Midnight Lemon Pudding

‘Don't make a mess while I'm gone. Okay, Rush?’

That's what my older brother, Remington, said before leaving for work at dinnertime. Translated, that meant I should clean up any mess I made before he got back. I had turned twelve this year, old enough to use the stove home alone. That was Remington's rule. Mom and Dad might have had different rules, but I hadn't thought to ask before. And now it was too late.

So I followed Remington's rules. Bedtime was sometime around midnight, the basic food groups were BBQ potato chips and canned alphabet soup, and scary movies were okay as long as I didn't have nightmares afterward.

I walked to the kitchen of our apartment, opened the refrigerator, shut it, and opened it again. Still, nothing. BBQ potato chips and canned alphabet soup didn't need to stay cold, so our fridge was mostly bare. Half a stick of butter, milk for cereal, three eggs that had been there for weeks, and a couple mysterious bottles of salad dressing in the back of the fridge. But what bugged me was the empty bottom shelf. There always used to be homemade lemon pudding there. But there hadn't been for the last year. Not since the accident.

“What are you doing, Boss?”

I turned around and saw Rafael. He was the last remaining banana from the bunch we'd bought, and he stood alone on the kitchen counter, leaning against the backsplash, watching me with that half-smile on his freckled face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Just checking what's in the fridge,” I said.

“It's almost midnight; your brother will be home soon.” Rafael said. “Are you hungry?”

“Nah.” I started towards my room to get ready for bed, then stopped. “Wait. Yes, I am. Hungry for lemon pudding.”

Rafael shrugged. How a banana could shrug, I don't know. “Do you know how to make lemon pudding, Rush?” he asked.

I hesitated. “No. But I'm sure I can. Cooking runs in the family.”

“Isn't that what your brother is doing at work now? Cooking?”

“Yeah. But I’m talking about my mom's recipe. She kept it somewhere around here.”

“Why don't you wait and ask your brother to help you?”

I rummaged through the kitchen drawers and found Mom's recipe cards. She'd kept them in a wood box from my dad. It still sent a weird shockwave through my fingers and arms when I touched it. I swallowed.

“Rush?” Rafael asked.

Placing the box on the counter, I opened the lid and flipped through the recipe cards. “I don't want to bother Remington. He's been different since—since the car accident. I don't want to hurt him more by talking about it.”

Rafael was silent for a second. “I think it’d help Remington if you talk about your parents. Might help you, too.”

I rifled through the recipe cards. Mom's Christmas apple pie, Dad's rolls . . . I closed the box. I hadn't eaten any of those things since the car accident. I was going to throw up.

“But,” Rafael continued, “if you won't ask your brother for help, I'll keep you company. As much as a banana can.”

I looked up. “Really?”

He nodded.

I opened the box again and plunged back into the recipe cards. “I found the pudding recipe! And it's not hard. I could have it done by midnight before Remington comes home from work. I'll get the ingredients.”

Rafael grinned. “Start with the lemon juice and egg yolks, Boss. Look out; some of the ingredients can be a little cranky this time of night.”

I ran to the refrigerator and threw open the door. Then my heart sank right down to my toes. “We don't have anything to make pudding with.”

“What do you need?”

I checked Mom's recipe card. “Eggs, lemon juice, butter, whipped cream.”

“Skip the whipped cream for now, it's just for decoration. You have eggs?”

I hunted down the three eggs in the fridge door. “Three. I need six.”

“That's if you're making pudding for a crowd. You only need a couple of servings.”

Math. I scrunched up my nose to concentrate. “I can still make four servings with this.”

“Great. Now for the lemons.”

I turned back to the banana. “I'm pretty sure you're the only fresh fruit in the house, Rafael.”

“Heard that, Boss. But take a look at the salad dressing.”

Kneeling down, I studied the labels of each bottle. “This one's Green Basil. No wait—Italian. Gross.” I shoved the bottle back in the fridge.

