Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
Page 35
“I’ll get the paint today,” Alice said, squeezing around Nate
to slide the loaf pans into the oven. “Oops, sorry about that.”
She had jostled him, and he set his hands on her hips to keep
either of them from stumbling. Nate’s fingers lingered for a
moment, then retreated to shut the dishwasher. It had been a
long time since his hands had been on her body— four weeks,
by her latest count. “Unless you want to wait? Maybe pick a
gender‑ specific color?”
“Up to you,” Nate replied nonchalantly, untucking his tie
from between the buttons of his shirt. He smoothed the tie flat
to his chest, then shrugged on his suit jacket, which was hanging
over the back of the chair.
“I think I’d rather get it done now. So maybe a soft yellow?
Or mint green could work.”
“Either is fine with me.” Nate reached for his messenger bag
from the chair beside him, slipping the strap overhead and
across his chest.
“It’s supposed to be cold today,” Alice said over her shoulder
as she rinsed the bowl and set it on the drying rack. “You might
want your coat, too.”
Nate frowned, perhaps thinking about how if they were
living in L.A. he wouldn’t need a coat in October. Alice won‑
dered how many times a day Nate’s turned‑ down promotion
came to mind, or the fact that Drew was already in warm and
sunny California, mobilizing her new team. He was doing fine
in New York— he’d passed his exam and had received the req‑
uisite bump in salary. But with no positions open in upper man‑
agement in the Manhattan office (though they expected there
might be, within a year or so), he essentially held the same job
with a slightly higher paycheck. His aspirations stifled and his
work ethic questioned when he reneged on the offer, Alice knew
none of this made her ambitious husband very happy.
“I’ll be okay without it.” Nate took the travel mug of coffee
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Alice handed him and in return gave her a perfunctory peck on
the cheek. “Ali, I . . .”
For a moment, they locked eyes and Alice waited for Nate to
finish. But whatever it was seemed lodged in his throat, which
he cleared with a quick cough before taking a step away from
her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Don’t forget your folic acid.”
“Already took it,” she said. “And my multivitamin, too.”
Nate said he’d call if he was going to be later than seven, and
Alice wished him a good day. Then she shut the door behind
him and for the first time that morning her shoulders relaxed. If
they were to be honest with each other, she sensed that Nate
would admit to feeling the same relief when he left the house as
she did to have him gone. Alice much preferred being home
alone, without the constant hum of disappointment that flowed
off her husband.
It was a lot of work, this tiresome, superficial back‑ and‑ forth
they engaged in daily. How long could they keep it up? Maybe
the baby would bring with it a truce of sorts, Alice thought, or
at least a distraction from their marital ennui.
As Alice was making another pot of coffee, a text from
Bronwyn arrived.
What’s the vomit count this morning?
She chuckled, typed back,
Morning sickness: 0. Hale: 1
The friends had reconciled after the disastrous H& H lunch,
with Bronwyn forgiving Alice for being a “psycho bitch” that
afternoon, as she put it. And Alice promised to re‑ create the day, complete with bagels and manicures, when she could stomach
more than chicken broth. She was grateful for Bronwyn— aside
from Sally, the one constant in her life at the moment— and
couldn’t believe she’d almost allowed Nate and the drama
around Drew to come between them. Though when she thought
about it now, she didn’t feel like that same person who had lied
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Karma Brown
about the IUD and started smoking again and accused her
husband of cheating on her. That had been a different version of
Alice Hale— one who had been weakened by a lack of purpose,
who hadn’t been able to see her own potential. She was relieved
that Alice Hale was gone for good, now that she had more im‑
portant things to focus on, like her book. And the baby.
She rubbed her tiny belly bump and smiled, adding cream
to her fresh mug of coffee. Alice, finally hungry, couldn’t wait
to eat the lemon poppy seed loaf— it would be a relief to put
something in her stomach and have it stay there.
