana Silver, and I am not sure how much I could help at that point—I mean, won’t the damage have been done? But, of course, it would be great to spend some extra time with you and Cole. And your mom and I could discuss a few things in person.”

  Bingo. He wants to talk to Mom in person! “That would be great, Dad! I feel less stressed out already. Can you book your tickets now?”

  “Now?”

  “Please, Daddy?” Clearly, I have no shame.

  My dad sighs. “Okay, sure, sweetheart. As soon as I hang up the phone.”

  “Promise?” He’s said this kind of thing before.

  “Promise. Now how about you give your little brother back the phone? He’s not still crying, is he?”

  I open my door and there’s Cole on the couch, shoving “his” phone—it’s really my mom’s old one—into his mouth and gnawing on the buttons. Like I said, he doesn’t entirely get how to use a phone just yet.

  “Wanna talk to Daddy?” I ask, heading over to the couch. I take the dripping old phone out of his mouth and toss it onto the coffee table. Cole grabs for the real phone in my hand, but I yank it away just in time. “Here, I’ll show you.” I press the speakerphone button. “Now talk.”

  “Talk!” Cole squawks, picking up the phone with both hands and pressing it to his face.

  “What?” I hear my father’s muffled voice on the other end. “Cole-Man, is that you?”

  I decide to let Mom sort things out this time and head back to my room, practically skipping. I’ve got a whole week of whirlwind romance and family bonding to plan!