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I turn away from the window and pop two Tylenol into my mouth and then realize that the pain is not in my legs or arms. The pain is inside, deeper than any limb. The pain, this time, is in my heart. Sure, I’ve had pain in my heart before, like when I heard Lucas was going out with Ella. I had pain when my almond butter torte didn’t win the Atlanta State Dessert Competition.

This is a different pain.

I’m not exactly sure of its cause.

I feel that if I’m going to have to suffer with pain, I should at least be able to know what’s causing it.

————

On my way home I stop by Ingle’s and buy the ingredients for Grandpa’s Southern Peanut Soup. Strategically, I avoid the magazine rack.

In the cabin’s kitchen, I find a large pan and rinse it out well because I don’t know how long these pots and pans have sat in these cabinets unused. Grandpa traveled a lot, and in his last years he was away much of the time in Greece and other parts of Europe. What a life. Instead of the cabin, he could have left me a plane ticket to Kos. The pictures sure look inviting with the shimmering blue ocean, white beaches, and graceful palm trees. In one picture stuck to the fridge with a magnet that says It’s all Greek to me, he stands by a sea that holds more shades of blue than any box of Crayolas.

I read over the recipe and line up all the ingredients needed to make the soup. I like to have everything ready to go and not have to dig around the cupboard for flour or sugar or measuring spoons once I start to create the recipe. I read the end of my grandpa’s instructions for serving the soup. Eat it from the raccoon bowl. What is a raccoon bowl? I have searched all over for it and have found nothing with a raccoon on it or in the shape of a raccoon. I’ll have to ask Aunt Regena Lorraine.

When I cook, there has to be music playing. Vivaldi, of course, is my favorite. I turn up the volume and begin to measure the ingredients using my stainless-steel measuring cups and spoons. These were a gift from Lucas, and I did consider tossing them and buying cheap plastic ones to replace them. Then I drank a cup of coffee and thought, “Am I crazy?” Keep the state-of-the-art measuring cups and spoons, girl. One day you will forget who gave them to you and be glad to have them.

I haven’t forgotten who gave them to me yet.

I read over the recipe to make sure I haven’t left anything out.

Ingredients:

1 T butter

2 T minced white onions

2 T flour

6 cups of chicken broth

½ cup heavy cream

½ cup milk 1 cup creamy peanut butter

1 tsp red pepper

Paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup dry roasted unsalted peanuts, chopped

Fresh parsley

In a large pot, heat butter and onion over medium heat until tender. Stir in flour. Simmer and stir in chicken broth, cooking until soup thickens. Add other ingredients except the parsley and chopped roasted peanuts. Garnish with parsley and peanuts and serve in individual bowls.

When the soup forms little bubbles along its surface, I ladle two scoops into a small bowl. I sprinkle parsley and peanuts on the top. It looks good, I think. Chef B always told us the appearance of the food we serve at Palacio del Rey is just as important as the taste.

Standing by the stove, I eat. Single people are known for forgoing a sit-down meal so that they can stand in the kitchen and enjoy the solitary experience of eating over the sink or stove. This is how we manage to keep our tablecloths clean.

I stir the soup in my bowl and take another bite, tasting the distinct flavors of cream and peanut butter. I think it needs more salt. Grandpa had high blood pressure, so he probably cut down on the salt when he made this dish. I eat another spoonful. My mouth feels warm. My taste buds are satisfied, grateful. I smile at the picture of Grandpa on the fridge. “Do you get to eat this good in heaven?” I ask.

I hear a noise and, looking out the kitchen window, see a truck pull into the driveway. Jonas steps across the gravel. His large boots bound up the porch steps. The sun is setting behind him;