Savour

I slam the fridge door closed and claw my forearms. The ringtone halts my spiral.

“Hey sis, can I drop them off in a little bit?” Carly huffs, and I picture her, hand clutching a spoon moving in tight circles through whatever last minute dish she’s making. “Haven’t heard from the sitter yet.”

I bite my lip. “Why? It’s Sunday afternoon. Don’t you have a backup?”

I hear the beep of the microwave “Julie, go read your chapter. You’ve got that assignment, and I want you in bed tonight at a decent hour. See that’s why I need you, little sis.”

I don’t say, just like always at the last minute. “How do you know I don’t have plans tonight?”

“Of course you don’t. They’ll stay ‘til eight-thirty, at the latest. One of us will swing by after the guests are gone.” She sneezes and sniffs. “Ugh. I can’t get sick.”

“Like I can. Carly, I need your help. This is a disaster!”

“Oh just chill, sis. What is it this time? Work, or Wes-related?”

The tightness in my neck flares again. “A bit of both. I need to make something for this potluck tomorrow.”

“On a Monday?”

“Magnificent Monday Meals, is the theme. I swear, Peters and these corny-ass themes.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “I decided to add to my year-end to-do and participate. Need something flavorful, mildly impressive yet easy to ma-”

Carly clears her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to cook for that crush of yours, little sis?”

“I don’t know. It’s just, they count stuff like this in our favor. And I brought drinks last time, which helps, but it was hinted to me that ‘creativity and effort are just as important.’ ”

“Dammit! “ Something clatters near her. “Sorry, I’m making this Italian dressing Kevin’s manager likes, and it’s not coming together. Just make a salad, super-healthy. And don’t try this, buy some ranch!”

“They’ll know if I just dump it in a bowl.”

“So get some of that instant noodle stuff, nuke it, and drizzle it with some balsamic.” Carly laughs again, and the phone beeps. “Be right back, sis.”

I grab a pad and jot down a few ingredients I’ll need.

“We’ll drop ‘em in 20 minutes? And I’ll bring a pastarole- killer marinara, farfalle, arugula. Defrost for 20, bake it an hour, and wrap it up before you go to bed. Pick up some Parmesan to serve.” She’s probably going over the checklist tacked to the fridge, nails perfect, eyeliner on, but nothing else on her face yet.

“Tell Julie to bring her work, but you’re gonna owe. Mint chip gallon.”

“I’ve got you.”

“OK. I’ll take the food you froze, too, but I need to make something on my own.” I flip another page. “What happened to Mama’s old recipe box, the one Grandma gave us?”

“Who knows?” I twitch my lips upward. Julie’s squeals of “Auntie Maren! Auntie Maren!” as if she’s on the other line. “But those dishes are next level, Mar.”

Heat rises up my neck. “I know you think I’m irredeemable after the Thanksgiving incident of 2021, but I’m better now. I’m not, I’m just, insecure about it.”

“How long have you flipped through that Crocker book?”

“All morning, looking at cakes and pies. How is a tart different from a pie?”

“Pies are larger, tarts use less dough, but they’re not easier to make, Mar.”

I sigh again. “Make it 30 minutes, or feel free to wait til I get back. Gotta shop real quick.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I unload Vidalias, beefsteaks, unsalted butter, turkey patties, russets and all-purpose flour. I chop and measure until my family bursts in-JJ with a device in hand, Julie with her princess tote slipping off her shoulder.

Kevin, in a sky-blue button-down with rolled sleeves, winks and sets the still ice-dusted pan on the stove’s pot rest. “Hey, Maren. Thanks for this. DD should arrive with food for them, and your ice cream before long.”

I wave the package of meat. “Guess I’ll have these next week. Good luck with whatever it is y’all are having.” I rinse and wipe my knife with the dish towel on my shoulder.

Kevin grabs an apple from the bowl on the counter. “This is lunch for me. She’s been crazy all week, and we’ve been on sous-chef and pickup duty since Friday night. Ugh.”

“Perfectionist.” I pass him a peanut butter and dark chocolate bar and a full-sized Snickers from my freezer stash.

“Bless you, sweet sister.” He slips a $20 bill under the cutting board. “Just in case they get hungry again.” He leans down and pecks my forehead, then repeats the move with his offspring.

With the kids settled in the breakfast nook, smiling with grease-smeared lips, a few slices remaining between them, I get to work on the dish.

“Are you making us cookies, Auntie Maren? I really like chocolate chips.” Julie drops a mushroom onto a napkin.

“Mama said you gotta eat the veggies, JuJu. I’m gonna tell.” JJ bites the end of a third slice.

“Josiah, leave your sister alone. Do you want tomato slices?”

Julie nods and dips my leftovers in a foil-topped cup of ranch, with a thumbs up. “I’ve got some slice-and-bake dough for later. Lucky for you I have these.” I wield a stash of semi-sweet chips. “Chocolate fix is yours when you’re done.”

She grimaces, then spears the discarded mushrooms, and downs them, with a pinky chaser of dressing. JJ giggles, then frowns when I steal the last slice. “I’m hungry too!”

“Aren’t you making your own pizza?”

“Not for me. It’s for my fellow teachers, for lunch.”

