How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [54]
“What kind of wonders?” I ask as I stare at my KitchenAid blender filled with canned tomatoes.
“I can finish a crossword puzzle in half the time.”
I picture her sitting straight—no slouching for her—in the den, working on a puzzle from her book, Dad seated in his navy recliner watching a Braves game, a can of diet Coke in his hand.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
I miss y’all, I miss Atlanta, I want to go home. I think all of that, but only say, “I’m doing really well. Teaching is great.” The surprising thing is that she believes me. Then I tell her how wonderful Regena Lorraine is. I wait for her response.
All she comes up with is, “Oh? Well, that’s nice.”
I want to say that Mom needs to quit talking through her nose about people, especially my aunt. I feel like getting on a soapbox and shouting, “She needs people! She misses her dad. She’s normal! And isn’t she part of our family?”
Just as I am thinking this, Mom says, “Deena, I’m glad you have someone to look after you.”
She is the queen of mixed messages, this Mom of mine.
After we say our good-byes, I turn the KitchenAid to the blend setting and watch it go to work on mixing tomatoes, cilantro, garlic cloves, minced onion, and lime juice. There is something amazing and invaluable about a kitchen tool that can do so much good in such a short amount of time. Chef B once said he’s in love with the blender, and I can understand why.
Earlier this week, I told the kids that for our next lesson we would use the blender to make salsa. Their eyes grew wide. “Salsa? In a blender?”
“The blender is one of the most versatile apparatuses,” I said, and immediately was overcome with a yearning to be in Chef B’s presence. “You can make soups with it, too, and smoothies.”
“Soup in a blender?” Bubba squinted up at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Let’s make smoothies,” said Rainy.
“I hate smoothies,” piped out Joy. “I had an avocado one and it was nasty.”
“Why’d you choose that kind?” said Bobby.
“It’s all they had.”
“Girl, you need to expand your horizons,” said Bobby. “Right, Miss Livingston?”
I smiled because when the kids had complained last week about making a broccoli casserole, I told them they needed to get out of their McDonald’s and Burger King mode and try something different. “Expand your horizons,” I’d said as I stood beside the church stove.
“What the heck?” said Bubba.
“It means,” I said slowly and with all the precision my voice could deliver, “you need to open yourself up to try foods that you normally might not. Be adventurous.”
The kids looked at each other, frowned. Darren continued with his masterpiece, his pen silently moving across the page.
Now I want to test the recipe before I teach it to the class. I don’t want any failures. I’ve already taken my homemade chips out of the oven. I cut flour tortillas into triangles, coated them with olive oil and a little garlic salt, then baked them for fifteen minutes at 375 degrees.
Chips and salsa—that should make the kids happy. Isn’t that supposed to be food kids these days enjoy?
I finger my cell phone, wishing for another call, this time for a cake order. I can’t take the waiting. I wonder how my aunt is and decide to call her.
“Hi, Shug. Do you need me for something?” she asks when she answers.
“No, no.” I hope we’re on terms where I can call her just because. I try to recall if she ever told me not to call her. One woman in my church in Atlanta gave birth to triplets and set the rule that she accepted no calls after eight. Surely, my aunt hasn’t adopted this standard, has she? Hesitantly, I say, “I just wanted to see how you are.”
Her voice becomes warmer. “Thank you for letting me sit and remember in the cabin the other day.” To someone else I hear her say in an excited tone, “I think it’s Professor Plum in the conservatory, or is it the billiard room? With…” There’s a pause. I wonder if she’s still on the other end, and then I hear, “The lead pipe!” Her