My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [17]
“The frogs aren’t coming from the sky. This isn’t biblical. This is just annoying,” Stacey counters. Despite positively ominous skies, Stacey and I are in the pool. The second we see lightning, we’ll get out, but until then, we swim, damn it. Plus, I have all that soda to rinse off.
“Well, if they’re not a plague, then where are they coming from?”
“You’ve got me. We get a couple of them in the pool every year, but this is bizarre. Maybe they hopped in from the woods because of the storm.” As we wallow in waist-deep water, we attempt to scoop out the dozens of dime-sized frogs swimming around us. They’d be cute—like, so cute they could be manufactured by Sanrio, actually—if only they’d keep their distance. I had one work its way into my hair a couple of minutes ago, and now my throat hurts from all the screaming.
I brush a wee amphibian off my arm. “What’s going on with you? How’s your book32 coming?”
“Great! I’ve spent the week entering recipe contests.”
Stacey isn’t working on a cookbook, but this statement makes perfect sense to me. Any writer will tell you the best part of being a writer is not writing. Oh, the random, unimportant things you can accomplish when you owe someone a manuscript! In the past two weeks, I’ve: (a) started a Facebook account in order to reconnect with people I haven’t given a damn about in twenty years, (b) organized all our Christmas decorations, rewrapping the delicate ornaments I’d tossed carelessly back in the box seven months ago and testing each string of lights, (c) made significant headway in teaching the dogs to bark on command until Fletch reminded me they don’t need any more encouragement in the barking department, and (d) read the first two Twilight series books. Twice.33
“Yeah? How’d that happen? And what kind of recipes?”
“I was writing and I had the Food Network on in the background. Then I noticed some woman getting a massive check for some lousy chicken recipe. Seriously, my chicken is so much better than what won, and she got something like a hundred grand. For a shitty chicken paprikash! I clicked my Word document closed and began to Google cooking contests. I found a ton of them, and I’ve been entering them ever since. Right now, I’m all about Plugra, the European butter people.” Stacey describes the various butter compounds she’s created, and by the time she’s finished, my mouth is watering.
“The one with bacon and maple sounds amazing!” I gush.
“Would that not be ridiculous on pancakes?” she raves.
“How are you making all this stuff and not gaining, like, a million pounds?”
Stacey wrinkles her nose. “Oh, please, I’m not making anything; I’m just coming up with ideas. I’ve already submitted forty different compound recipes.”
I’m dumbfounded at this news and it takes me a moment to digest what she’s saying. “Wait, you’re not entering recipe contests; you’re entering writing contests.”
“That’s about the size of it.” She nods thoughtfully.
“Ha! On the one hand, I applaud your ability to avoid your deadline, but on the other, you’re totally gaming the system. You’re obligated to cook; otherwise, you’re a butter cheater.”
“Listen,” she says, sending away another duo of frogs with a wave. “I’ve probably made each of these compounds a dozen times. I’m just writing down the work I already did. Obviously I’m hoping to win the grand prize, but they’re also giving away a bunch of ceramic butter bells to the runners-up. I’ll win some of those, because come on, I’ve already entered forty times and these recipes are gold. I’ll make sure to give you one.”
At that moment, lightning flashes across the sky and thunder cracks and we dunk ourselves one more time to remove any stray frogs before scurrying out of the water.
I don’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure this storm is God’s way of punishing Stacey for her butter—cheating.
After dinner, I convince Stacey our evening would be best spent watching So You Think You Can Dance.
During a particularly stirring piece, I turn to her and say, “Before I started watching this show, it never occurred to