The Queen of Minor Disasters (4 page)

Tiny bells jingle when I walk
in. See what I mean? Who in New York still has bells on their doors? In June?

Two cute girls in black Café
Vola t-shirts greet me.

“Can I help you?” one of them
asks as I eye up the pastries in the big glass case.

 Finally, I decide on two
chocolate Napoleons and four mini apricot tarts. Perfect Food Therapy treats.

I make my way underground at
86
^th
Street. The subway platform is surprisingly empty for a summer
afternoon. Sometimes I forget most people are at work at this hour.  When the 9
train arrives, I take a seat on the cold plastic chairs and search around in my
bag. Even though I live with my parents in the suburbs of South Jersey
(pathetic, I know, but I’m saving up to buy one day), I’m proud to say that I
carry the keys to two very posh New York City apartments. Ok, one posh one (my
friend Julie’s in the village) and one not so posh one (Drew’s in Harlem).

When Drew got the job at
Connective, I thought he’d move to a better neighborhood, but instead, he bought
himself a BMW convertible and pays to keep it in a garage. It’s a little
frivolous to have a car in New York City, but Drew says it’s a sign that he’s
“arrived.” I’d rather arrive in a nice apartment, but I keep that thought to
myself. Besides, once we’re married we’ll have to move.

I get off the subway
at 116
^th
Street
,
right near Columbia University and walk three blocks up Broadway. Drew lives on
the third floor of a five story walk up, and by the time I make it up the steps
I’m drenched with sweat.

God, I need to start working
out or something. I wipe my brow, thankful that he’s not home to see me like
this. And if he is, he’ll be too wrapped up in the moment to care about a
little sweat.

My heart pounds as I put the
key in the lock. This could be it. This could be the moment…

I open the door to an empty
apartment, which honestly looks more like a college dorm room than the
apartment of a successful businessman.

His studio apartment is
organized with small messes here and there. The Ikea coffee table/dining room
table is littered with papers and old copies of
The Wall Street Journal;
there’s a small pile of socks at
the foot of the bed, and an almost empty water glass rests on a pile of mail on
the nightstand.

Even though I know I
shouldn’t, I let my eyes scan his mail. Looks like some boring bills and…

Wait a minute. It can’t be.

I rush towards the nightstand
and pick up the glass of water. Under all the bills is a lovely light blue
catalogue. I knew it. I can recognize Tiffany Blue anywhere.

My heart starts racing as I
flip it open. The entire booklet is devoted to engagement rings, which can only
mean one thing.

Oh my God. He bought a ring.
HE BOUGHT A RING!

I knew it. I knew it was
coming!

Quickly, I shove the catalogue
back under the pile of mail and do a little happy dance right there near his
bed.

How did he know to go to
Tiffany’s? I bet his mom helped him. She’s a bit stuck up at times but at least
she has good taste.

Or maybe he called Luce?

Who cares, really, the point
is HE BOUGHT A RING!

Suddenly, the entire apartment
looks different. Each little quirk will be an element in our story, and when I
retell it to our kids in a few years, I won’t forget to mention how Daddy left
his gym socks under the bed to make it look sloppy so Mommy wouldn’t suspect a
thing.

As I walk towards the
micro-kitchen I try to calm myself down.

I shake my head as I unload
the groceries and get to work. Cooking for someone is an intimate experience;
it’s a chance to share you innermost thoughts and feelings, without words. My
cooking most always reflects my mood and tonight I’m feeling saucy and spicy,
anxious to see my beautiful boyfriend for the first time all week. Plus tonight
is THE NIGHT!

Ok Stella, you need to act
surprised. Just calm down and don’t think of the ring.

Got it.

Only, how can I
not
think of a Tiffany’s ring? That’s like
asking the Pope not to pray, or Joan Rivers not to get any more plastic
surgery.

I concentrate on cooking and
start by dicing the onion into small pieces, which will eventually crisp up in
the hot oil until they caramelize to a golden brown. I move on to the eggplant,
which I cube in small pieces with the skin on and then throw into the pan with
the onions. Once that cooks for a bit, I add slices of Roma tomatoes and fresh
basil, reducing the heat to low and allowing the vegetables to simmer together.
I take a taste.

As the sauce thickens, I jump
in the shower to rinse off the bus ride film I’ve collected in my travels. I
change into a flowing green circle skirt and white tank top. Not exactly what I
always pictured I’d be wearing when I get proposed to (this is so not Marc
Jacobs), but it’s all I’ve got. Plus, I’m not supposed to know anything anyway.
If I got too dressed up, I’d blow the whole thing.

 I pull my hair into a low
bun, dot on some concealer and swipe mascara on my lashes. I wear heels even
though we are staying in. I’m sorry, I just can’t get proposed to wearing flats
for God’s sake. I’m not that kind of girl.

I take a look at myself in the
mirror. I’m the future Mrs. Dzinski. Stella Dzinski.

DiLucio sounds
so
much better.

Maybe I can keep my last name.

 
Lots
of women do it. It’s very chic. Very New York.

