The Divorce Express Read Free Page B

on it.”
    “We can leave some leftovers out for Rocky and her babies.” I open the back door to the kitchen-dining area.
    My father goes inside.
    I follow.
    He’s talking to himself. “Full-time country living takes some getting used to. It’s so different. I hope I made the right choice.”
    Me too, I think, making the omelet. Sometimes late at night I think about what it would be like if we could move back. But when I mentioned it, he got upset. So now I just think it, I don’t say it.
    I make the omelet while my father starts
The New York Times
crossword puzzle. Scrambling the eggs,I mix them with onions, mushrooms, pepper, and cheese.
    Now that there are just the two of us, I do a lot of the cooking.
    The breakfast’s on the table. It looks great but I’d love to have bacon. My father’s turned into a semi-veggie, so I have to wait till I go to New York for my meat fix.
    My father tastes the food. “This is really good. Listen, there’s a terrific band playing tonight at the Café Expresso. Let’s go.”
    “I’d love to.” It’ll be like a date with my father.
    “I’m going to spend the day painting. Mind making the dinner tonight? I’ll be on food detail tomorrow.”
    “Leave it to me.” I clear the table. “It’s going to be a meal you’ll never forget.”

CHAPTER 4
    W henever I cook, I think of Missy Mandelbaum. She was the only kid in the Shake, Bake, and Make elective back in my old school who got an A-plus. I wish she were here now to help me prepare this meal. It may turn into a dinner my father will never forget because it’ll be the pits.
    I’m not a fantastic cook—or even a good one. In fact, I’m a pretty lousy cook. I’ve been trying, but it’s not easy.
    Before the divorce I helped out in the kitchen, but helping out is not the same as making an entire meal.
    How do people get complicated meals together, set the table, and smile at the same time?
    I started out my cooking career after I returned from camp. Macaroni and cheese from the package was my first solo attempt. “Not bad,” my father said, so I made it every night for three nights. “Boring,” he said, so I made it the next time with tuna fish, thinking maybe he wouldn’t notice that I was still using boxed macaroni and cheese.
    He noticed. He also read the ingredients on the package.
    “Enough” was his response.
    Now I’m trying out new menus, but there have been several disasters, like the time the recipe said “Blend the salad” and I threw it in the blender. That night we had salad soup.
    I want everything to be special tonight, to celebrate Rocky’s release and going to the Café Expresso to listen to live music.
    The main course is easy. Cheese fondue. The bread cubes are cut and the cheese is grated. All I have to do is melt the cheese down with some wine in the chafing dish. The vegetables are cut and ready tosteam. The salad is made, tossed—not thrown in a blender.
    It’s the dessert that’s driving me nuts. My father loves mocha Bavarian cream, even if he is trying to stay away from sweets. It should be easy to make. My mother never had any problems with it. The recipe calls for two tablespoons of strong coffee and heavy cream. I’ve used the beaters on it, but it looks pretty weird.
    I put my finger in the mixture and lick it.
    It tastes pretty weird.
    Times like this (and other times), I miss my mother.
    She’s out of town on a job and left a number to call in case of emergencies.
    This dessert is a disaster.
    Disasters are emergencies.
    Therefore I can call her.
    I dial the number my mother’s given me.
    I ask the person who answers to please put my mother on the phone.
    The voice that answered sounded southern. I sometimes wonder about the people my mother decorates for. What they look like . . . what their houses looked like before . . . what they look like after she’s done . . . . Sometimes I resent the people because mymother has to meet with them when it’s convenient