How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [18]
I am glad to know my grandpa was thought of so fondly, but I’m not sure I can recall Oh, the Places You’ll Go. I make a mental note to brush up on my Dr. Seuss and then have a fleeting thought that maybe Grandpa gave my sister and me Green Eggs and Ham one Christmas. As children of pig farmers, we were used to getting books, cards, and comments about pigs, ham, bacon, tenderloin, and pork chops.
When I was small, my grandparents still lived in Pennsylvania, where Dad was born. Dad moved to Georgia in his twenties after attending business school. I recall him telling me that as a child, kinfolk would comment that Edna, his mother, must have forgotten which town she was in when she had her sixth child, which was my dad. Ernest and Edna hadn’t lived in Lancaster since 1930, so why did they name my dad Lancaster? Dad was born in 1945 in the brick house where they lived in Altoona. He has always been grateful his mother didn’t name him Altoona. “Lancaster is a fine name,” he has told me over the years. “Lancaster has a solid ring to it.” Such a nice ring, in fact, that my middle name is Lancaster. Growing up in the South, I longed for a more debutante-quality name like Deena Ann, Deena Joy, Deena Marie, or even Deena Sue. But no, my dad had to provide me with a solid name.
The Center’s kitchen smells like a mixture of day-old popcorn and lemon-scented cleaner. The gas stove is clearly industrial, though not as large as the one at Palacio del Rey. A stab of pain jabs at my heart as I wonder what everyone at the restaurant is doing today. Do they miss me? Is the new baker as good as I was? Does she take the time to pipe perfect roses for the tops of the vanilla crème cakes? Does Anthony ask her to taste his sauces to see if they are seasoned just right?
Miriam’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Would you like to buy the ingredients you’ll need and give us the receipts and we’ll refund you? That might be easier than one of us here shopping. We might not buy the right items.”
We stand by the kitchen’s pantry. The pantry door is ajar, so I can see stacks of white china plates and coffee cups. I consider the options and decide I’ll purchase the ingredients for the classes, because that way I can be assured I’ll be cooking with the correct products. The Center can reimburse me—if I can manage to keep track of the receipts.
Miriam asks if I can start teaching tomorrow afternoon and teach a class every weekday afternoon right after the kids get off the school bus. I start to say that I don’t really care because I’m obligated to do this as part of my grandfather’s instructions, but then I decide that would make it seem as if I don’t really want to teach. Actually, I would rather bungee jump off the Blue Ridge Parkway than teach, but I can’t let Miriam discover that. She hands me a form to fill out and asks, “You want your paycheck directly deposited or mailed to you?”
My bank is in Altanta, but I think they have a Bank of America office here, too. I make a mental note to check on that. They do have many of the other modern conveniences like Burger King, McDonalds, grocery stores, and gas stations. I tell her that direct deposit will be fine and stuff the forms into my purse.
She demonstrates how to use the dishwasher, the sink, and the disposal. I nod and thank her for showing me. I’m tempted to say that I have worked in kitchens for a long time now, that I am a graduate of a fine culinary school, but I really don’t think boasting in church is acceptable.
“The sink does drip,” she tells me as three droplets sail from the faucet. “Our plumber should be by to fix it one of these days.”
I wonder if I should recommend Jonas to her. He knows how to tighten every pipe with his swinging wrench. When he left yesterday, he told me, “All your pipes are working good” and I had to smile.
We pause by the window over the sink to watch a group of kids play basketball on a paved