Out to Lunch (12 page)

“He was better than winning the lottery. That kid never broke anything, spilled anything, pitched a fit or complained. And more importantly, he never once got sick when he was with us.”

Aimee was fearless about everything except puking.

“Cannot. Do. It. Not mine. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

Even when she got sick, with all the pain and fatigue, she was nauseated a lot, but never threw up.

“’Cause that is how I roll. I am a vomit-free zone. Also? In heaven, no barfing. You have my word on that.”

Noah leaves Volnay to return to her nap and heads over to say hello to everyone, and gets hugs and kisses and high fives before Lois squires him over to the buffet, where we have left all the desserts set up. Noah carefully chooses one of Eloise’s spicy gingersnaps dipped in white chocolate, one of Lois’s poppy-seed cookies, and one of Benji’s pecan squares and brings his plate over to the tree.

“We saved all your ornaments for you,” Eloise says, handing him the small box where we have always kept his ornaments, since he has come to every ornament class since the very first one and always makes at least four or five to leave here. It is fun to see the progression of his skills, from the lumpy, spattered sloppy ones from his first class, to last year’s fairly precise renditions of all of the Angry Birds characters.

“Excellent,” Noah says, putting the poppy-seed cookie in his mouth whole and taking the box, beginning to place his ornaments randomly all over the tree. “A little bit of Noah wherever you look,” he says.

“What is your theme this year?” Eloise asks. The ornament class is in two weeks; we always schedule it on Wayne’s weekends.

“I think I’m going superhero logos this time. Batman and Robin. Superman. Captain America. Wonder Woman. Spiderman. Maybe the Incredibles.”

“Sounds very awesome,” Andrea says.

“You doing the Punisher?” Benji asks.

“Don’t know that one, is it cool?”

“Yeah, he’s a good one from the ’70s. Marvel. Logo is a really amazing stylized skull.”

“Hey Dad! When we go to Elliot’s can we look for the Punisher?” Noah yells out to Wayne, who has been silently demolishing the desserts. He must have eaten at least a dozen cookies in the last six minutes.

“Yeah, totally!” Wayne says, cookie crumbs flying out of his mouth in a spectacular spray.

“Way to win the hearts of the ladies, Dad.” Noah laughs.

Wayne smiles and takes a napkin to shield his mouth. “Oops.”

“We’re going to Elliot’s store later. Are you coming, Jenna?” Elliot is Wayne’s best friend since grade school. Aimee always called him Frumpty Dumpty.

“Because he looks like a Weeble.”

Elliot is a nice enough guy, definitely in need of a total makeover, shares the whole Star Wars/sci-fi/Dungeons & Dragons thing with Wayne, and owns a small comic book store in Andersonville. What I do know is that he has really been there for Wayne since Aimee got sick, checking in, dropping off groceries, taking Noah out to movies and arcades when Wayne needed to take Aimee to the doctor.

“Can’t buddy, have to finish decorating here. Besides, that is guy time. No girl cooties allowed at Elliot’s.”

“You don’t have girl cooties. You could be like our Batgirl.”

“Spoken like a kid who has no idea how bad you would look in a rubber catsuit.”

Thanks.

“I’m just saying they are unforgiving. I couldn’t pull one off on my best day. And your Polish-peasant tush? I think not.”

“I appreciate that, Noah. Maybe next time.”

“Hey Dad, Jenna says she’ll come next time. When I’m back, that’s Elliot’s store party right?”

“Yep.”

“Cool, Jenna, you can come with us. It is going to be AWESOME.”

“That will be great,” I say, smiling.

Super. I now have agreed to attend some sort of party at Elliot’s store. I smell a night of Chex Mix and Taco Bell catering, cases of Schlitz and the Star Wars soundtrack on the record player while the overgrown geek patrol wanders around looking for a bargain on Batman comics. Fab. Going to have to figure out a way to avoid that.

“C’mon kiddo, finish getting your stuff on the tree so we can skedaddle. Elliot is going to leave early so we can go have movie marathon at his house.”

“’Kay Dad. Almost done.” Noah begins to deliberately and thoughtfully find places for his ornaments on the tree, with Eloise and Benji helping.

“How was everything yesterday?” I ask Wayne.

“Okay,” he says. “Subdued. It was hard to not have her there, and noticeable. But the nieces and nephews were all in good form, so that kept us laughing. We had a tough moment during grace, saying how much we missed Thom and Jean and Aimee, and something is going on with Jordan; he was really just off to himself most of the day. But it was pretty good, all things considered. They all send their love to you and say they can’t wait to have you for Christmas. I figure you and I can drive together.”