Late afternoon, after sharing her baking and a long chat with
Sally, Alice came home fatigued and longing for a nap. It was
mind‑ boggling, how much energy a baby— currently only the
size of a fig, according to Nate— required. But while crawling
back into bed was tempting, her manuscript was calling to her
more insistently. So, resigned the nap would have to wait, Alice
decided a cup of tea might perk her up. She was filling the kettle
when her phone vibrated on the kitchen countertop, and Nate’s
name illuminated the screen. Alice sighed, let it ring four times
before she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Nate said. “How’s your day?”
Alice finished with the kettle, then reached for the box of
tea in the cupboard. “Good, thanks. You?”
“Good. Yeah. But apparently there’s something going on at
Williams Bridge. The trains aren’t getting through.”
“Huh. Wonder what happened.” She checked the kettle, no‑
ticed she’d forgotten to turn it on.
“They’re saying someone got pushed,” Nate said.
“Oh God. That’s horrible.” Alice laid a hand to her stomach.
“Who would do something like that?”
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“I can’t even imagine. Brutal.” He paused. “So I figured I’d
stay in the city for dinner. Avoid the delays. As long as that’s
okay with you?”
“Totally fine.” Alice was glad to have the evening to herself.
“Thanks for calling,” she added.
“Um, yeah. You’re welcome,” Nate replied, before hanging up.
Turning off her ringer, she glanced out the window at the
back garden, waiting for the water to boil. Though the bright,
gregarious flowers were long gone, there remained plenty of
green foliage, and the foxglove— which as promised continued
to showcase its vanilla‑ colored blooms well into the fall— had
kept the deer away. She thought of Nellie, as she often did, and
imagined the housewife would have been pleased to see how
well her beloved gardens were faring.
Alice’s mind drifted— another side effect of early pregnan
cy,
as if the baby was siphoning all her focus— and it slipped back to her conversation with Nate. For a moment, her thoughts going
there without intention, Alice indulged a macabre musing . . .
what if it had been Nate who was pushed from the train’s
platform? He always stood too close to the safety line, which was
an oddity to his otherwise predictable personality. Then she
would be alone in this house not only this evening, but forever.
All decisions would be hers alone.
She suddenly envisioned Nellie, standing where Alice was
now, staring at her cherished garden, the kitchen filled with
mourning casseroles and funeral cakes and her hypothetical
grief. The fantasy was provocative purely because if a marriage
ends in such tragedy— one person departing through no fault of
either party— it is blameless. No failure, no compromises, no
expectations. And while Alice would never wish to be a single
mother, at least her own mother showed her it was possible. If
Alice had to do it alone, she would be fine.
A sharp crack rattled the kitchen window— a bird that had
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Karma Brown
gone off course— and Alice yelped and jumped, only then no‑
ticing the rolling boil of the kettle. Taking a breath, her heart
q
pounding in her throat, she turned off the kettle, then went on
her toes at the window to look for the bird on the grass below,
but it must have managed to fly away, uninjured.
Recipe
Shaking off the last vestiges of her daydreaming, Alice
Elsie Swann
poured boiling water into her mug and padded over to her desk.
The constant nausea had wreaked havoc on her creativity, but
Swann Family Herb Mix
now that she wasn’t distracted by the incessant need to vomit,
she felt ready to work. Sliding her chair closer, she opened the
A dry tablespoon each of:
Dry herbs on newspaper in a cool spot.
desk’s drawer and pulled out a picture frame, placing it on the
Lemon Balm
Using mortar and pestle, grind dried
desktop in front of her.
Parsley
In it, a young, vibrant‑ looking Nellie stood in the front
Basil
dust, then combine in a bowl and mix
garden, slender arms, legs bare in quite‑ short shorts, with her
well. Store in a glass shaker and sprinkle
gloved hands wrapped around a fresh‑ cut bouquet of pink pe‑
Marjoram
on your favorite recipes, like meatloaf
onies. If one looked closely, one could see dirt smears on her
Sage
and toasted cheese sandwiches! Can also
knees. The snapshot caught Nellie mid‑ laugh, her head tilted
Foxglove (flowers and leaves)
be baked into biscuits and used in salad
back slightly, though her eyes were bright and focused on the
*1 dry teaspoon
dressings. A family favorite!
camera’s lens. Alice had found the picture upside down in the
cardboard box, tucked deep into a flap and therefore previously
hidden. On its back was penned Nellie, 173 Oakwood Drive,
June 1957. It had been taken only months after Richard died, and Nellie looked— at least to Alice— happy and carefree.