“Check the others,” Rafael said.

“I know.” I turned it so I could read the label. “Lemon juice!”

“Perfect!” Rafael beamed.

“And we have butter. That's all the cold ingredients.” I carried them to the kitchen counter and laid them out for Rafael to inspect, then opened the pantry. “Sugar, cornstarch, salt. That's everything!”

I checked the clock. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes before Remington came home. I pulled out the saucepan from the cabinet and set it on the stove. I poured the sugar into a measuring cup and dumped it in the pan, then sprinkled some salt.

“Watch out for the cornstarch, he's the cranky one,” Rafael said.

I eyed the box of cornstarch, and it scowled back at me.

“You never gave Mom any trouble,” I told it.

“Well, you're not your mom, are you?” the cornstarch snapped back. “She knew how to make lemon pudding. You don't.”

“I can learn.” I opened the box.

“It won't ever be your mom's pudding.”

“Hey!” Rafael barked. “Leave Rush alone.”

I swallowed. The cornstarch was right. It wouldn't be my mom's pudding. I tilted the box and poured. With a poof, it sprayed a white cloud over me and all over the kitchen counter.

Rafael coughed and the cornstarch sneered. I smacked the measuring cup on the counter and knuckled the tears from my eyes.

“He's forgetting something, Rush,” Rafael said quietly. “Your mom loves you. I think she'd be happy that you're making her pudding.”

I nodded at Rafael and ignored the cornstarch. The banana was right. Swiping my sleeve across my face, I poured the cornstarch into the pan and stirred it. Then I put the dry ingredients away.

“Nice job, Boss,” Rafael said. “Halfway through the ingredients.”

I managed the tiniest corner of a smile and checked Mom's recipe card. “Now the egg yolks and lemon juice.”

I popped open the bottle of juice and started pouring it into the measuring cup.

“Hey,” the lemon juice whispered, quiet enough that Rafael couldn't hear. I ignored it.

“Listen, I'm trying to help,” the lemon juice continued.

“What?” I said.

“Shh, quiet. Your banana friend over there won't understand. But don't tell your brother why you're making the lemon pudding.”

I crinkled my forehead. “Why not?” I whispered back.

“Same reason you want to make the pudding without his help. If you talk to him about your parents—you know, dying and everything—it’ll make him upset. It makes you upset, doesn't it?”

I nodded.

“Exactly. Bringing it up to him will hurt him. Just keep this pudding thing to yourself.”

“What’s that lemon juice telling you?” Rafael called.

I finished pouring the juice. “Nothing important. I'm adding it to the cornstarch now.”

“Wait, use a whisk. Yeah, like that. You don't want lumps.”

That was true. Mom's pudding was always perfectly smooth. Mine had to be like that. I whisked harder.

“Careful, Rush, you're spilling,” Rafael said.

“I know.” Why couldn't the pudding just stay in the pan like it was supposed to? I needed everything to be cleaned up by the time Remington came home. I checked the clock. Uh-oh. Only a few minutes until midnight.

“Slow down,” Rafael said.

“I can't. Remington will be home any minute and I don't want him to see the pudding.” I pulled out two bowls and cracked the first egg. It sprayed egg white all over my hands and I grimaced.

“Wait, why can't Remington see the pudding?” Rafael said. “He loved when your mom made it.”

“That's why.” I cracked the second egg and the yolk burst against the sharp shell, dribbling down the side of the bowl. “Why won't these eggs just cooperate?”

Footsteps thumped in the hall and I froze. Remington was home and I had Mom's half-made lemon pudding out. I grabbed the last egg and cracked it against the rim of the bowl just as our apartment door swung open. Egg shell exploded and trickled down into the bowl of egg yolks. I barely caught the egg white and threw it into the second bowl as Remington stepped through the door.

“Rush.” He glanced around the kitchen at the mess. “I thought you'd be asleep by now.” He pulled off his nonslip shoes.

