Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [64]
“We were going to bake cookies.”
“I know! I’m almost done. I’ve got the butter softening. Did you pick what kind you want to make?”
“I say molasses; Ellie wants chocolate chip.”
“We can do both. Get some more butter out of the fridge.”
“Gram!”
“What?”
“You went shopping!”
“I did.”
“You cleaned out the fridge.”
“I did.”
“Have you been here all day?”
“Ginny’s covering for me at the cafe. I went to the market at eight, got here by nine, which left me plenty of time to clean out the fridge.”
“Wow! And the freezer—you can tell what’s in there!”
“A little organization goes a long way. What has your mother been doing?”
“Take out. Breakfast for dinner. If we’re lucky. Or I cook.”
“Okay, so she’s had other things on her mind. Now you can have some real food. It’s not so hard. Take some mental notes. These are useful things to know. Not like I could ever get through to your mother.”
Gram’s got the radio tuned to the country station and every now and then she hums along, or sashays her hips a little. She’s wearing slacks and an old denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sandals. “Just giving my feet a little vacation,” she’d tell you, if you asked.
Alice pours herself a glass of orange juice.
“I had to throw a lot of stuff out,” Gram continues.
“Good move. I’ve been trying—”
“Easier for me, I think. I’m not worried that your mother might really want that two-week-old spring roll.”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna tell me how things are?”
“Gram, you seem a little hyper.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thinking about spending a few nights here each week. I could get things squared away, prepare some meals, do some laundry . . .”
“Gram, you don’t have time to run the restaurant and take care of us, too.”
Gram gives Alice a look over the top of her glasses, like, are you kidding me?
“Okay, let’s get the bread started. Then we can make the cookies while the dough rises.”
“There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“Mom’s not big on bread.”
“Since when?”
“Since about two months ago.”
“The staff of life!”
“I know, Gram.”
“It’s not normal to be afraid of food!”
“Just one food group.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not normal.”
“Gram . . .”
“Okay. No criticism. But you like bread.”
“Yes!”
“And Ellie . . .”
“Loves it.”
“Let’s see how long your mom can resist toast. Let’s make toast till she can’t stand it. Hand me that big bowl, would you?”
“Where’s the recipe?”
“You don’t really need one. This oatmeal bread is very simple and very forgiving. And when we start toasting slices? Your mom is gonna go nuts.”
With the yeast proofing, Alice beats butter for the first batch of cookies. Gram chats about this and that and lets her be. Gram knows how to wait for Alice to talk, how to be interested but not too aggressive. She doesn’t ask the same old same old questions either—like what’s your favorite subject, who’s your favorite teacher? She asks where you sit at lunch, what you’re reading, what you think about when you’re alone.
The bread is fun: the measurements are a “big glub” of molasses, a cup or two of oatmeal, a pinch of salt, “enough” flour to form a soft dough. And the kneading part? Really you just get to beat the dough up. Slap it and punch it and squeeze it and pick it up and throw it down. Alice is making clouds of flour and Gram is laughing and egging her on.
When the dough is a smooth, sweet-smelling bundle Alice almost wants to pick it up and rock it like a baby. But they put it back in the clean, oiled bowl, turn it once, cover it with a dishtowel, and put it to rise on the back of the stove.
Alice goes still for several long moments and stands looking at the floor. When she raises her eyes Gram is there waiting for her, not flinching, not suggesting she get over it, go to her room, start her homework, et cetera. For the first time in she can’t remember how long, Alice lets herself get pulled into a hug, and at first, right at the beginning, it feels so good. Gram is wearing Matt’s apron and has flour on her nose and smells of the lemon verbena she keeps in