Chapter 6 Cooking #2
I plop the little rolls of dough with filling into the pot of boiling water and remove them after a few minutes, layering them onto the sizzling frying pan to brown and crisp.
Veronica is watching me flip the pierogis in the pan when suddenly a loud voice says, “Yum! Something smells delicious.”
We both jump. “Christ, Jake. You scared the bejesus out of us.” Vee shrieks smiling. “Em is just finishing teaching me how to make pierogis. Isn’t that cool?” Veronica announces proudly.
Em again. I never had a nickname before. Do I dare call her Vee like Jake does?
I grab another plate and divide up the first batch between the three plates, and we dig in. We don’t have any sour cream to dip them in, but you don’t really need anything when the pierogis are right out of the pan.
Jake is munching quietly when he tilts his head to one side and stares at me. He looks slightly confused. “What did you do?”
Now it’s my turn to look confused.
“I gave Em a makeover,” Veronica inserts. “What do you think?”
Jake examines my face slowly and expertly. I turn a bright red, ruining all of Veronica’s subtle blush application.
Jake finally tips his head and declares, “Perfection—you do good work, Vee.”
I realize he isn’t talking so much about me as Veronica’s makeup job, and my embarrassment reduces some.
I smile tentatively, and Jake looks momentarily caught off guard but recovers and grins back at me.
A warmth creeps back to my cheeks, so I look for something to move the subject away from my face, but I keep thinking of the word perfection and can’t quite convince myself Jake was talking about the makeup.
I blurt out, “You have a birdfeeder. You are so lucky.”
Jake looks a little taken aback for a beat, but then he nods. “Huh . . . it’s my mom’s really.” He says dismissively.
I shrug unsure as he doesn’t seem eager to continue this topic, so I dole out the last batch of pierogis from the pan, and we cut into them more slowly this time.
Jake gets up. “What do you guys want to drink?”
“We have water,” I say.
He pulls out two beers from the fridge and a fancy can of sparkling water, handing that to Veronica. They exchange a look, but it passes so quickly I can’t begin to figure out what it means. Jake hands me one of the beers. It is cold and slick in my hand.
Beer, makeup and a nickname all in one night.
I took my first sip hesitantly. I’ve never had a beer before. I let the taste pool in my mouth. It’s frosty cold and bitter but it pairs perfectly with the pierogi and I almost groan. This is perfection. Oh, that word again.
Jake drains his beer quickly and returns to the fridge for another. “Do you want another one too?” he asks.
Looking up, I state in a rush, “Oh my, no. I may get drunk.”
Jake laughs and glances at Veronica.
She raises an eyebrow. “You won’t get drunk from one beer, will you?”
I respond nervously, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never had a beer. Are they strong?”
Veronica chuckles. “Beer is what I drink when I don’t want to get drunk.
Vodka is my poison of choice. Aww, the burn as it goes down your throat and the warmth when it hits your belly and then straight to your head .
. . I reckon that is as close to Heaven as I’ll get.
But that will get you drunk, sometimes quicker than you want.
Ain’t that right, Jake?” This is the first time I’ve heard Vee’s southern drawl.
“Cut it out, Veronica, this isn’t doing anyone any good.” Jake scowls.
Veronica trails off down the hall, looking wistful as she drags her fingertips across the table, touching the statue in the hallway as she glides past. She eases into what I assume is her room, and the door quietly closes.
I look at Jake; he tilts his head toward Veronica’s room, and shrugs. He offers nothing more, so we both start to clean up.
“Sorry about the mess. The pierogis took a while. I can clean up now if you have work to do.” I start washing and rinsing the pans and plates in the sink.
“No problem. It’s great that this fancy kitchen is getting used by someone. Cereal and coffee don’t really count, so glad to have a homemade meal. It’s been . . . well since forever.”
He looks young and sad, “I love coming home to such lovely and savory smells.”
“Pierogis are meant to be comfort food,” I tell him.
“Every culture has a dumpling of some sort, made slightly differently with different fillings, but they are all designed to comfort and sustain the people. Italians have their ravioli; China has potstickers, right?” I pause, as I’m not sure where all this came from.
“I love Thai gyozas,” Jake says. “That must be Thailand’s comfort food.”
I nod, relieved that my outburst didn’t result in laughter, or worse, scorn. I can still feel the sting of my classmates’ disdain when I brought pierogis to my class in fourth grade as if it was yesterday.
I’m brought back to the present when Jake clears his throat and inquires cheerily, “Penny for your thoughts. You look like you’re a million miles away.”
Smiling sheepishly, I shake my head apologetically. I don’t want to ruin anything by sharing my pathetic story.
“Well, this is an exciting Friday night, huh?” he says.
I nod my head earnestly before realizing he was being sarcastic.
I cringe. Then feeling brave decide to be truthful.
“Well, it is for me. I don’t think I’ve ever cooked food for someone, gotten a makeover, and had a beer—certainly not all in the same night.
This definitely is one of my most exciting Fridays.
” I glance around making sure the kitchen is spotless.
He smiles. “Good, I’m glad you had a nice time. Are you available next week?”
Sensing no condescension, I smile broadly, nod affirmatively and head to the door, Jake walking behind me.
At the door I turn, “What exactly am I doing when I come here?” I hesitate a beat, “for Vee?”
Jake looks toward Veronica’s room and steps out into the hallway with me.
Frowning, he says quietly, “Vee has some drug and alcohol issues she’s working on.
I’m giving her a little break from the rat race, hoping it will help—modeling is brutal.
It eats up girls like her and spits them out.
I’m not sure I can really save her, but I’m trying. ”
I nod, trying to look like I can relate. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll see you Monday.”
I walk to my door. Though it’s only a fifteen-foot journey, it is worlds away.
I’ve watched some TV shows about addiction issues, but it always seems like the stuff they show is from a place far from my world.
I never imagined someone like Vee being the subject of those TV programs. The last show we watched was about the opioid problem.
I remember some-thing about a celebrity who just got out of rehab.
I can’t recall much else as it seemed so far away.
As I open the apartment door, I hunch my shoulders feeling smaller than my five foot two inches; my parents barely acknowledge me. My mother is watching TV, and my father is sitting in his matching recliner, dozing.
For a moment, I watch them and wonder for the first time why I don’t have a comfortable chair to watch TV.
There is plenty of room. Jake’s living room has six spots for people.
Six doesn’t seem necessary but three certainly does.
Why have I never asked for a chair in all this time?
My grandmother doesn’t like things to be changed, and back when we first moved in, she would wheel in to watch in her wheelchair.
But now we have a TV for her bedroom and she rarely gets out of bed, we could add a chair.
Instead I just pull the unforgiving kitchen chair over when I am desperate for some sort of conversation, even if it is only banter between Pat and Vanna.
Suddenly my old life feels even bleaker and smaller than before Jake knocked on my door and introduced me to beers on Friday night.
I watch Vanna flip a letter and shake my head. My parents love this show, though they have never solved a single puzzle, not in all their years of watching.
In my bedroom I pull out the new book I picked up from the library: a bestseller I’ve had on the waiting list for two months. The reviews say it’s wonderful, but what piqued my interest is the description that it has a lot of nature and flowers in it.
I flip open The Language of Flowers and start reading about the sad, lonely life of Victoria Jones.
I read late into the night. My eyes are burning, and my body is aching with tiredness, but I can’t put it down.
I feel a kinship to her, and it only grows when she ends up all alone tending her flowers in the park.
I know her loneliness.