I have nothing.
I stayed up all night. At five-thirty in the morning I showered, dressed, grabbed my clutch, walked into the kitchen, grabbed the cloth grocery bags, and went to my aunt and uncle’s garage. I grabbed my aunt’s bicycle, placed the cloth grocery bags into the wicker basket on the handlebars and headed out to the farmer’s market. It was freezing but determination was guiding me. I recounted every French recipe I had ever learned and I set out to find local ingredients to replicate it. After the farmer’s market, the butcher was next. The wicker basket on the bicycle was packed by the time I arrived back at the house.
“Oh, hi Jazzy,” my aunt said as she sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee, her robe still on. “I was just about to check on you. Have you already been out and about?”
“Sure have been,” I said as I dropped the grocery bags on the counter. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.” She said no more.
I cut. I sliced. I pierced. I ignored. I was at work. I was making four dishes at a time. Why? Well my original cookbook included twenty French recipes and twenty Italian. Now I needed eighty French recipes and I needed them now. I heard my aunt and uncle whispering, and I’m sure he was diagnosing me. Let him. I had work to do. Uncle Neal eventually went to work. My aunt went to help some nuns and volunteer at her church. I continued to chop, slice and pierce. While the meals were cooking and simmering, I went into my uncle’s home office.
No more wallowing in my sorrow.
I booted up his computer and searched these words: postcard collections. There was a site called Pretty Posts. It was a vintage-looking website filled with grainy images of the nostalgic 50’s era, with its long colorful cars, smiling kids with high ponytails, and four person families.
I have nothing.
They offered a postcard package called Around The World in 100 Days. It came with one hundred postcards, two from each state. One postcard featured the state’s capital; the second featured the state’s second largest city. I went to grab my clutch. I’m no fool. I always had my own account apart from Marlon. Community money could be dangerous, especially at a time like this; he probably canceled all my cards. I paid for the postcards and then paid the extra postage to have them overnighted.
Why did I buy them? I was going to mail my girls a postcard a day, starting in New Hampshire and then moving to the nearest state…like I was on a road trip. If I talked to them on the phone, I’m sure I would have broken down and cried, but sending the postcards, and telling them that mommy was travelling the country to find recipes for her new cookbook was doable. They’re young; they’d think nothing of it.
With that done, I checked on the food in the kitchen. One recipe I ditched, the others I kept. Good. I needed forty more French recipes and I had three. Thirty-seven more to go. I searched the house for a camera. I found a fancy one in a utility closet. The recipes I kept, I took pictures of, from every angle. I placed them on the pretty dishes my aunt has. I adjusted the light. I opened the kitchen blinds to let in natural light. I rebooted my uncle’s computer and purchased Photoshop. Soon, I had those pictures looking perfect.
My aunt came home and tried to engage in small talk. I shooed her away. Not now, Aunty. My uncle came home and tried to say hello. But, since he’s a psychology professor, I had plans for him. No small talk needed.
“I need you to go to the head of the graphic design department at the college and request that one of their students do some work for me for class credit. I need to start my own website. Tell them I have a deal with Rouge Literary Agency in Boston. Give him Danielle’s number, have him call to confirm.”
“Oh, um, sure,” my uncle said.
The next day I met a dorky girl with red glasses at New Hampshire University. Sitting with her was a Computer Science major. The dean explained to me that they were both available, if that was alright, and that they would both get credit. This dean had contacted Danielle, saw the contract I had with her, saw three publishing houses that would be in a bidding war for my cookbook and was elated to have two of her students create a professional site for me. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just do it.
I handed the students the camera with the food images, told them I wanted the site to look like a scene out of that French movie Amelie: full of soft colors, fantasy, moving objects and cliché French graphics. It had to appear as welcoming and as unstuffy as possible. It needed to say: Look how friendly, flirty and Frenchie my site looks. This food is easy to make, just give it a try. They went to work.
And so did I.
I had nothing.
