The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  It had all begun to feel like clutter for a while there, but looking through them now felt like visiting old friends. That she was doing it for an afternoon with a new friend made it feel even more so. Now the books were spread out across the ten-person dining room table she hadn’t used in years, and it felt good.

  She moved Eat, Drink, and Be Chinaberry aside, intending to revisit the buttery-tart Lime Chicken. Sure, it had been one of Calvin’s favorites, but it had also been a favorite of Margo’s, so she could see past that. She made a mental note to review it tonight and revisit her old favorites.

  Patricia Wells’s Trattoria went right on top of that. She leafed through the book lovingly, remembering the summer she’d gotten it and how those pictures had made her long for a sunny little house in Tuscany.

  “There you are.” Margo reached for it and pulled out a very old copy of The Sweet Grass of Home, a part-cookbook, part-essay book that she’d found at a library sale years ago. It had been a library book, though the stamps showed it hadn’t been taken out in years. Too old-fashioned for most, probably. She’d been charmed by the handwritten notes in the margins and the splatters and stains of so many ingredients over the years.

  She found the page with the strawberry pie and snapped a pic with her phone, then texted it to Aja.

  She was used to entertaining, if not super enthusiastic about it. It didn’t make her nervous like it used to, but today felt a little different. Where it was easy to have the book club over because of the clear focus of conversation and the ease of unimaginative snacks and glasses of wine, she’d really enjoyed meeting Aja and Trista, and she now found herself hoping her screwed-up life and upcoming divorce didn’t make her feel like too much drama for them.

  Margo wasn’t used to being the type of person people avoided. She was used to being the problem solver, the steady, solid friend who had a sensible answer for everything. She didn’t want to be the weak link now. Getting married young had made her seem like a grown-up to friends still getting into arguments outside bars with couple-months-in boyfriends. While she did not want to be the burden, she was hoping to maybe shift somewhere into the middle.

  She needn’t have worried, though. Aja showed up with her arms loaded with grocery bags and a big smile.

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this!” She beamed, coming in as Margo ushered her, following her into the kitchen. “Your house is gorgeous! The whole drive in was. I think my boyfriend’s mom actually lives around here—do you know Lucinda Carter?”

  Only by reputation. She was from one of the old Potomac families, and Margo’s impression was that she was not one to mess with. But she didn’t know her personally, so she was able to answer honestly when she said, “No, I don’t know her personally.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “Your boyfriend hasn’t introduced you?”

  “No, not yet. He can be . . . very private.” Aja smiled so charmingly. “I guess he wants to wait and see if we get more serious.”

  “That makes sense.” Margo took one of the bags from her. It was heavy. She glanced in. It had a ten-pound bag of flour in it. “How many pies are you planning on making?”

  Aja looked puzzled. “One?”

  Margo smiled. “I was just asking because this is a ton of flour.”

  “Oh, that. I heard that brand is the best, but they only had it in huge quantities. I thought I’d leave some here for you, if you want it. And for the neighbors. And for the soup kitchen. Maybe a local school will need snow for a Christmas play sometime.”

  “You never know”—Margo hoisted the bag onto the counter—“you may end up becoming an ace baker.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely. But I’d like to at least be good. Competent. I’d settle for competent.”

  They took everything out of the bags and set the ingredients on the counter island. Margo guessed this one pie had probably cost Aja at least sixty or seventy dollars, maybe even more. Organic butter, organic strawberries, organic flour, cane sugar, she’d even gotten a great bottle of vanilla bean paste.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Aja commented. “I started thinking about strawberry pie and then I just had to have it. I don’t know what’s going on, I’ve been eating like such a pig these past couple of months.”

  “What are you, pregnant?” Margo looked at the label of the vanilla. She used to use the same brand to make butter cookies for Christmas as a kid. Just thinking about it conjured the smell and tripped a wire of melancholy she hadn’t felt for a long time.