Whoever had taken the photo had captured the real Nellie
Murdoch.
Alice gingerly sipped her too‑ hot tea, rereading the last
couple of pages she’d managed the previous day. Then, as Nellie
looked on, Alice ducked her head and let her mind go, invoking
the housewife’s ghost, the tapping of keys filling the otherwise
quiet, contented house.
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Recipe for a Perfect Wife
q
Recipe
Elsie Swann
Swann Family Herb Mix
A dry tablespoon each of:
Dry herbs on newspaper in a cool spot.
Lemon Balm
Using mortar and pestle, grind dried
Parsley
Basil
dust, then combine in a bowl and mix
well. Store in a glass shaker and sprinkle
Marjoram
on your favorite recipes, like meatloaf
Sage
and toasted cheese sandwiches! Can also
Foxglove (flowers and leaves)
be baked into biscuits and used in salad
*1 dry teaspoon
dressings. A family favorite!
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Acknowledgments
I own a lot of cookbooks: Baking, vegetarian, vegan, classic, French, Italian, barbecue, and one Paleo cookbook I bought on a whim (I
liked the cover) and never used, because I’ve since returned to veg‑
etarianism and it’s full of meat‑ based recipes that make me weepy for the cows and pigs and chickens of the world. In this large stack are also a number of vintage cookbooks, some bought at sec‑
ondhand bookstores and others passed down through the genera‑
tions by the women in my family. Those are my most prized, and
while some of the recipes can be . . . unappetizing, for lack of a better word (jelly salads were the bomb back then) . . . I treasure those books for their legacy. They represent strong, capable, and
interesting women whose great skills were only showcased in some
cases— because of the times— in their kitchens and via these cook‑
books.
Like the ingredients in a recipe, there are many elements to
writing a book. Furthermore, if you leave one ingredient out, or
get the measurements wrong, you can end up with something
unpalatable and only fit for the trash bin. Novels can be finicky
like soufflé and piecrust, satisfying like stew and potpie, and
mesmerizing like pavlova and Baked Alaska. But unlike nailing
a recipe, nailing a book takes more than a list of ingredients
mixed together. And so here, friends, is my recipe for this novel
(please note, measurements are random and for fun, so 2 cups
of one thing is no more significant than 1 teaspoon of another).
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Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel
Ingr edients
3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger,
Helen Smith
2 cups agent- I- couldn’t- do- this- without: Carolyn Forde
(and the Transatlantic Literary Agency)
11⁄ 2 cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US,
Penguin Random House Canada (Viking)
1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter
Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria
Whelan, Claire Zaya
1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti
1⁄ 2 cup author- friends- who- keep- me- sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman,
Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim
1⁄ 2 cup friends- with- talents- I- do- not- have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey
1⁄ 4 cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who
inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook
and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is
1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life
1⁄ 2 tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger- Horn,
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Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel
Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz
Fenton
1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration
1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing
companion
Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine
met hod: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition. Stir and stir and stir for what feels like an eternity but is likely about six months to three years, give or take. Move to a fresh Word document and beat until smooth. Pour
into well- greased pans provided by publisher, and bake for approxi-mately one year. Take out of oven and let cool briefly, then serve, perhaps with a side of ice cream. Enjoy!
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Credits
17
Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, Purity Cookbook (1945 edition)
35
Chocolate Chip Cookies, adapted from Purity Cookbook (1945) 60
Chicken à la King, adapted from Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book revised and enlarged (1956) and author’s grandmother’s recipe
79
Busy Day Cake, Purity Cookbook (1945 edition)
109 Bread and Cheese Pudding, adapted from Purity Cookbook
(1945 edition)
142 Baked Alaska, Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, revised and enlarged (1956)