Love on the Back Burner

by Barbara Oliverio

  What else indeed.

  The gears were already turning in my mind. So Rhett wanted a good meal? Well, he was going to get a good meal … prepared by me!

  “Sounds great, Alexandria. Let me plug your phone number in my phone here, and I’ll call you tomorrow to fix up a time.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I batted my eyes prettily.

  “Barbecue?” “Barbecue.”

  “As in ribs? With a side of baked beans and corn bread?” Keira’s face was skeptical. The questionable advantage of Skype was that not only could I hear her, but I could see her dubious reaction as well.

  “Yes, Keira,” I sighed.

  “Might I point out—”

  “No, you may not. And if you are only going to spend our phone calls critiquing my choices, then I’m going to block your number, and you’ll be stuck in San Francisco without the occasional joy of my dulcet tones.”

  “Calm down. I was just going to point out that you are not a southern cook. Unless you count the south of Italy.” Keira doubled over and laughed at her own joke.

  “Ha. With material like that, you should audition for Last Comic Standing. Seriously, Keir, can you be a bit supportive?”

  “Honey, I’m totally supportive. But remember last week, when you went all Arabian Nights?”

  “Keira!”

  “Hear me out. You threw yourself into that, and what happened? You had a great date—with a couple.”

  I flopped backward on my bed.

  “Yes, but this will be different. If you would have seen this guy, he was obviously flirting with ME. And he actually used the word date in the phone call we had, so I know he’s not going to show up with a fiancée, wife, or other girl-type person.”

  “All right, honey. Getting back to my point. How are you going to become an expert southern cook by Saturday? Mrs. Olikara came through with great recipes last time, but I’ve been to your parents’ house and I know you don’t have any neighbors that are from south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  I sat up and pulled books and papers around me to show her.

  “That’s the beauty. I’m channeling the greatest southern cook alive today: Miss MariLu Babcock herself.”

  “The Queen of Pies?”

  “None other than. I bought a couple of her cookbooks, downloaded some of her recipes, and am taping all of her programs this week. By the time I make this meal, you can just call me Lil’ Sugar Pie Honey Bell … or something.”

  Keira laughed.

  “Okay, Ali. I’m rooting for you ‘darlin.’ But I swear, if this relationship progresses to a wedding, you are not putting me in a Bo Peep pink taffeta ball gown as your maid of honor!”

  “Keira! I’d never do that! With your coloring … sea- foam green … with an extra-large bow on the behind!”

  “And doesn’t that jus’ look great, y’all?” MariLu Babcock’s joyous laughter rang out from my TV. She was a bundle of energy as she put the finishing touches to her famous Butterscotch Pie.

  She sampled a generous slice and continued. “Always remember, the secret ingredient is the L-O- V-E.”

  I flipped the recording off. I had immersed myself in the world of MariLu Babcock, and in doing so learned not only about her cooking, but also about how this brave woman pulled herself up in life. She went from running a tiny business with her daughter making pies to opening the wildly successful MariLu’s in Atlanta and then to becoming one of the most popular TV food personalities.

  Secret ingredient, indeed, MariLu. You may stress butter rather than olive oil and lean more toward corn bread than loaves of crusty wheat bread, but I have a feeling that if you and my nonna and mom got together, wonderful delights would emerge from that collaboration, because that L-O-V-E with which you prepare your food is evident.

  I turned back to my workspace and the ingredients for my own MariLu Babcock–inspired dinner: barbecued ribs, corn bread, greens, and, of course, Butterscotch Pie, and felt the excitement I always felt when I was beginning preparation of a meal. Sure, I could fly through the prep of Nonna’s specialties without giving it a thought, but I had to admit that in the last two weeks, doing more than just experimenting with a new recipe here and there was doubly exciting.

  “All right, y’all. Let’s get cookin’!” I murmured to myself.

  Hours later I placed two pies, piled high with meringue, on the sideboard, checked the oven for the corn bread and the barbecue, and put the finishing touches on the coleslaw.

  My table was set very rustically. I had resisted the urge to use gingham and instead opted for a length of denim as the tablecloth. I did, however, give in to my whimsical idea to use bandannas as napkins. My centerpiece was a simple arrangement of white mums.

  A knock came on the door. Cap’n Butler, I presume? I glanced in the mirror. I looked extremely demure in a very feminine poet’s shirt and long velvet skirt, and suddenly realized I was unconsciously attempting to look like I had run my garb up from my curtains.

  I swung the door open (and quite frankly, my dear, was a bit fearful that I’d see Rhett accompanied by someone of the female persuasion). I breathed a sigh of relief to see just him, looking rather nice in charcoal slacks, a black turtleneck, and black blazer.

  “Hi! 7 p.m. right on time, sir!”

  “Hi, Alexandria,” he said looking around confused.

  “Uh … weren’t we supposed to go out? It smells like someone’s been cooking in here.”

  “Surprise!” I ushered him in. “I thought I’d make us dinner instead. I made some things that I thought you’d appreciate from back home in Georgia: barbecued ribs, corn bread, and Butterscotch Pie.”

  “Wow.”

  Wait. That didn’t sound like Wow that’s the most fantastic thing anyone could ever have done for me and I want to take you home to meet my lil’ ole mama.

  “Uh, is there a problem with that, Rhett?”