  Margo missed cooking for people—really cooking. Her family, her friends, even her husband. Her greatest pleasure had come when they rolled their eyes with the ecstasy of a bite of her chicken spiedini, oozing with melted cheese under a crisp crust of buttery fried panko. Or her Cincinnati chili, aromatic with cinnamon and cocoa, which she served on homemade corn spaghetti. Topped with aged cheddar and sharp, fresh-chopped onion, it had been one of Calvin’s favorites, and he always had her make it for Redskins games on Sundays. She could smell it now, mingling with the wood fire in the fireplace, and the sound of roaring crowds, on the TV and in the living room.

  Those days were gone.

  When she looked up, Aja had a strange look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Margo asked.

  Aja frowned, then shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing. I was just . . . nothing. Hungry.”

  “Ah. Okay. So why don’t you rinse the strawberries in the sink? I put a colander in there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Margo went to a cabinet and took out the food processor and kitchen scale. Then she took a bowl from a lower cabinet.

  She put the flour, salt, and sugar into the food processor and then cut the butter and shortening in, finishing off with enough ice water to make a dough ball. “I’ve missed butter,” she said with a laugh. “My husband wouldn’t eat anything that was high in cholesterol.” She recalled the cheese fondue and half baguette she had made and consumed over an episode of Shark Tank the night before.

  “I’m sure I’ll die young because I just cannot think so much about being so careful.”

  “I spent almost ten years having to think about it, and I still can’t tell you it makes a difference.” She rolled the dough out on the counter. It stuck to the roller so she sprinkled some flour on it and resumed.

  “Doctors aren’t agreed on it either,” Aja said. “I brought a pie pan. Should I get it?”

  “Yup.”

  Aja put a ceramic pie plate in front of Margo.

  “Oh, this is so cute!”

  Was Aja the girl she’d pictured, right before getting so unceremoniously dumped by her husband? Was Aja’s kitchen the one filled with specialty pieces from boutiques and trendy stores? Did she have rose-gold coasters and Pinterest prints on the wall at home? Did she have freedom?

  Would Margo have it?

  Together, they lifted the ends of the dough and placed it in the pan. Aja pinched the edges then put the plate in the oven to parbake.

  Then they moved to the berries and started to hull them side by side, tossing the greens into the sink as they went.

  “So what brought on the pie craving?” Margo asked. She tossed a green, then popped the strawberry into her mouth. It was good and sweet, the taste of summer in one quick, juicy burst.

  “An iced tea commercial.”

  “Huh?”

  Aja smiled. “A bunch of people, summer barbecue scene, strawberry shortcake . . . then I started thinking about pie, and that was it.”

  “They got you!” She hulled the last strawberry and tossed it in the bowl.

  “But not the way they wanted to—no iced tea here.” Aja took the bowl and poured a cup of sugar over the berries, then macerated them with a wooden spoon. “This is like making a mojito,” she joked.

  Margo took the strawberry puree over to a pan on the stove and mixed everything, stirring the vivid red mixture into the gray sugar until it was all one bubbling, candy-scented conc
oction.

  “It would probably be good with tequila.”

  “What isn’t?”

  They laughed.

  Margo stirred as the mixture reduced and Aja cleaned up. Then Aja’s phone rang and she looked at it, paused, then answered. What followed was a quick, tense conversation in low tones.

  Margo didn’t listen to what was said, but it was very clear that it wasn’t entirely pleasant.

  Aja hung up, caught Margo’s eye, and said, “My boyfriend. Canceling our plans tonight. Again.”

  “He does that a lot?”

  Aja’s jaw tensed. “Yup.”

  “Hmm.” Margo considered before saying, “If he disappoints you all the time, maybe he’s not the Forever One. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that he’s the Forever One anyway, but for now he takes care of things, does all the thinking, and after spending my life scrambling to survive, it’s kind of a relief.”

  “So he’s domineering.”