He wrinkles his nose. “But you can’t cook, Auntie Maren. Mama says you burn up water and can’t crack an egg. She says you almost kil-”

I clap my hands. "OK! Let's cleanup, and you’ve got work, Princess.” I fold the box for the recycling bin, then toss their plates. “Cookies in 45 minutes.”

JJ trudges to the den and pulls a notebook from his backpack, while Julie curls into her spot on the loveseat, my favorite throw covering her shoeless stocking feet.

When the real disaster hits, the kids are quiet and unaware.

My crust is strewn across a too-small length of parchment paper, alternately dry and buttery. When I’ve fashioned something crust-like, I stack the veggies in a tower and sprinkle ribbons of mozzarella.

Eyes wide, mouths agape, Julie and JJ gather around the island. “What happened, Aunt Maren?”

“The crust died. I think they can eat it.” I drag my gaze across thepile of onions, flecked with tomato skin and drowned in cheese.

“Even my magic wand can’t fix that.” Julie shoves a fist under her chin. “Are we really baking, something normal?”

“Of course.” I wrap the un-tart. JJ pulls down mixing bowls, and Julie unfolds my Kiss the Cook apron.

Three hours later, Kevin carries Julie and their foil-wrapped platter, and JJ stumbles with Carly guiding him to the car.

I collapse onto my memory-foam at midnight, bracing myself for the week to come.

***

At 8:15, I make it to the staff room kitchen and stash my dish at the back of the fridge. I note the bag of shredded cheddar.

“Morning, babe.Did you bring something?” Zoe carries a foil-wrapped Pyrex pan to the table.

“Hey yourself, Miley. It's gonna need to be warmed.”

“Oh, put it beside mine. The ladies will do it.” I admire her flowered maxi dress, vacation-ready and flouncing, as we clear space in the “Hot Prepared” section of the warming table.

“You OK? Tired?” She wraps a hand on my forearm. “Hope you didn’t spend too much time. Long week, but we’re almost there, hon.”

“I’m hanging on.”

The morning crawls by, with project research and exam prep, students huddled in pairs over screens and trifolds, hushed whispers and yawns rippling through the space. Even Lillian is subdued, buds in, frown lines around her mouth, as she revises her EOY essay.

“You look wrecked, Miss W.” Lillian drops the draft in my turn-in bin.

“Long weekend.” I nibble a chocolate morsel from a broken cookie.” You’re working so hard, Lily. I can’t wait to read it.”

She smiles. “Are you ever gonna have a husband, or kids?”

I rub the hollow of my neck. “What made you think of that?”

“Cause you’re always here, and all you do is work. You’d be a great mama.” Lillian sweeps a gaze across my folder-covered desk. “Do you even eat?”

I zip my baggie. The bell rings. “Maybe I will today.”

***

At 12:45, I spot it on the table, uncovered, a tunnel dug though the collapsed tart. I reach for the rest when the door swooshes open.

“Ugh, who made all this healthy stuff?” Lauren from the counseling team pulls a Styrofoam bowl from the tower, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. I open, then clamp my lips together.

I add a small yeast roll, and slide a napkin under my plate.

Foil rustles. Lauren huffs. A pierogi dangles from a pair of plastic tongs.”Is this safe to eat? It looks like rubber.”

I hunch my shoulders toward my ears and untangle a spork from the box.“I’m sure everything is quite edible, and petroleum-free.”

I reach for an oatmeal raisin bar cookie. Lauren picks up a fork and bumps my elbow. “Whew, I’m starving.”

I shove my platter behind a tray of cucumber and tomato finger sandwiches and slide a bottle of water into the crook of my arm while she browses.

“Then, she does it. “Ugh! What is this?” She tosses the foil on top of an unopened container of bran muffins, digging a slotted spoon into the dish. “Who ate this? Enough onions so I’ll breathe hotter than a dragon all afternoon, and tomatoes?”

“I guess someone else liked it.” Coach Wesley, or Linc, winks and sets a crimson Tupperware lid on the table. After a quick rub of hand spray, he eases the remaining wedge into the container.“Guess I won’t be ordering tonight.”

I drop the last cherry tomato on my plate and press my lips together, breathless.

“You came just for that?” Lauren digs a fist into her waist, shifting a gaze between Linc and me. “You can’t be that hungry. Don’t you want some of my mac and cheese?”

“Nah.” Linc snaps the top and brushes past Lauren. I roll my chair and use a napkin to wipe a wet spot. “Only have 10 minutes left now.”

He nods and I dislodge the cord. Fingers fly, and I inhale when his knuckles grazes mine in the exchange. “I’d love to get the recipe, or suggestions for new places we could try sometime, whenever you want.”

“Are you sure about that? I don’t eat a lot of pizza or anything too salty.” I lean back against my chair and tap my nearly untouched plate.

Linc chuckles. “Just text me your favorites, so I can plan when we go. Soon, I hope. Have a good day, Maren.”

“You, too, Coach.” I pull a napkin across my leftovers and pocket my phone. The alarm chimes.

Lauren holds out her Corningware, smaller than Mama’s, its sides crusted with burnt cheese. “It’s really good. See?”

“Maybe next time I’ll try some.” She closes her mouth and carries her relatively full dish, toward the fridge. I don’t miss the twitch of her eyelid, or the quivering of her wrist when she grabs the door handle.

I don’t hide the curve of my smile as I head upstairs for 5th period.