26. Sofia
26
SOFIA
T oday is the day I take Noah to a family cooking class. He has been asking me about it every day for the last six weeks since I booked it. I’m so happy he’s excited to do this with me. We signed up to learn how to make pizza from scratch.
“What kind of pizza do you think we will make?”
“Everything.” Noah hops in his booster seat, jumping against the harness.
“Everything? A supreme?”
“Yes. Supreme everything!” His smile is so big and beaming that I know we’re going to have a good time. He’s usually subdued and easygoing, but food is his fun button.
There's eight small groups, and we each have a counter, a sink, and an oven range. He’s got a step that has a small safety guard. If they only knew just how comfortable my little dude is with cooking on far more unstable stools.
He’s already manhandling the veggies on our counter, touching them gently since he’s learned how bruising works. He smells the red bell pepper in front of him, pressing his nose right against it and looking up at me with a silly grin.
Laughing, I pull over the recipe as we begin, measuring out every ingredient for each step of making the dough before we start mixing.
Smart move. Kids get sidetracked so easily, and they generally move slower. You know, lack of practice.
Noah and I have a routine for baking. It means he’s on top of holding measuring cups, scooping, and following directions. However, he’s also notorious for tasting ingredients he’s not familiar with.
Like the yeast.
It’s a packet, but that doesn’t stop him from scooping some into his mouth.
“How’d that work out for you?”
He makes a nasty face at me and hands me the packet.
I sprinkle it over the honey water and scoot his stool closer to the sink to spit and rinse. Can’t say that’s going to slow him down at all. If the baking soda didn’t stop him, I’m not sure anything edible will.
“What did I say about trying dry ingredients like that?”
Noah giggles and puts on his pretend ashamed face like I don’t know the difference. The little punk. I grab his side for a quick tickle, and he giggles high and bright.
A few moms and dads look over to smile at us.
When the dough comes together, I knead it hard until it’s smooth and then have Noah practice on it, pushing, rolling, and folding.
Then, we get to his favorite part—what goes on the pizza.
First, we season the sauce with garlic, onion, and oregano. I give him a little on a spoon to lick, and he goes back for seconds. I expect nothing less.
Then, we grate the mozzarella. He’s got a handful before I swing it across the counter, but I also take a pinch and smile at him as we munch together. He’s too cute.
I ruffle his hair and give him half of a cleaned bell pepper. It’s something he’s worked with before, and he knows how to slice and dice. Still, I watch him as I peel the onion.
We get mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage, and olives all prepared to go on the dough.
Noah has had a bit of everything, and I doubt he’s going to be able to each much of the pizza, but it looks delicious when it comes out.
And it turns out pretty damn good.
I cut him a thin slice, which he devours, but he doesn’t ask for more.
Too easy. We get a box to take it home in, by which I mean, we take it to Dad’s house. As soon as we walk in the house, Noah is jumping and chattering and telling Dad all about the pizza and what it’s made of.
Dad oohs and aahs whenever Noah takes a breath to keep going. He’s crawling onto a chair between the kitchen table and the counter where I set the box.
“Yeah, Peepaw, you should try a piece. You try a piece.” He pats the top of the box, struggling to open it.
We laugh with him as he beams, so proud of himself. And he should be. My good little man.
“Should I reheat some, and we can put on a new movie?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He hops on the chair, and I give him our gesture to settle down a little. Noah plants his sneakers on the chair and squats down.
The little dictator points at different snacks to bring to the couch. I allow him a bowl of chips with his pizza slice but not the ten different candies he wants. He can have a few chocolate kisses later.
It’s easy to settle down with him between Dad and me and put on a new animated movie. I swear they come out with a new one every week or so.
Unfortunately, halfway through, my stomach cramps. Nausea sends a wave of hot and cold over me.
Am I having a reaction to the pizza? It all seemed to taste fine. It was cooked through.
No. Dad and Noah are both fine.
This acidy kind of queasiness has been building over this last week, and that’s starting to worry me. I don’t have a bug. No fevers or aches. Just the burn at the back of my throat and the sour feeling in my belly.
I’ve been a little tired, but my days have been filled to the brim with school, my project, my son, and the guys.
Oh, no . My stomach twists a little harder, and I have to excuse myself to the bathroom. I heave a little, but nothing comes up.
I run my wrists under cold water and breathe.
Gasping myself to an even in and out, I sit in misery until the roiling settles. I grasp for my phone and pull up my text chain with Jordan.
I can’t do it myself. Too many people know me. Know my father. Know my mother.
Jordan’s the kind of friend who can do this for me, no problem.
Can you pick up a pregnancy test for me?