Terrif. Three hours each way trapped in the car with Wayne.

“Sure. That will be good.” And then pigs will fly out of my butt.

Wayne reaches for another cookie just as Noah finishes up.

“I’m going to hit the head before we go, buddy,” Wayne says, striding toward the little powder room in the back of the store.

“How are you doing, Jenna?” Damned if the little bastard didn’t just head tilt at me.

“I’m okay, Noah. How are you doing?”

He shrugs. “I miss Aimee. She was always really nice to me, and she wasn’t ever a stepmonster like some of my friends have. And I’m really sad for my dad. He tries to pretend he is okay, but . . .” Noah leans in conspiratorially, and whispers, “I hear him crying sometimes in the bathroom or when he thinks I’m sleeping.”

“We’re all really sad because we all loved her so much, especially your dad. So it is pretty normal that he might be upset. Does it scare you when you hear him crying?” I know that sometimes it is really traumatic for kids to see weakness or vulnerability in their parents.

“No. I know he feels bad and he just misses Aimee.”

“That’s right.”

“And I know that he has you to be his bestie and make sure he is okay, so that makes me feel better.”

And makes me feel worse.

“I promise I’ll try.”

Noah leans forward and gives me a hug.

“Ready to go?” Wayne returns.

“Just as soon as you zip up your fly, Dad.”

“Ooops!” Wayne says, looking down at his gaping khakis.

Noah shrugs, as if to say, “what can you do?” and goes to put his coat on. Wayne and Noah make the rounds to kiss and hug us all good-bye, and head out to their next adventure, hand in hand, and looking pretty happy.

“Now that is enough to make me pretty thankful.”

Indeed. Indeed it is.

And I turn around and head back to our friends to make things festive. Maybe if I put enough light and color and sparkle around me, some of it might just seep in a little.

“Fake it till you make it.”

“Jenna! Come be in charge of tinsel, Andrea is clumping,” Benji says in a tattletale whine. Volnay stretches in her dog bed, and comes over to get some love from Andrea, who is starting to look like her long night with the new doctor is taking its toll, and I sense that there is a serious nap imminent as soon as we finish.

Lois hands me a steaming mug of spiced cider, with a small shot of bourbon I can smell, and winks at me.

Eloise offers up the box of ornaments for me to choose, and I grab an odd-looking reindeer that looks more like a cat, and find a good bough.

And pretty soon I find I don’t have to fake it after all.

11

V
olnay nudges me with her nose. Probably because I’ve been standing in my closet in my underwear for the better part of a half an hour, staring blankly at a wall of pants.

“They’re pants, not brain surgery. Pick a pair before you get pneumonia.”

Except these days, most of my pants are fitting tight, if they’re fitting at all. You know all those stories about the ladies who grow pale and wan and all skinny in their grief? The ones who wake up a size 6 without noticing? I am not one of those ladies. I’ve probably gained at least eight pounds since Aimee died.

“It’s not your fault Hostess announced bankruptcy; you had a moral obligation to revisit those childhood treats.”

Yeah, just what I needed, a massive three-day Hostess binge, followed by a week of trying to replicate recipes so that if no one decides to buy and reissue Twinkies and Suzy Q’s, I’ll be all set. It was a ridiculous endeavor, since most of the experience of Hostess is in the slightly plasticky tastes and textures, which cannot be replicated in a home kitchen. You can make a delicious moist yellow cake and fill it with a marshmallowy vanilla cream, and it will be spectacular, trust me; I ate at least a dozen. But it won’t taste like a Twinkie. The cake won’t have that springiness, the filling won’t have the fluff, and it is impossible to get those three little dots in the bottom. Which should be fine, since I hadn’t actually eaten a Hostess product for the better part of a decade, hadn’t missed them either. But that little news item hit, and in a Pavlovian fit of nostalgia, I was off to the local gas station to load up on white boxes with blue and red details. Twinkies, Sno Balls, Ding Dongs . . . even a cherry Fruit Pie. All of them the flavors of my youth, and proof that there are certain things you should leave as fond memories, since they don’t really hold up.

Case in point?
Real Genius.
Trust me. Don’t watch it again. It will make you sad. Hold the memory in long-time-ago soft focus, when you thought Val Kilmer was HOT and that the movie was edgy and the popcorn scene hilarious. It is a 1985 movie and needs to stay there. If you’re feeling itchy, go
Sixteen Candles
. It hasn’t lost a thing.