I was writing a postcard a day to my girls, tossing aside all of the letters I received (except for Danielle’s), getting dressed each day by five in the morning, heading to the farmer’s market, coming back to the house to cook, and working on my recipes until around midnight. By the time the site was done (beautifully, might I add) I had seventy-eight French recipes that were delicious. My aunt and uncle were my tasters. They liked sixty recipes. With those sixty, I went to three of their neighbors. They narrowed it down to fifty-two recipes that they loved. From there, I went to my aunt’s church. The nuns narrowed it down to forty-seven. Forty seven was fine. I’d put the first forty in the book and put the next seven on my site; one free French recipe a week for free. I could get a buzz going.
I typed all the recipes up, those I already had and those I had just created. I saved them on a hard drive my uncle had given me. I had three pictures to accompany each recipe. I then printed everything out, developed the pictures on real photo paper, packaged the hard drive and the hard copy together and overnighted it to Danielle’s home. I put a small note in the package that read, I need a bidding war ASAP. -Jasmine
I have nothing.
While I waited for her response, I went ahead and went live with my new website. Jasmine Harlow was now ready to show the world how to cook. (I, of course, did not use my married name. After all of these years, I finally get why Danielle kept her maiden name.) The site was gorgeous, the graphics of the Seine River floating in the background was fun, the water glistening was neat. And it had a timer! When it was night, stars would start to come out on the top of the page and twinkle. The sun would disappear and a half moon would appear. The sign on the building marked ‘Jasmine’s Boulangerie’ flipped from Open to Closed. The sign on a building called ‘Jasmine’s Cafe' switched from Closed to Open. The kids on the sidewalk walked into brownstones, adult lovers in French berets walked out, taking their place.
I started my cooking blog and included a recipe. After a day I had fifty hits, no doubt students of the university who were told that two local students had created a site for an up-and-coming author. By day two I had twelve hundred site visits and comments to my first recipe post. People loved the site, loved the option to turn on the French music in the background, loved the graphics. By the third day, they loved the food. Wow, this really was easy to make and it was so good! w ere the comments from about six people. By day four, Danielle had sent a bicycle messenger to hand deliver a package and this note:
Bidding war ended. PriceHouse Publishing offered the most. $225,000 for you to sign with them. Keep in mind, you’ll also get 15% of book sales once they reach $225,000. Don’t worry about the numbers, I’ll explain them to you later. Oh, and PriceHouse saw your site and its comments yesterday. They want to marry you. See these contracts in this package? Sign them ASAP and overnight them to me. In four weeks, you’ll get your first payout of 25%
Oh. Shit. I went into my uncle’s office, grabbed a calculator and calculated twenty-five percent of $225,000. It was $56,250.
I have something.
My own money. I sat back that day in my uncle’s office and answered all of the questions my new fans were asking me: Can I substitute ingredients? What will happen when…? Is self-rising flour the same? Is there a gluten-free version? Can you give me the cup-to-teaspoon equivalent? When are you posting your next recipe?
I smiled and answered them all.
/> And now, guess what? It’s Friday, I’m back in Boston and I’m $56,250 richer.
I haven’t told a soul that I’m here. My cell is blowing up but I don’t care. Ignore. I caught a train home and answered comments and questions on my new Apple laptop while drinking dark roast Starbucks and looking at my new Android. It beeps every time someone writes me a private message and it seems like I get at least one recipe question an hour. Then my editor called. She had questions, she needed clarification, she heaped on the praise. She tried two recipes last night. Her husband fell at her feet. I laughed, she laughed and then I said I had to go. I had followers to attend to.
I have something.
By the time my train stopped at the station, I was already at a door, checking messages on my Android, my laptop bag weighing my shoulder down, a cup of fresh brewed Starbucks in my hand. I already called a realtor and told her that I needed to see three condos as soon as I arrived. So, by the time the train stopped at my station, she had arrived and was waiting for me, a huge smile on her face.
And now we’re in her car.