I stepped in front of the box of recipe cards still open on the counter, egg oozing from my hands. “Sorry, Remington. I'll clean it all up.”

“It's okay,” he said, and he actually didn't look mad. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “But it's kind of—something I want to do myself.”

Remington’s head tilted to one side. “Sure you don't want some help? It's getting late. What are you making? Are those Mom's recipe cards?”

I leaned on the counter, blocking his view. “I'm good. I've got it by myself.”

I glanced back at the bowl of egg yolks and my heart sank. I could mostly take care of it by myself.

“Okay,” Remington said finally. “But if you change your mind, I know a trick for getting those egg shells.” He hesitated, then turned to go to his room.

I glanced to the banana, Rafael. He didn't say anything, just nodded silently at me.

“Wait, Remington.” I clenched my fists, squishing egg all over my hands. “I do need help. Not with the recipe, just with getting the egg shells out. Please?”

Remington flashed me that half-smile, eyes twinkling. “Sure. Wash your hands and I'll show you.”

I rinsed my hands in the kitchen sink.

“With soap, Rush.”

“You sound like Mom,” I joked. Then I bit my lip. I hadn't meant to say that.

But Remington just grinned. “Okay, here's the trick. You know that slotted spoon in the drawer?”

I found it. “This one?”

“Perfect. Use that to scoop the shell pieces out. What are you making?”

I hesitated. The lemon juice stared at me, reminding me not to tell him. But then Rafael nodded to me from the counter. I exhaled. “Lemon pudding.”

For the tiniest fraction of a second, Remington didn't answer. Then he blinked. “Awesome. Then you just need the egg yolks. I'll put the whites in the fridge.”

Remington stretched plastic wrap over the second bowl while I fished out the egg shells from the yolks with a slotted spoon.

“Great job,” Remington said.

“Thanks, Rem. Those eggs were driving me crazy.”

“No problem. Do you want help with the cooking part?”

I opened my mouth to say yes. Then I remembered that fraction of a second, that look in his eyes when he realized I was making Mom's lemon pudding. “No,” I said. “I'm good.”

Remington slapped my shoulder. “Okay. I'm going to shower. Get me if you need anything.”

As soon as Remington shut our bedroom door, Rafael spoke. “He misses your parents too, Rush.”

“I know.” I whisked the egg yolks into the saucepan. “That's why I can't ask him to help with the pudding.”

“It'll help you both. Talk to him.”

I couldn't. I turned to the stove and flipped it on, whisking to get rid of lumps.

Rafael watched me whisk. Then he squinted. “It looks funny.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, whisking harder.

“No, seriously. Look, it's getting lumpy.”

“No way,” I said, “I'm whisking.” But I stared at the pudding, and before my eyes, lumps formed in the liquid. I stirred with all my might, and it sloshed over the sides of the pan and onto the hot burner. Smoke curled up, stinging my nose. “Why is it doing that?”

“I don't know. Call your brother.”

“No, I can do it.” The lumps increased. I couldn't do it.

“Turn off the stove,” Rafael said.

“I am!”

“Pull it off the burner.”

“Fine.” I slid the saucepan to the other side of the stove, watching the black smoke curl from the burner. I poked at the lumps, and my shoulders sagged. Mom's lemon pudding was ruined. I dropped the whisk and sank down, sitting on the kitchen floor. A fine dusting of cornstarch still covered my clothes. I glanced around at the counter. The lemon juice was silent, and the banana on the counter was just a banana.

I dropped my head in my hands. What a mess. Tears trickled between my fingers and I scrubbed at my face.

There has been lemon pudding in the fridge the night of the car accident. Remington and I had been watching a movie together at home when he got the phone call from the hospital. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face. He had stood up from the couch and motioned to me to keep watching the movie, then had run into the bedroom to finish the phone call. But I stood with my ear to the bedroom door, heart pounding. Then Remington came out, a strange look on his face. He hugged me before he said anything. And I knew something was wrong.

