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By Root 530 0

to make—perhaps one he had invited others to. But, the question is, why it is the lone item in the refrigerator? He’s been dead three months now. I’m assuming that, like most of us, his refrigerator contained half-used jars of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise, and a bottle or two of his favorite salad dressing. Maybe even a container of some cheese dip he bought a year ago that he wasn’t sure he really liked but kept on the back of the bottom shelf, just the same. A healthy head of lettuce, a few yellow onions, some carrots in the produce bin, and since I know he was fond of vine-ripe tomatoes, a cluster of those. Maybe the freezer held some frozen peas, lima beans, and corn. Someone emptied this refrigerator—most likely Regena Lorraine. I can picture her tossing out all the bottles, perhaps hanging on to the produce and later making a tossed salad with the vegetables, tears in her eyes, thinking that it was the last salad she’d ever eat made with Daddy’s lettuce, Daddy’s carrots, Daddy’s onions, and Daddy’s tomatoes. If she cleaned out the fridge, why did she leave the lemon? I finger its cold surface and scratch it with a fingernail. It still smells like a lemon should.

I add the contents of my Coleman. A bunch of red seedless grapes, a jar of Hellmann’s, five sticks of butter, a bag of Starbuck’s Dark Roast, and two bags of frozen corn. From a large brown sack I lift out five baking potatoes, a plastic bag of purple onions, a box of cake flour, a loaf of wheat bread, and three cans of green beans. I find places for them on the pantry shelves. In the next couple days, I’ll head to the local grocery store for milk, juice, and half-and-half for my coffee. Every cup of java needs half-and-half, an indulgence culinary school taught me.

I peer into every cupboard and into the pantry, trying to find the sugar. Finally I find the sugar bowl—a tomato-red dish with a green lid. Inside sits a tiny spoon with the word Kos printed on the handle.

From a lumpy box, I unpack my cake-decorating ingredients, tips, frosting bags, blender, and new pans. All were protected by items of my clothing—my worn T-shirts, my sweat pants. Finding space in a bottom cabinet for the pieces of my life—the tangible parts that help me define who I still am—I feel a small tinge of hope.

Vivaldi plays with vigor as I make the kitchen my own.

Over the instruments I can hear Chef Bordeaux’s voice from when I first studied under his tutelage: “A real chef needs a kitchen to make her own.” He must have seen this printed in a cooking magazine or heard it on some culinary video because this phrase is the only sentence the chef speaks using proper English grammar.

I sneeze, and I’m sure the cause is dog fur. Of course the only person I know in this town would have to be a dog owner.

six

I’ve decided I’ll try teaching the kids. Grandpa Ernest requested it, after all, and it was kind of him to give me this cabin. It’s peaceful here; I want to stay. And if teaching is what it takes, I’ll try it. I can’t go back to Atlanta.

Chef Bordeaux would beam with happiness if he found out I’m going to teach. His eyes would dance with excitement as visions of cherry strudels and minestrone sashayed through his culinary mind. His enthusiasm I cannot handle right now, and perhaps that’s why I haven’t called to tell him about my new surroundings or situations—the topic he said he wanted to hear about.

They are middle-schoolers, so I suppose I’ll start at the beginning and teach basic cooking. From a cardboard box labeled Books, I dig out one of my basic cookbooks. The lettering in the title, Easy Cooking, is made to look like yellow icing piped onto a creamy white cake. The only trouble with the cover is that forming perfect letters like that with frosting is not easy. I flip the first few pages and see the headline How to Boil an Egg. I don’t like boiled eggs, so I don’t consider them a basic cooking need. Besides, what would you use a boiled egg for? Chef salad. Cobb salad. Deviled eggs—or for those who don’t like the word devil in their culinary experience, stuffed