She’s trying to engage in small talk. I’m checking email messages on my Android. I have work to do, lady. Just show me the condos. In just eight weeks, I have built my own empire. I have a following. I have respect. I have followers. I have an editor. I have an agent. I have a realtor. I have money.
“Ms. Harlow, should we go to Beacon Hill first?”
“That’ll be fine, Elaine. Thank you.”
I am the man that I always wanted to marry.
I have something.
ANGIE BLAIR
I pride myself on being the matriarch of this family. So, when Malcolm came home on Friday and told me that Pammy was hosting Sunday dinner at her home, I nearly reached into his chest and tore out his heart.
Allow me to explain.
Not only is our household in the midst of preparing for a week-long trip to Hawaii, some of its members seem to be going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment. Gwyneth and Jacob are, once again, in their own private family court. Jacob is such a sweetheart, despite who birthed him, so I can only assume that this current issue of him cheating on Winnie is his mother’s fault. (By the way, I am privately searching for Jasmine Harlow, the harlot who has tried to systematically destroy my family every five years. My investigator has narrowed her down to the New Hampshire area.) Lola and Cadence are nervous wrecks and are transitioning to move back and make Boston their home base, once again. They need help with their new bundle of impending joy and while Eva, Lola’s mother, is a nice woman…well, she raised the hellion who is Laura.
Enough said.
Then, Danielle is in DC with Winnie and Lola. Danielle and Lola, for some reason, have never gotten along. I can’t blame Danielle; Lola does go a bit overboard at times. A prime example was when she burned Cadence’s house down. But I always hoped Danielle and Lola would be close on day. I’ve been anxious for Danielle to come home so that she and I may discuss Lola over a glass of chilled white wine. I intend on using my crisis management skills to finally resolve the issue between those two, since it appears that Lola, now that she’s pregnant, is here to stay. It was touch and go there for a while. I always thought my Cadence could and would do better than staying married to the daughter of the President of the United States. A bit melodramatic, my Cadence is, but he is indeed charming and brilliant. He could have his pick of the litter. Unfortunately, he chose the runt.
Also, all of Jacob’s sisters were arrested last night. Again. Another Saturday night, another drunken rant in a Cambridge bar ending with Malcolm easing into Wynston and my bedroom early this morning. “I need to head to the chief’s office with Jacob. Looks like he wants to practice tough love this time around and keep the girls locked in there until Monday morning.”
“I would like you two to note,” I said to Wynston and Malcolm, “that we will be dining at the home of a woman who has three out of four of her children currently behind bars.”
“Don’t start, Ang,” Wynston said.
“In other words, 75% of her children are incarcerated.” I began to get out of bed and put my robe on so that I could check on my grandbabies. Nicky always kicks his covers off at night. “And her home was elected for Sunday’s supper.”
“Ma…” Malcolm gave me his usual look of ‘don’t start.’ While Cadence is my charming, sweet and brilliant child, Malcolm is my cunning, beguiling and ingenious son. Sly, crafty and resourceful that Malcolm is. So crafty, he’s gotten the girls to sleep on the chief’s office couch instead of in a cold hard cell where they should be.
“I just figure I’d bring up the elephant in the room,” I said as I slipped on my slippers with the ivory feathers on them, the ones Roman bought me for Christmas last year. Enchanting, he called them.
“I’ll be back in time for Mass,” Malcolm said as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through its messages.
“Well, let me get up and check on these grandkids of mine,” Wynston said as he gave a big huff while pulling his legs out of bed. “I know one thing, I didn’t raise both of my kids just to help them raise all of theirs.” He gave Malcolm a sharp look. My beloved Wynston is full of shit. Malcolm gave his father a smile. Wynston and I had been living in London for so long, we felt detached from our grandchildren. Him especially, since he was so very close to his own grandfather. So it was Wynston’s idea to come and move in with Malcolm and Danielle to assist them in the raising of Ginger so that she might start her life off on the right track. (Both Wynston and I assume that Nicky and Roman are lost causes. We simply moved back too late.)
