Good Enough to Eat Read Free Page A

later.”
    “Okay, bye, sweetie.”
    I put down the phone and trudge upstairs. I look at the rumpled bed, where not even an hour ago I lay slipping into waking next to my husband, who loved me and was my soul mate and playmate and partner in all things, not at all aware that everything was about to change forever.

MASHED POTATOES

    The first conscious memory I have of food being significant was the Thanksgiving after Dad died. I was four. We gathered at my grandparents’ house, made all the right noises; there was football on the television and a fire in the fireplace. But no one seemed to really be there. My mom was still nursing Gillian, and spent most of the day off in the guest bedroom with her. And the food was awful. Overcooked, under-seasoned. I remember thinking that Daddy would have hated it. He loved to eat. It’s what killed him. Well, sort of. The police found a half-eaten Big Mac in his lap after the accident. They assumed that he was distracted by eating when he ran the red light and into the truck. I remember looking at my family and feeling like Daddy would be so mad at us for not having a good time, for not having a good meal. And halfway through dinner my grandmother said, “Oh my god, I forgot the mashed potatoes. They were Abraham’s favorite. How could I forget!” And then she ran off crying. And I thought, I’d better learn how to make mashed potatoes quickly or the family would completely disintegrate.
     
     
    “Okay, Mel, let’s start with something good,” Carey says. “What happened this week that was really great?”
    I have to think about this for a moment. “Well, the store showed a small profit this week. . . .”
    “Wow, that’s like three weeks in a row, right?”
    “Yeah. Not anything huge, but my accountant says that all we need is a trend. If I can do three more consecutive weeks in the black, we should be able to project the rest of the year’s income. You know, since this is the slow season.”
    “Why slow?” Carey asks.
    “Well, it’s February. The New Year’s resolutions to eat healthy and exercise have worn off, it’s four degrees below zero, and everyone wants comfort food. Chicago in February is no time to run a healthy take-out establishment. No one wants to get out of their cars to pick up a decent good-for-you meal, they want stick-to-your-ribs fare and they want it delivered.” I’m babbling.
    “Well, then, I’m even more proud of you that you’re doing so well in such a tough time.” Carey is unflaggingly supportive. She’s so much more than a nutritional counselor; she is like my life guru, friend, and therapist all rolled into one bundle of positive energy, and I’d never have gotten through the last three months without her. “But I’d like to hear about something good for you personally, not related to the business. Did you have anything good this week?”
    “Well.” I take a deep breath. “I threw out my bed. I just put it out in the alley, along with all the pillows and bedding, and went and bought a new one.”
    “Well, that sounds like fun! A little shopping spree for your new place, right?”
    “Yeah. I mean, when I moved out it seemed logical to take the bed, since Andrew was staying at Charlene’s.” I hate having to say their names out loud. “But, I don’t know, it just felt like . . .”
    “Bad ex-husband juju in the bedroom.”
    “Yeah. Exactly. I got home from the store, exhausted, went to go collapse, and couldn’t bring myself to get in the bed. It was like his fucking ghost was in the fibers or something. And I know that he said he never brought her there, I mean they never did it in our bed, but still. I slept on the couch. In the morning I remembered that the nice woman who did all my window treatments had given me her husband’s card. He’s over at American Mattress on Clybourn, and she said that he would hook me up if I ever needed a bed, so I just went over there and picked out the tallest, biggest,