At a quarter to six I place a
pot of water to boil, knowing that Drew will be home in twenty minutes. I ask
him not to call before he comes home, because I love the surprise of him
opening the door and seeing me in the kitchen. I imagine what our life will be
like after we’re married, when I cook for him every night. In my mind’s eye,
I’m living the comfortable life with Drew. Sure I’d have to compromise on a few
things, like always coming in second to his career. But lots of women
compromise for the comfort of a husband. And at twenty-seven I’m not getting
any younger. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a comfortable life, is
there?

 I start setting the table but
something about it doesn’t look, right. We can’t be sitting on the couch when
Drew pops the question, can we?

Then, I get a brilliant idea. 
I move the table to the center of the floor and remove the seat cushions from
the couch, placing one on each side of the table. It’ll be romantic to sit on
the floor and I know that despite his height, Drew will find it charming.

 I look around the apartment
for the candles that I bought a few months back. I open cabinets in the
kitchen, look on top of his dresser, fumble through the closet, and finally
find them on top of the toilet in the bathroom. Gross.

I give them a quick wipe with
a wet rag before placing them on the table.

Back in the kitchen, I drop
the pasta in the boiling water and give it a stir. That’s when I hear the key
in the door.

“Hello.” Drew calls from the
doorway, and I waltz over into his arms and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him
since he’s a foot taller than me.

Ok, so maybe I don’t
waltz
, but anyway, you get the point.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I
squeal and look into his eyes. All my nerves melt away as I realize this man
loves me. And I love him.

Drew looks good in a Brooks
Brothers’ black suit. He’s wearing a blue oxford shirt, which enhances his
light eyes, and he’s loosened the striped silk tie around his neck. Despite his
crisp appearance, his face looks flustered, which totally makes sense. He’s
probably nervous.

 “What did you cook?” he asks
and walks towards his bed, not noticing the effort I put into decorating the
table. I watch as he slips off his tie and plops onto the bed.

 “Get changed. I’ll set
everything up,” I tell him, though
obviously
he won’t get changed. He probably has the ring in his jacket!

“Alright,” he says and ducks into
the bathroom.

I feel my face get flushed.
This is probably all part of the plan to make me think that it’s a normal
night. I look over at the table in a panic. Maybe I overdid it just a tad. I
walk over and blow out the candles just as Drew emerges from the bathroom
wearing old gym shorts and a ratty white t-shirt.

He’s really playing up this
casual thing.

“Go sit.”  I move towards the
kitchen. By now, the pasta is cooked and needs to be drained. I save a bit of
the pasta water and add it to the sauce, stirring it a few times to incorporate
everything, then I add the cooked pasta to the pan and toss it all together. I
spoon a large portion of penne in his bowl, a smaller serving for myself. As a
final step, I grate both the Parmigiano and the ricotta salata on top, and then
drizzle a tiny swirl of olive oil over each bowl.

“Nice,” Drew says as I place a
bowl in front of him. He’s moved the table back in front of the couch and is
sitting there, flipping through the channels.

I take a seat on the floor in
front of him, blocking his view to the TV. “Can we listen to some music
instead?” I say.

Drew sighs and gets up from
the couch. He walks over to his iPod, which is docked in the sound station I
bought him for Christmas. “What do you want to hear?” he asks.

“Surprise me,” I answer and
close my eyes. This is his chance to up the romance and turn this night around.
Maybe he’ll put on some Nora Jones, or Frank Sinatra.

“How about U2?” he asks.

U2. Hum. U2 is good. They’ve
got a few romantic tunes.

Suddenly the sound of snare
drums hits my ears. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” wouldn’t have been my first choice,
but I can roll with this.

Drew sits back down and starts
eating his pasta. I let my eyes linger on him for an extra second then start to
pick at my pasta as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him take the
first bites. If there’s one thing that annoys me about Drew it’s that he never
gives me any compliments on my cooking. I know he likes it because he always
finishes his plate, sometimes even goes for seconds. But he never says “wow” or
“delicious” like you’d expect. I mean, what’s the point of cooking for someone,
if not to hear his satisfaction? That’s why I could never cook in the
restaurant. You basically slave away in a hot kitchen all night long and only
get to hear praises from your customers when you make your obligatory round
around the restaurant. No, instead, I like to see people enjoying themselves.
That’s where the magic of food (and Food Therapy) really come into play.

Once we’re married I’ll tell
Drew how I feel. I’m sure he’ll be really embarrassed that all these years he’s
never said anything about my food.

“How’s the pasta?” I ask, not
that I’m fishing for compliments or anything.

“Ok.”

Ok? Just ok? This pasta is
delicious, and I’m not just saying that because I made it. Then it hits me.
He’s nervous. Of course the pasta’s just ok. He’s not thinking of taste or
textures. He’s focusing on the proposal. He’s probably fixated on getting the
words just right. How adorable.

An awkward silence passes
between us.

Here it comes. I can feel it.

“Stella, there’s something we
need to talk about,” he says and takes my hand. I can feel him shaking ever so
slightly. He shifts to his knees.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my
God.