Too Many Cooks Read Free Page A

who eats the same bowl of cereal for breakfast every single morning? Zzzzz . . . oh, sorry, I fell asleep just thinking about it. I’m not saying you have to marry Crocodile Dundee, but I think your life will be a lot more exciting and interesting if you find someone a little more spontaneous.
    So there you have it. My wish list. I’m sure there are plenty of other things I’ll think of before my time comes, but knowing me, I’ll forget to add them. I wasn’t always the most reliable mom along the way, and I know that, but I loved you and your brother more than anything in this world, even if I made a hash of showing it at times. You, especially, have made me so proud, even if I still don’t fully understand what you do for a living. Whatever it is, you can be sure I’m bragging about it in heaven.
    Love you so very much.
    xoxo
    Mom
    p.s. You don’t have to do everything on this list, but if you don’t, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days. (Kidding. Or am I?)
    â€œYou ready?”
    I jump as I look up and see Sam standing in the doorway. “Sorry,” I say, clutching my chest. “You scared me.”
    His eyes land on the letter in my hand. “What’s that?”
    I glance down at the piece of paper, the words inside still spinning in my head. I consider telling him about my mom’s laundry list of dying wishes, about Irene O’Malley and the Tupperware and my mom’s desire for me to see the world. About the shock I feel that she actually wrote a letter. That she was worried about my brother and my dad. That she had the gall to call Sam boring . But instead I fold the letter into a small square, hold it tightly in my hand, and rise from the bed.
    â€œNothing,” I say. “Just my mother, torturing me from beyond the grave.”
    Because, as both of us know, there is nothing shocking about that.

CHAPTER 2
    I should probably clarify something: Sam is boring.
    He is. But that’s part of what I fell in love with—his boringness. After twenty-two years of dealing with an eccentric and unreliable mother and an inept and crotchety father, I felt blessed to have found someone so normal. Someone who didn’t break into “Dancing Queen” randomly and without warning. Someone who actually kept stamps and lightbulbs in the house. Someone who showed up.
    We met during my senior year at the University of Michigan, while I was working an afternoon shift at Zingerman’s, a gourmet deli in Ann Arbor. I was running the sandwich counter that day, and he came in wearing a big U of M sweatshirt and blue scrubs, his honey-blond hair sticking up in every direction. He sauntered over to the counter and ordered the Zingerman’s Reuben—a sandwich consisting of house-made corned beef, nutty Swiss cheese, pungent sauerkraut, and Russian dressing, all piled together on fluffy slices of house-made rye and grilled—except he asked me to hold the sauerkraut.
    â€œThen you don’t want a Reuben,” I said.
    He furrowed his brow. “Yes, I do.”
    â€œIf you don’t have sauerkraut, then it isn’t a Reuben. It’s a perfectly fine sandwich, but it isn’t a Reuben.”
    â€œOkay, then I want a grilled corned beef sandwich with Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on rye.”
    â€œDo you have something against sauerkraut?”
    â€œAnd what if I do?”
    â€œHave you tried our sauerkraut?”
    He blushed. “No.”
    â€œThen how do you know you don’t like it?”
    â€œBecause I’ve never liked sauerkraut. Our cafeteria used to serve it with hot dogs on Wednesdays when I was a kid, and it smelled terrible.”
    â€œDid you ever try it?”
    He blushed again. “No.”
    I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make you a Zingerman’s Reuben— with sauerkraut—and you’re going to try it, and if you