Malcolm remained at the jailhouse for hours, later explaining that the girls were passed out on foldout couches under the spell of a drunken stupor. He told us this on the way to the home of the mother of said drunken girls. I implored Malcolm that I should stay back at his condominium with Sunday Simone, lest she pick up those lewd and drunken ways. He was convinced that everything was fine. I begged to differ.
So, come Sunday morning, I wasn’t in a good mood when Malcolm pulled up to Pammy’s home. The smell of corned beef, a recipe she stole from me and parades as her own, wafted through the air on the Lord’s day. That bitch. I grew annoyed at the smoke coming out of the chimney. Three-fourths of her children are in jail and she dares to have a rolling fire roaring inside as if she maintained a proper household. I laughed at the thought.
“What?” Wynston asked as he picked a piece of lint off of Nicholai’s hat.
“Just the laughability of this entire moment,” I said with a smile.
“Laughability,” Roman said. “Is that a word?”
“Of course.” I noticed Malcolm looking in his rearview mirror at Roman, shaking his head no. We weren’t even in Pammy’s home yet, the breeding ground of three of America’s three million prisoner population, and already my son was becoming insolent.
Malcolm parked the car and then assisted the children and me out while Wynston grabbed the side dish I made: a twenty-pound prime rib roast.
“Malcolm, I may need help carrying this in. You hold up the left side, I’ll hold up the right. Think funeral processional.”
“Here, Pop. I’ll hold it.” Malcolm slid the pot out of his father’s hand.
“Angie-baby,” Wynston said to me. “I think when Pammy said ‘side dish’, she was talking more along the line of potatoes au gratin, rice pilaf, possibly a green bean casserole...”
“She’ll take what I give her,” I said while holding Sunday Simone tightly to me, easing a spare hat I have of hers onto her head. Who gave Malcolm the permission to take her infant hat off for the rest of her life without my prior consent? “Please grab Sunday Simone’s toiletry bag, Wynston.” He headed for the bag, the boys ran towards the house and Malcolm waited for Wynston and me.
I was dreading this.
I had too much on my mind. I had Danielle and Lola, Jacob and Winnie, Lola, Cadence and their new baby. (I secretly knew they were having a boy. I
could just feel it.) I was developing a headache just thinking about the lives I had to save after this dinner. So imagine my surprise when I walk through the door and see Lola and Danielle laughing with each other, Cadence and Pammy engaged in deep conversation on the couch, and Winnie and Jacob off to the side whispering with each other.
What in the sam hell is going on?
“Oh, Wynston! Malcolm! Angie!” Pammy shouts as she jumps up from the couch, young Jaden in her arms.
“Hey, pretty lady,” Wynston says to Pammy. Preston, where the hell are you?” He then screams out, “Get your lazy ass down here and come get this lump of meat out of my boy’s hands.”
“Ah, my darling Sunday,” Cadence says as he notices Sunday Simone in my arms. He stands up and heads over to me.
“Hi, Auntie Pammy!” Nicholai and Roman scream out as they run and give her a hug.
“Boys! Sunny! So glad you’re here! Your cousins are in the game room,” Pammy replies. The boys hug Danielle next and then make their way around the room quickly, before running off to the game room.
“Cadence what are you doing here?” I ask him.
“I’ve decided to take my darling Lola on a babymoon. We’ll be going to Cape Cod for the week.”
“Charming, isn’t it?” Pammy says. “I called and suggested it.”
“Thanks, Aunt Pammy!” Lola screams out.
“Of course, my love. Oh, and I have a surprise! Malcolm, you remember Danielle right?” She gestures to Danielle as if she’s on a game show presenting a brand new car. I watch Malcolm slide his mouth into a little smirk before he winks at Danielle and heads straight to her.
“I went and called her and Winnie and told them the family was meeting here for dinner. Surprise!” she said to Malcolm.
“Thank you, Aunt Pammy.” He walks over to Pammy and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
War. Page 23
