Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [60]
My father, however, belies what I refer to as the Tao of the Fridge. He’s a scientist, which, I suppose, explains the neatly stacked rows of Tupperware containers in the freezer, labeled with the contents and the date in clear, block printing. But he’s also a cook, though you might not know it from examining the contents of his refrigerator: a carton of skim milk, two lemons, a container of low-fat cottage cheese, an unidentifiable cheese wrapped in several thicknesses of plastic wrap, a loaf of Jewish corn rye, a large bottle of kimchee hot sauce (for the Chinese takeout), and, in the door, a bottle of red nail polish.
He has lived alone for eighteen years and has gotten used to cooking for himself. From the many years of living with my mother he learned to shop the European way, going to the market every day. Buy only enough lettuce for the evening’s salad, only enough bread for tonight and perhaps tomorrow’s breakfast. Buy fresh herbs only when you need them. This explains everything currently in his refrigerator. Except the red nail polish.
I work for the next couple of hours while Chloe plays on the floor by my feet. I spread out a blanket and put out some toys. I talk to her as I cook, describing the ingredients and what I’m doing with them in that foolish, unnaturally high-pitched voice mothers use. When the dough for the pizza has risen, I retrieve Chloe from under the kitchen table where she has settled and sit her on my knee. Together we punch down the dough, burying our fists in its luxurious folds.
We stop for a snack, a couple of slices of prosciutto, some cheese, and the heel of a loaf of Italian bread. Because I’m training Chloe to have a sophisticated palate, I do not heed the butcher’s maxim that prosciutto di Parma shouldn’t be wasted on someone who has no teeth. Besides, she has four. Not that she needs them, anyway. The meat really does melt in your mouth.
Sometime later, there’s a knock at the back door. It’s Richard, holding a small potted palm and a little, stuffed teddy bear. I fling open the door and throw my arms around him.
“Welcome home, sweetie! Careful,” he says into my neck, where I’ve imprisoned him in a hug, “or you will squish these expensive silk leaves. I knew better than to get you a live plant. And this,” he says, holding out the teddy bear and stepping into the house, “is for la diva. I’m sure she has forgotten me by now, so I have decided to bribe my way back into her heart. Where is she?”
Richard follows me into the kitchen where Chloe is again playing under the table. He gestures for me to be quiet as he pulls out one of the chairs and sits down, dangling the teddy bear in between his knees. To Richard’s delight, it takes Chloe about five seconds to crawl over and reach for the bear, and when she does, he leans down, puts his head under the table and smiles at her.
“Hello, you. Remember me?” Chloe gives him a tentative half smile and tugs gently on the bear’s leg. It seems that the measure of her response will be dependent on how quickly Richard will release the bear into her custody. He lets go at once, and she gives him a smile showing all four of her new teeth.
“Settling in?”
“Yes, well enough. Dad set us up a nice little apartment