15. Podcast With Parents
Two weeks after finding out I’m pregnant, things are surprisingly smooth. I’ve decided to tackle life one breath at a time whenever I can. Yoga has been a lifesaver in that regard, teaching me to breathe through any situation that prevents me from tumbling into the depths of despair.
I’ve steered clear of watching any more episodes of Head Chef Total Domination. Everyone, including my parents, seems engrossed in the show, wildly cheering on our hometown hero. Rumors about Randy and Deanna’s on-screen chemistry have reached me, but Sarah and Rita assure me it’s all for show.
“That’s not how he behaves when he’s truly interested in someone,” Sarah insists whenever talk of my former lover and the father of my child surfaces. I deflect these conversations as best I can, yet I can’t help but picture him captivating viewers on their screens with his intense expression during competitions or when he lights up with joy after each victory. He has been practically unbeatable.
“And… action!” my dad interjects, snapping me back to reality.
It’s Thursday, which means it’s time for my segment on the podcast. The camera is rolling, ready to capture me. I’m positioned at an outdoor kitchen setup that my dad has constructed specifically for these shows. With the spotlight on, I flash a wide, genuinely happy smile, ready to engage my audience.
“Today, we’re diving into a new baking adventure—rosemary and blackberry scones filled with creamy ricotta.” I gesture toward the vibrant group of women who’ve known me all my life. They’re the heart of our podcast, the empty nesters who lunch, notorious for their candid chats about their kids. I’ve miraculously stayed off their radar, but as life throws its curveballs, I wonder how long that will last.
“For a twist,” I continue. “Our mystery ingredient is…”
The ladies exchange looks, their excitement bubbling over. “Cayenne!” they announce in unison, throwing me a culinary curveball.
“Okay,” I sing, accepting the challenge. My mind is already racing with possibilities. How to incorporate the fiery heat of cayenne into the delicate sweetness of the scones?
Linda eyes me with a mix of curiosity and a dare. “Is that enough of a challenge for you?”
It’s my job to smile at her question. My performance as the cheerful yet capable dessert chef has been impeccable thus far. That’s why podcast listeners and viewers love me. “Absolutely!” I exclaim. “It’s all about balancing the unexpected.”
“But she’s always up for it,” Carrie remarks with a knowing wink. “Who could forget her vanilla bean and lavender sweet potato croquettes?”
My mom theatrically clasps her hand over her heart while stretching out her other hand to give Carrie’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Indeed, Carrie, they were a hit, and they sold out way too fast. But hey, she’s my daughter. So guess how I convinced her to make more of those treats for the woman who endured thirteen hours of labor bringing her into the world?”
Joyce gasps exaggeratedly. “No? You played the birth card?”
Carrie raises a finger for emphasis. “I too would play the birth card for a batch of those croquettes.”
With a megawatt smile directed at the camera, Nori wraps up. “And remember, the scrumptious dessert that’s whipped up by our brilliant chef today will be ready and waiting for you to buy at The Calypso Café come Monday morning. You already know you should get there early because they never last long!”
“Everything she makes is mouthwatering,” my mom boasts.
“Are you bragging, Faye?” Joyce teases, her voice laced with amusement.
With a playful shrug, my mom replies, “What can I say? My daughter is perfect. She didn’t even hurt my…” My mom’s whistle sounds like ‘woo-hoo’… “when she came out after that fifteen hours of labor.” My mom’s tone is comedic.
“You said thirteen hours, Faye,” Linda, another cohost, teases.
“Thirteen, fifteen, what’s the difference? Who am I kidding? She stretched me to kingdom come, that one.”
All the ladies laugh except for Joyce, who emits a playful huff before declaring, “Well, I’m beginning to doubt I have the perfect son.”
And now, it officially starts, which is why I lower my gaze. I want to make sure I don’t get dragged into the burgeoning gossip fest.
Everyone in my class who attended Roosevelt High remembers Mike Nelson, Joyce’s son. He wasn’t the star of the school, but somehow, he was everywhere. He was standing with the photography club at assemblies. He’s still memorialized in the hallways in a photo of the chess club from the year they won the state championship. I used to see him climb on a bus with the debate team to go to competitions. Once, he was honored by our principal for organizing a successful food drive. He nearly snagged the title of class valedictorian. Mike was also in the band, a benchwarmer for the varsity basketball team, and even took part in the drama club. Mike was a do, do, doer. Now that I know Joyce much better, I understand why.
The latest on Mike is that he left his software programming gig in Silicon Valley. “He’s joined a band,” Joyce reveals with a hint of disapproval. “In New York City, no less.”
The other ladies express their surprise, my mom included, which catches me off guard. After all, she has been through her own dramatic career changes, just like me.
“From making twenty-five thousand dollars a month to joining a garage band?” Carrie’s disbelief is obvious, as if Mike’s decision defies all reason.
