How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [55]
Clearly, she’s busy, so I tell her I hope her guess is correct.
“Thanks, Shug. You know I love to win.” I bet she’s smiling.
When we hang up, I turn my attention to the salsa, which looks and smells enticing. I pour some of the chunky mixture— just the right consistency for scooping up with chips—into a white bowl, dip a tortilla into it, and eat. Adding a little more salt and a dash of pepper, I taste again. Perfect, I think. The cilantro tastes so fresh. Chef B told us, “Always use lots of cilantro. It keeps the taste so flavor.” The entire class smiled at that.
I sit on the couch, turn on the TV with the remote, and find a program to watch. By the time the show ends, I’ve finished the salsa and chips, and have no idea what the story was about. My mind has gone down memory lane again. My skin itches, and I once again feel an overwhelming sense of stupidity for having trusted a man who took advantage of my devotion and spontaneous kisses.
When the front door opens and I hear, “Deirdre, I’m here to frost,” I’m a bit perplexed, but very grateful that the voice doesn’t belong to Lucas.
Jonas rushes into the living room as I turn off the TV with the remote.
“Jonas, what a surprise!” I’m glad I’m not in my pajamas or just out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, scars showing. I hope it’s not obvious to Jonas that I was thinking about Lucas.
“No surprise, Deirdre,” he says as he faces me with his hands in his jeans pockets. “You said I was to come over to frost.” His smile spreads across his face, like the morning sun in a summer sky.
Up until this point, Jonas and I have communicated well. I suppose that couldn’t last forever. “Jonas, I said you’d have to come over to frost the cakes for the bake sale.” I recall telling him just days ago that he could come over to help me prepare for the event.
He nods. “I am here.”
“Next week.”
“I come next week?” He rubs his temple and produces a frown.
I look at this man who is wearing a bandana the color of Giovanni’s fur. Something inside me knows that the misunderstanding between us is not important. Standing, I say, “Let’s frost, then.” I lead the way to the kitchen. “We can practice.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
I laugh and it feels as refreshing as a cool drink on a sweltering day on the farm. “Where’s the cake?” Jonas asks, his eyes searching the counters.
“I haven’t made one,” I say.
Jonas looks confused, then blurts, “How can we frost a cake when there is no cake?”
The bake sale is not for another nine days. While the kids and I have made a few items and placed them in the freezer at The Center, I wasn’t planning to do my share of the baking until closer to the event. I do have some leftover buttercream icing in the refrigerator. So we can ice… something.
Jonas notices the bag of Krispy Kreme donuts on the top of the Kenmore. “I like donuts.”
And that’s when I decide that we’ll create top borders on mini French crullers.
Jonas watches as I open my large plastic box of decorating supplies and take out a four-inch polyester pastry bag. I fold the cuff over and adjust the plastic coupler snuggly into the tip of the inside of the bag, choose a stainless steel star tube because I think that Jonas will appreciate icing his crullers with stars tonight. He edges even closer to me as I screw a white plastic ring over the shiny tube’s base. Using a small palette, I scoop buttercream into the bag and then force the icing toward the base, trying to press out any air bubbles. I twist the top of the bag to keep the buttercream inside. To test the contraption, I squeeze a mound of icing onto the counter, forming a sugary star.
“Wow,” says Jonas. “You do fast work.” Tempted by the icing on the counter, he dabs at it and then lifts his finger to