The Hostess Insanity, after the binge of Thanksgiving, and the fact that I was already generally off the rails diet-wise, and that the only time I felt like I had a good reason to use the “my best friend died” excuse was to avoid the gym, and here I am. Pantsless.

“Wear the J. Jill flowy ones. Elastic waistband.”

Sigh. My official Fatter Pants. Since, let’s be honest, all those size 14/16s I’m not squeezing into so comfortably are not exactly Skinny Pants. Good idea. I reach over and pull the black loose-fitting pants, one step up from pajamas, off their hanger. An oversized gray sweater will mask the fact that even these are clinging around the thighs more than they are supposed to. I just can’t bear the thought of Spanx today. Mama needs to breathe. Plus I can wear my black Frye motorcycle boots, which have taken the last decade to break in “just right.”

“There you go. Now slap on some jewels and lipstick and get out of here already. You want Brian to beat you there?”

The Voix has a point. I’m debuting Brian as “the guy I am seeing” at a very special event at the Library, and he is meeting me there straight from work. I definitely don’t want him to get there before me and face the team alone. Thomas Keller and his pastry chef Sebastien Rouxel just released their amazing cookbook,
Bouchon Bakery
. They are in Chicago to do some events, one of which is a tasting and signing at the Library, a huge coup for Andrea, and an event that has been sold out for weeks, even at one hundred dollars per person, which includes a copy of the book.

We have seventy of Chicago’s most passionate foodies descending on us in an hour, the maximum our space can handle. Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pâtés de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchon, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

“You are going to be diabetic by the end of the night.”

I will not. You know I never eat at events.

“Because you are queer. All that yummy just sitting there.”

Because I invariably have a mouthful when someone needs to talk to me, or walk around with kale in my teeth all night that no one tells me about.

“ONE TIME. One time you had kale in your teeth. You are going to have to forgive me for that, I apologized fifteen times. Oh, and I DIED. So I’m off the hook.”

I’m getting really sick of the whole “I’m dead” excuse.

“Well, I’m sick of being dead, so we’re even.”

I put on a chunky clear Lucite cuff bracelet, my granddad’s old Rolex that I always wear as my good watch, a pair of dangly drop earrings with pear-shaped aquamarines surrounded by teensy tiny black diamonds. Aimee taught me that some stones that you might not like usually, like the aquamarine, which I always found watery and fake looking, can actually be really gorgeous if you buy really bad quality. Cheap aquamarines are opaque, not clear, and somewhere halfway between turquoise and teal in color, rich and interesting, not to mention about ten times less expensive. Aimee was very proud of me when I bought these earrings, which I found in a hole-in-the-wall pop-up store in SoHo. Despite being over ten total carats of aquamarine, they were less than ninety bucks.

“Love those. They make your eyes pop.”

So you have told me.

It’s still been unseasonably warm, so I just throw a large black wrap around my shoulders, and head out. I’m grateful for the weather, in the 50s today, so that I can walk to the Library, since parking over there will be a nightmare with the event going on. Plus it means Brian can drive me home and hopefully spend the night. I’ve been enjoying his company, and the fact that while it feels regular and mostly comfortable, it doesn’t feel fraught with pressure to be anything other than what it is, for which I am deeply grateful. He is the man I am dating. Not boyfriend; I’m still not ready for a boyfriend.

“He isn’t boyfriend material.”

By which you mean?

“You don’t sparkle enough. He is perfect for now, a little sumptin’ sumptin’ to keep you relaxed. You can boyfriend later.”

You mean when I’m better.

“I mean when you meet someone worthy.”

I toss Volnay a treat as I head out the door, and enjoy the walk down the boulevard, all lit up. I pass by the famous Christmas house, lit up from top to bottom in a way that I am sure can be seen from space, and for the millionth time wonder what their electric bills must be like.

By the time I get to the Library, there is a wonderful buzz in the building. The event is spread over both of the two floors of the space; on the first floor people are shopping, nibbling from the main buffet and getting glasses of champagne and sparkling water, and then they are sent upstairs where there are the two small rooms with more formal tastings, and the larger event room where Thomas and Sebastien are signing at a big table. People are milling around, buying lots of books and some small cookware, and the staff seems to be relaxed and having a good time interacting. We have brought in a duo from The Paper Source, who are doing spectacular wrapping for a small fee, and Eloise and Benji are both ringing up customers while Lois is meeting and greeting and working the floor.

“Hey, you.” My friend Alana comes over with her husband RJ, and they both kiss me simultaneously on my cheeks. They live in the neighborhood, and we sometimes have doggie playdates with Volnay and their dogs Dumpling and Pamplemousse.

“So much love. How are you guys?”