“She never specifically said it was a garage band,” my mom interjects, her comment marking a return to her more rational self. “What kind of band is it, Joyce?”
“I don’t care what kind of band it is. It’s still a band, not a real job,” Joyce retorts, clearly frustrated.
Turning to me, Nori inquires, “What do you think, Gina?”
At that moment, I realize I had stopped working to stare at them. Dang it! I didn’t mean to seem like I was paying attention. They’ve done this before, asked me to comment on gossip about one of my peers. Usually, I say something like, “I think you should change the subject.” They laugh and then move on to the next kid.
But this time, I don’t want to do that, especially now that I’m expecting a child of my own. “Bravo for him because he’s finally choosing to do something for himself.” I hold back from adding “and not you” out of respect for my elders, as my parents taught me.
“Well, he graduated from MIT,” Joyce fires back.
I’m left speechless, my cheeks warming. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if Mike is in a garage band or has joined the greatest band in the world. I really want to tell her to stop dragging me into their gossip. I’m baffled that none of their children have issued them a cease and desist yet.
“That was a good point, Gina,” my mom finally says, giving me an out, for which I’m immensely grateful.
Joyce, lips pursed in a pout, clearly doesn’t share the sentiment.
“Anyway, speaking of local talent, what about Head Chef Total Domination?” Linda interjects.
Ugh. Great.I mentally roll my eyes. They’ve segued from one uncomfortable topic to another.
“Randy Thorn is dominating the competition,” Carrie announces with pride.
Comments bounce among them, touching on Randy’s tragic family history. They mention the terrible car accident that took his parents’ lives and how proud they would be of him now. Some reminisce about Blair Thorn, Randy’s mother. They remember her as likable and an avid swimmer at the community center in Bradley Ridge. They agree that Randy strongly resembles his father, Jeff Thorn.
“He was so handsome,” they say, except for my mom and Linda, who moved to town after the Thorns’ tragic accident and didn’t know them.
A moment of commemorative silence lingers.
“Well, his handsome son has been making me fat with all that butter in his delicious food,” my mom says, moving the conversation into a lighter place.
“Oh, Chef Randy’s food is to die for,” Joyce replies, her mood lightening from the earlier topic of Mike.
“He’s definitely going to win,” Carrie asserts, swirling her drink in her glass. I had almost overlooked their midday cocktail indulgence. “After he wins, I doubt he’ll ever come back.” She turns to my mom. “That means no more butter for you, Faye.”
The ladies laugh as those words hit me like a ton of bricks, making me freeze on the spot.
“But Gina has been covering for him in the kitchen, and she’s doing an incredible job,” my mom proudly declares.
Heat floods my cheeks at the mention of my name in the same breath as Randy’s, stirring a mix of pride and anxiety within me.
“I’m sure he’ll return to town when the show is over,” Joyce asserts. “I’ve spoken with him plenty of times. Chef Randy is very happy here.”
I almost reach out to my dad through the microphone in my earpiece, wanting him to shift the cameras from the gossiping group back to me. I’m eager to steer the conversation away from Randy and share my culinary plans for the cayenne pepper challenge with the audience.
However, Linda’s next comment stops me. She muses that Deanna Blume might whisk Randy away to the kind of upscale dining scenes far removed from our simple-town life, someplace where elaborate ten-course meals are the norm.
I lower my head once more, struggling against the urge to hyperventilate. For some reason, I’m teetering on the edge of losing control.
“No…” My mom interjects gently. “First, he has to come home. If he wins?—”
“You mean when he wins,” Joyce confidently corrects her.
“Yes, when he wins,” my mom agrees. “Mayor Salley will surely organize a parade in his honor.”
“Right down Main Street,” someone adds, though in my flustered state, I can’t tell who.
“And since he and Gina are friends,” my mom continues, “perhaps she could persuade him to join us here at our table when he returns.”
Focused on the task at hand, I feel their eyes lingering on me, but I steadfastly avoid meeting their gazes. Their recent words about Randy and Deanna have left me shaken, making it impossible for me to discuss him right now. Ignoring their attempts to engage me, I pivot, lower myself, and begin plucking mint for my mom’s petite garden.
Abruptly, my dad’s alarmed voice crackles through my earpiece. “What’s going on, Love Bug?”
“I’m baking,” I manage to utter, my voice betraying my attempt at stability.
“Did you even hear the question?” he asks urgently.
I spring to my feet, but the sudden movement sends my head spinning. The world swirls around me uncontrollably.
“Could someone please fetch our baker a drink?” a voice calls out.
But I can’t have a cocktail.
“She seems a bit tense today,” another voice remarks.
Perhaps I am tense today.
My gaze settles on the women at the table. They haven’t let the matter go; they’re still watching me, waiting for my response. Little do they know they’re poking a hornet’s nest. If I keep reacting like this, they’ll start suspecting there’s more to it. In fact, I’m the juiciest gossip they don’t even know they’re staring at. So I have to keep it together. I force a smile, summoning one that could rival any game show hostess’s.