  Aja pursed her lips, then nodded. “Some would say that maybe. I think it’s more that he’s confident.”

  “Ah. The other side of the coin.”

  It was interesting, they’d known each other only a short while and yet it was so easy hanging out together. Was pie the great unifier? Margo smiled at the thought but it wasn’t lost on her how important food had become since Calvin had left and her new life had begun.

  “It’s time,” Margo said, and Aja glanced at the recipe.

  “The whole lot goes into the crust now, huh?” She took the pan and poured carefully, perfectly. The shining red strawberry mix looked gorgeous against the white marble countertop Margo had chosen so carefully when they first bought the house.

  “Now it just needs to chill,” Margo said.

  “It’s not the only one.”

  Margo laughed. “You are going to feel so good when you have that first meeting with his mother over with. I mean, you’re going to have to meet her eventually, right? And when you do I’m sure it’ll go fine—you’re a great person. She’ll have to see that.”

  Aja shrugged. “You’re really nice to think that. I mean, I don’t know what’s wrong with me; I get nauseated just thinking of meeting her!”

  “Nerves can do funny things.”

  “I guess.” Aja didn’t look so sure.

  “Is something else going on?” Margo asked and immediately regretted it. She didn’t want to butt into business that didn’t concern her. But it sure seemed like Aja was chewing on something other than pie.

  “You asked . . .” Concern crossed her expression again. “I mean, I know you were joking, but you asked if I was pregnant . . .”

  Silence pulsed between them. Immediately Margo was certain Aja was pregnant. Not that she was lying or hiding it; she didn’t think Aja even realized it. But Margo knew it, sure as can be.

  “Is there any possibility?” she asked gently. She liked Aja, but they’d just met. She wasn’t sure how to tread this with her. So she waited for Aja’s response, trying to arrange her features into a look without conclusion or judgment.

  After a moment, Aja nodded. “There is,” she said. “I—I honestly don’t know how I didn’t think of it before, but there is definitely a possibility.” Only a beat passed before she started gathering her things. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  Margo was at a loss. “Wait, can I help? Do you want me to go get a test or something?”

  Aja shook her head, a quick jerky movement that showed she was already mentally out of there. “No, I’ve just got to go. Thanks but—I have to get home.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine!” But she was already gone. “We’ll talk soon!”

  The pie and Margo were left behind to chill together.

  Chapter Six

  Max

  Max Roginski felt sorry for the Beatles.

  He hadn’t always (most people didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for the Beatles). In fact, he’d been pretty impervious to them once upon a time, but then he’d gotten holed up in a hotel room somewhere in Ohio when his play, Ironsides, had become a runaway hit and they’d taken it on the road, and he’d read an eight-hundred-page biography of them over the weekend.

  And, not to be vain, but he really started to understand how hard it must have been to be them. To never be able to live a normal life, no matter where they went; to be recognized everywhere, despite all efforts at disguise.

  Since Max Roginski couldn’t take a piss in a urinal in a truck stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike without being recognized and finding himself shaking the unsanitary hand of the guy next to him, fame had stopped seeming so cool.

  Fame was becoming the proverbial bitch.

  And suddenly it was all too much. The small, two-bedroom apartment in Gramercy Park that used to be his haven now felt oppressive. Even the deck outside—which had once given him an exhilarating feeling of space to breathe in such a claustrophobic city—now made him feel exposed, with the thousands of windows of neighboring buildings towering over him. Now and then a picture had shown up in the media, clearly taken from one of those windows. The unfunctionally small kitchen, once sufficient with a microwave and refrigerator for a guy who ate out all the time, was now too tiny to cook in if he didn’t want to bother with the real world. Which kind of worked out, since the world was too big to shop for food in, but he was hungry.

  The delivery people recognized him.

  This wasn’t what he’d bargained for.

  Sure, it’s what he’d hoped for, or once thought he did. It’s what every aspiring actor or singer thinks they hope for. On the rare occasion that he’d prayed, he’d prayed for this.