“Good,” Alana says. “Busy. But considering the alternative, we can’t complain. How are you doing?”

“You know me, I’m fine.”

Alana and RJ seem to not really know what to say after that. I help them out.

“Have you guys been upstairs yet?” I ask. “Met the man?”

“Oh yes,” RJ says, beaming like a true fan. “So cool.”

“We haven’t seen him since I took RJ to the French Laundry for his fiftieth. It was great to catch up a little,” Alana says.

“He is a great guy, very genuine,” I say, having met Chef Keller a few times over the years.

“Very.”

And then we are all looking at each other. RJ jumps in.

“You have to come for dinner soon. Alana seems to have perfected this insane braised chicken with chorizo and chickpeas that is perfect for this weather,” he says, bragging about his wife. Alana is a terrific chef, best known for her role assisting Patrick Conlon on
Master Chef Battle
, and her own new show,
Abundance
, both staples on my TiVo. I’ve known her since I catered a cocktail party for her former boss Maria De Costa, the talk show host, about fifteen years ago, and we have stayed in casual touch ever since. When she moved into the neighborhood, we got a little closer, but since Aimee got sick I haven’t been as good about staying in touch. But considering that was around the time she met RJ, she’s been too busy to really notice.

“Yes! Andrea says you have a new man in your life, you should bring him to dinner!”

Dinner parties at Alana’s are awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I feel in the mood to be social.

“Anytime. Shoot me some dates, and I’ll bring the dessert.”

“Mmmm. Will you make the dark chocolate pudding?” RJ asks. The man is addicted to pudding. The last time I went to their place for dinner, over a year ago, I brought a recipe I’d been working on and he clearly approved.

“Of course.”

“Good. Honey, we’re going to go, but we will see you very soon. I’ll e-mail you dates this week.” Alana leans in to give me a hug, and RJ kisses my temple, and they head for the door.

I make the rounds, checking in on the team, all of whom are glowing with the excitement of having a true culinary icon in the house. So far so good. I check my phone, and there is a text from Brian saying he should be here by seven thirty or so, about a half an hour from now. So I head upstairs to see how Chefs Keller and Rouxel are doing.

“Hello, Chef,” Keller says as I approach the table, winking at me over the head of the person whose book he is signing with practiced flourish and a felt-tipped calligraphy pen. “My goodness. I don’t think I have ever done a
J
like that before,” he says to the woman in front of him. “You have a rare and special book now, with a one-of-a-kind
J
.” The woman preens and begins gushing about her experience at Per Se the month before.

“How goes it?” I ask him.

“Okay. I have a little headache . . . caught a shelf in my hotel room with my head earlier, but this is helping.” He gestures to the glass of bourbon at his side.

“It doesn’t cure the pain, but it makes you not care,” I say, smiling.

“Exactly. Thank you, Jenna, this is a very lovely event. And . . .” He pauses, and reaches a hand out to squeeze mine. “I’m so sorry about Aimee. She was a firecracker.”

“Yes I was.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

“Thank you for having us.” And then he turns to the next person in line.

“Bonjour, Chef,” I say to Sebastien, coming around the back of the table. “
Ça va bien ?
”

“
Oui, Chef. Tout va bien. Et vous ?
” he says smiling, looking about twelve years old, and not what you would expect of one of the world’s finest pastry chefs.

“
Pas mal. Avez-vous tout ce que vous avez besoin ?
”

“Oui, bien sûr.”
He raises his full glass of champagne at me.

“Bon. Je retour.”
I love speaking with Sebastien in French; I rarely get to practice these days. I leave them to their work, knowing we will get a brief chance to catch up when they are finished. Andrea is posted in the room, making sure that they have water, that the line moves along, and keeps a watchful eye out for anything funky.

All in all, I’m enormously thrilled. It’s a lovely event, and I’m so proud of my staff, and our little store. I spot Allen and Ellen Sternweiler in a corner chatting with Paul Kahan, probably about burgers. Chris Pandel from The Bristol is talking to Naomi Levine from TipsyCake and Jason Hammel from Lula Café a few doors down, who must have scampered over in the middle of service, wearing his chef’s whites, spattered with something presumably farm to table and delicious.

It’s a rock star kind of night, just enough star power to make the civilians feel like they are going to have plenty to Facebook and Tweet about and make the rest of the foodies jealous. Which means they will come back for future events, even if the headliners are not quite this megawatt.

And then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of something big and messy crashing to the floor. Oh no. Please let no one be hurt. Keller and Rouxel look up at me quizzically, and I wave them off with a smile and scurry out of the room and back down the stairs.