“Oh, absolutely! Randy Thorn is an incredible chef,” I exclaim with feigned enthusiasm. Then I fabricate, “My top priority will be to get him on your show if he returns to us. But before we get into that, let me share what I have in mind for this!” I proudly display a large handful of mint.
All eyes shift to my hand, prompting me to take a closer look as well. Goodness gracious. I’ve inadvertently uprooted the entire plant. Yet I maintain composure and smoothly transition into detailing my plans for a mint, blackberry, and cayenne drizzle to elevate the flavors of my scones.
Joyce stifles a yawn, while Linda hurriedly glances at her phone. The only person who seems genuinely engaged, rather than glazed over in boredom as I detail my baking process, is my mom. The other ladies always seem uninterested in the baking portion, preferring to get straight to the tasting. Nevertheless, I’ve successfully shifted the conversation away from Randy. Five minutes later, when I hand the spotlight back to them, they move to a new topic, discussing the expenses and efforts involved in transforming their children’s former bedrooms into hobby rooms. As Joyce puts it, “After Mike left, I needed a hobby.”
I’m pretty sure she did.
* * *
The empty nesterswho lunch have departed, slightly tipsy and patting themselves on the back from all the comments by fans gushing about today’s show. The hosts will be back on Tuesday, but thankfully, my segment is only once a week. It was brutal for me today. Of course I’ve participated in their discussions in the past, but this is the first time I had something to hide.
I’d rather go straight home to avoid my parents, who are looking at me as if they suspect something is off, but I have a whole boatload of laundry to finish. I think I’ve reached the point in life where I should search for a bigger place to live, one with a washer and dryer, an en suite bathroom, at least two bedrooms, and a backyard. I must prepare my life to comfortably accept a child who will be here in almost seven months.
“Hey, you,” my mom says, poking her head into the laundry room.
Her sudden appearance makes me jump. “Hey,” I reply.
She steps in and kisses me on the temple. “Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” I manage to say, fighting back a surge of emotions stirred by her kiss and tone of voice.
Dressed in a blue and white Raglan T-shirt and faded jeans, my mom leans against the cabinets, crossing her arms. She always changes into something more comfortable after the show. Now she exudes a casual and relaxed vibe as she asks, “Are you not feeling well today?”
The dryer’s buzz signals the completion of my final load. In that moment, I ponder how much easier it might be to just tell my mom I’m pregnant. However, considering her agreement with the others about the chemistry between Randy and Deanna at the table today, it doesn’t seem like the right time. I think it’s better to wait until Randy’s show isn’t the main topic of conversation in town.
With a forced smile, I open the dryer door and assure her. “I feel A-okay, Mom.”
Her gaze lingers on me, as if she’s trying to read between the lines of my feigned composure.
“You know you can come to me with anything,” she offers, her maternal instinct likely in overdrive.
“I know,” I respond, transferring the warm laundry onto the folding table.
“I apologize for the unexpected detour into the world of Chef Thorn and Deanna Blume. I couldn’t help but notice a certain spark between you two. Has that been sorted out?”
Her question catches me off guard, leaving my mouth hanging open in disbelief. With her expectant raised eyebrows, it’s clear she doesn’t miss much.
Now I find myself needing to steer the conversation in a different direction, and fast. “Randy and I are simply friends,” I blurt out, though thoughts of my impending motherhood linger in the back of my mind. Technically, it’s not a lie. If we’re to navigate co-parenting in the future, friendship would certainly be beneficial. “But let’s talk about Mike Nelson.”
My tactic seems to work, as she raises her head slightly, indicating that I’ve successfully diverted her attention from Randy.
“Mom, you’ve always encouraged me to explore new avenues, to be bold in pursuit of happiness,” I say, hoping to sway her. “You know Mike and the others could really use your support, especially with their own mothers. Joyce was particularly tough on him today.”
My mom furrows her eyebrows, considering my plea.
Now that I’ve got her attention, I press on, seizing the moment. “What they said about Lacy’s boyfriend last week wasn’t kind either. Few people my age have it all figured out these days, including myself. When my time comes, how will you react?”
Her expression shifts suddenly, and a hint of concern flickers in her eyes. Perhaps I’ve revealed too much.
“So there is something you’re not telling me?” she probes.
I shake my head emphatically. “No, I’m just making a point.”
Mom grunts thoughtfully, lost in contemplation once more. “I was supposed to be the comic relief, but it seems I’ve become the voice of reason instead,” she remarks with a laugh tinged with irony. “But you’re right, Love Bug. I’ll speak up from now on.”
“Great,” I say, feeling a wave of relief wash over me, knowing that sooner rather than later, I’ll likely find myself on the chopping block of the lunching empty nesters.