  Now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. It felt awesome to pay his bills, so that had to be considered, but maybe if he’d moved to some bumfuck town in the Midwest and traded his taste for WhistlePig the Boss Hog bourbon to Jim Beam, he’d have been able to pay the bills on his single wide and have a little money left over for some sort of soup gruel at the end of the day.

  So, yeah, he rather liked the perks this lifestyle had afforded him. But they never came on his own terms, and that was the problem. He was ready for a change of lifestyle. He’d already decided to leave the production—his last show was in two weeks (and he’d still get his 7 percent royalties, which was a considerable amount). But as long as he was here, he was vulnerable. If he could find a place to be anonymous, he could probably do that quite happily.

  He got up and went to the kitchen, dropped some ice in a glass too big for bourbon, then poured too much bourbon into it. Then he moved out to the deck, where the sun was beaming down on the table he’d had since an ex-girlfriend’s mother had had it sent to them a thousand years ago when they’d lived here together. (It hadn’t been cheap to get rid of her once he hit it big and she came back wanting remuneration.)

  It was a nice table. Sturdier than the crap he’d gotten at some high-end stores, for sure. He sat down on one of the armed chairs and put his feet up. The sun burned behind his closed eyelids, putting patterns of blood vessels before him like an old road map. He’d had an idea for a play about Helen Keller once, inspired by the question of what world she saw and interpreted when she closed her eyes, but too many people told him that it was boring and unknowable.

  Not all the ideas were winners.

  Right now, though—now he was working on Clackety Clack (working title to amuse himself), about the construction of the first continental railroad, but he hadn’t told anyone about it, partly because he was so stuck he couldn’t move forward on it, and if someone told him it was a good idea, he’d be even more frozen. If they said it was a bad idea, then forget it, he’d never write again. Everyone said artists had egos, but people seldom talked about how easy they were to collapse.

  And he was one of the lucky ones.

  If only there weren’t such a daily—sometimes frightening—barrage of recognition.

  A window scraped open overhead and someone shouted, “Yo! Max
i! Hows about some tickets? They’re goin’ for a fortune online!”

  Max sighed and tried to ignore it.

  “C’mon, neighbor! Don’t be a prick!”

  That was the other thing. Interactions with the public were seldom polite. People seemed to think they had a right to be abusive. To resent him. Like he’d used up all the success or money they were supposed to get and so he owed them.

  He stood up and walked inside. The last thing he heard was “Fucking prick!”

  He wanted to go back out and respond, but he no longer had the luxury of doing that sort of thing without recrimination. Nowadays, it would be caught on camera and splashed all over social media

  An hour later, Max was still on the couch, trying to think of a remedy for his increasing life-panic, feeding his hunger with bourbon and wishing someone would leave a large bowl of macaroni and cheese outside his door. He’d prefer that to just about anything else he could think of. Unfortunately, he hadn’t a clue how to make it himself, except that it definitely contained both macaroni and cheese, two ingredients he did not have.

  His phone pinged. He glanced at it. Someone had tagged him on Instagram. Hopefully it was a friend and not the ticket dude from earlier, but he didn’t have enough interest to check.

  He put his hands over his face and leaned back. Escape. He needed to escape. Surely he could come up with a disguise good enough to get him on a train and maybe up to Montreal so he could . . . hide in a hotel room there, he supposed.

  He picked up his phone and checked Instagram. It was the upcoming star of Ironsides, the guy who was about to replace him, standing next to the marquee for the show. No one knew him yet, so he was all smiles, pointing at the marquee, as if to say, I’m on my way! Nothing’s going to stop me now! And he was right. Unless he totally fucked up, this was going to be a career-changing move.

  “Better you than me, buddy,” Max said, before idly flipping through the pics. Friends in the business showed up, one after another, and one after another he felt himself getting increasingly sick of looking at their fake, smiling mugs and began to unfollow them.