6
Griff
It’s no surprise I can’t find a rolling pin—they undoubtedly use the pre-made pastry sheets here. My brain scans for alternatives.
A can of tinned spaghetti, perhaps? They serve them at least thrice a week, but a can is too short. Ideally, I need something
wooden. Solid. That doesn’t contain mush.
Then I remember a broken walking frame I’d spotted in the Goodwill pile when I was helping Gladys search for her missing phone
charger.
She moved in a couple of months ago, and aside from the residents with Alzheimer’s, she’s one of the few people I still talk
to when I see her in the hall—but only if no one’s around. Being blind, she’s hardly a risk to my secret; it’s not as if she
could point me out in a police lineup.
I pad back down the hall and sneak into the storage room; the aluminum walker is still there next to some old books, clothes
and tattered linens.
The legs are badly dented, but the crossbar’s unscathed. Two tiny screws hang onto it. I grab the screwdriver from my room
and presto—the bar slides out, smooth and straight, leaving an even cylinder that’s perfect for rolling.
Back in the kitchen I give it a thorough wash and begin to roll out the dough.
As the circle grows larger, so does my appetite.
I line the tart tin, the buttery edges giving way beneath my fingers, warm and pliant.
I push them against the side of the pan, like a lover being pressed up against a wall for a stolen kiss.
Using rice as baking weights, I blind bake the pastry then pour in the lavish yellow curd and slide it into the oven.
The glass of the door clouds over, reflecting everything I’ve lost: my soulmate, my restaurant, my hairline, my damn sense
of purpose. But for the first time in a long while, the air smells like something worth staying for. Baked butter. Lemon.
Life.
I’m transported to the French patisserie where I first learned the secret of perfect pastry. Who knew that food could be as
good as a plane ticket?
A high-pitched timer breaks through the haze, and I remove my yellow circle of sunshine. I should let it cool and refrigerate
it, but I don’t want to wait. Taking a knife, I cut the steaming golden delight into eighths. I grab two pieces, caring little
for burnt fingers. The hot curd liquefies in my mouth, the lemony tang containing more memories than it does sugar. Emotion
winds me, and I sink to the floor as I swallow my last meal.
The kitchen door creaks open, a voice reverberating across the steel countertop.
Shit.