We never ate mom's last batch of pudding. After the phone call and the hospital, we stayed at my Aunt Ellie's house until the funeral. Then we moved to an apartment so that we could pay the bills. And our apartment fridge had been empty since then.

I had to make this pudding. And I couldn't do it. I wiped my shirt over my face and sobbed. From the closed bedroom, I heard the shower stop running.

I couldn't do it. I needed him. I needed Remington to help me make the pudding, and I needed him to be able to get through another night without our parents.

“Ask him, Boss.” The voice came from the counter.

I looked up at the banana. “Okay, Rafael. I'll ask.”

I stood and walked to the bedroom. Knocking on the door, I called, “Remington?”

“Come in.”

I opened the door, and a cloud of shampoo-scented steam wafted out at me. Remington sat on the bed, scrolling through texts on his phone and scrubbing a towel over his wet hair. “What's up?”

“I—I need your help. With Mom's pudding. Please.”

Remington tossed the towel onto our bed and shut off his phone. “Sure. What do you need?”

“I messed it up.” I swallowed. “I don't know what to do.”

My brother popped up from the bed and followed me into the kitchen. He poked at the pudding with the whisk. “Looks like it curdled. It's okay, Rush, we'll figure it out. Find a sieve in the cabinet. No, not the colander for pasta, the one with really tiny holes.”

I found the sieve and handed it to him. Remington pulled out a pot from the cabinet and placed the sieve over it. “Here, hold it in place.”

With a steady hand, Remington poured the pudding through the sieve. The lumps caught, and the smooth liquid strained through into the pot below. “Do you have any more eggs?”

I shook my head.

“Cornstarch?”

“Yeah.”

“Get a few spoonfuls and mix it in a cup with water. Make sure it's really smooth.”

While I did that, Remington put the pot on a second burner and turned it on low heat. “Now pour in the cornstarch water.”

I dribbled the liquid into the pudding.

“Slowly. Good. Now whisk it and don't stop. It'll take a little longer on low heat, but it won't get lumpy.”

I took the whisk from my brother and stirred. In a few minutes, it thickened, and Remington nodded. Then it started bubbling, and he pulled it off the heat.

“Add the butter, and keep stirring.”

It was perfect. Not perfectly smooth; the sieve hadn't been able to catch all of the lumps. But the pudding was thick and creamy, and the whole kitchen smelled like zingy lemons.

“Well done.” Remington grinned at me.

“I'm too hungry to wait for it to cool.”

“Me too,” my brother agreed. “Grab a bowl.”

I found two cereal bowls in the cabinet, and Remington poured pudding into each of them, giving me the larger portion. We pulled stools up to the counter and sat side by side, dipping our spoons in the pudding and burning our tongues. It was delicious.

“I'll clean up the mess, I promise,” I said.

Remington shrugged. “It can wait till morning. It's past your bedtime.” He blew at a steaming spoonful. “Thanks. You know, for making it. Sometimes I think—that I'm the only one that misses it. I thought about making mom's pudding a while back. But I didn't know how you'd feel about it.”

I looked up at him, surprised. Then I nodded and slurped a spoonful. “I couldn't have done it without you. Thanks.”

We sat together, not really talking about anything. Once, I looked up, and thought I saw Remington crying. But when I looked again, I decided I was wrong.

We left the messy kitchen and climbed into bed. Our apartment only had one bedroom, so we both slept on a single mattress on the floor. I tried to shut my eyes, but the smell of lemon still filled the apartment. And for an instant, I thought I heard Mom's footsteps in the hallway. I opened my eyes, peering into the darkness. It wasn't her. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

Then I felt Remington reach over and

touch my shoulder. He left his hand there, and I slowly relaxed.

“Good night, Remington,” I whispered.

He squeezed my shoulder. “Good night, Boss.”