  Oh no! He’s a person who only eats his mother’s corn bread! I should have thought of that. I mean, am I not the first one to turn my nose up at anyone who suggests ANY Italian restaurant ANYWHERE?

  “I’m sorry, Rhett, I didn’t think that maybe you only like the food the way your mother prepares it. Maybe I should have made something else.”

  “No, Alexandria,” he shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I hate my mother’s cooking.”

  What! Nonna immediately stopped invisibly baking the wedding cookies. To hate one’s mother’s cooking is unheard of in my culture!

  “Let me explain that. My mother is a fine woman—a fine FAT woman, who cooks with nothing but butter and other animal products,” he shivered.

  Uh-oh.

  “Do you realize that avoiding animal products is healthier for you, is nutritionally adequate, and provides health benefits in the prevention and treatment of certain diseases?”

  What? How did I accidentally stumble into a lecture on the evils of meat? “Um, Rhett, do you mean you are a vegetarian?”

  “Actually I’m on a macrobiotic diet. I only eat grains and beans.”

  Oh.

  I had a bad feeling about the answer to my next question: “So when you wanted to take me for a good meal, you meant …?”

  “I wanted to show you the wonders of living a life free from anemia, appendicitis, arthritis, breast cancer, cancer of the colon, constipation, diabetes, gallstones, gout, high blood pressure, indigestion, obesity, piles, strokes, and varicose veins.”

  Eek. “Wow, that’s a very thorough list, Rhett.”

  He ignored me and continued. “The anger that you felt when I met you was probably from the excessive hormones in the animal products that you consume.”

  Yep. Got it. He was making it abundantly clear: no animal products. To date this fellow meant, well, bye- bye meatballs and steak pizzaiola.

  “And what is this? A butterscotch pie? That cook on TV keeps making it. Pure poison.”

  Oh no. You don’t dis my heritage AND my new culinary hero MariLu all within ten minutes!

&
nbsp; “Rhett,” I pulled myself up to my full five foot two (well, five foot six if you counted the heels), opened the door, and pointed outward. “You are a really nice guy and don’t take this the wrong way, but you see, it really isn’t me, it’s you.” I closed the door after him and leaned backward on it for a moment, then stood tall.

  “And as God is my witness,” I affected Scarlett O’Hara’s famous fist-up pose, “I’ll never go hungry!”

  Hungry? I texted to Natalie.

  Be right over, she texted back.

  I changed into one of my favorite Pittsburgh Steelers jerseys (Hines Ward #86) and yoga pants, and less than half an hour later answered the door.

  “Yum! It smells divine in here,” said Natalie.

  “Thanks. Grab a plate and dig in.”

  “No need to ask me twice! Oh, I called Elliott, too. I didn’t think you’d mind. He’ll be here soon. He said he was finishing up a basketball game.”

  “Of course Elliott is welcome. You should have brought Sam. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised I reached you. I sort of figured you two would actually be out on a Saturday night.”

  “Oh,” Natalie licked barbecue sauce from her fingertips, “Sam sort of needed a break from all the wedding talk. He and his brother put together a poker game at his brother’s house. I was just relaxing at home with a chick flick.”

  “Got it.”

  “His family is really looking forward to the wedding reception meal. Sam has talked to them about how great your cooking is for so long.”

  I pulled a face.

  “I dunno. Cooking has been sort of bad luck for me lately, Natalie.”

  “Alex, how can you say that?”

  I looked pointedly at the spread around us.

  “Oh. This.”

  “Yes. THIS.”

  “Come on. That guy couldn’t possibly have not liked THIS.”

  I explained the evening’s situation.

  “Well, see, it wasn’t YOUR cooking. It was just food in general that the loser couldn’t cope with.”

  “But remember last week?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “Not the same situation, even! That was a misunderstanding before he got here. And didn’t he actually LOVE the food?”

  “Yeah. So did his DATE. As a matter of fact, I sent them home with doggie bags.” I pondered, then added, “And it was exactly the same. I didn’t bother to find out all the facts before I made a rash decision.”

  “Hmm.” Natalie didn’t add anything, but rather helped herself to more corn bread as there was a knock at the door. I walked over to open it.

  “Ah, Elliott, my buddy, my pal—huh?”

  As seemed to be the custom recently, my guest had a guest of his own, but this time it wasn’t a female, but rather my new nemesis, Cam Grayson.

  “So, Elliott, I see you came to get your meal to go?” I stared at him through slit eyes.

  “Ali, Ali, Ali. You know Cam, right?” Elliott was a little too jovial for my taste as he swept into the room, slapping me on the shoulder.

  Cam followed Elliott in, giving me a mock salute. I hated to admit it, but decked out in gym shorts and an A&M T-shirt, Cam was a lot more muscular than his everyday work clothes would indicate. And why is it that some guys pull off that backward-baseball cap thing so well?

  “Of course I know Cam,” I closed the door. “What brings the two of you here TOGETHER?”

  “Oh, you know, I needed an extra for the game, and Cam mentioned at lunch the other day that he shot hoops, so I called him to substitute. Ooh, is this corn bread?”

  So, Elliott had been going to lunch with Cam? Traitor.

  “Yes, corn bread.” Well, the jerk was here now, and I was nothing if not polite in my own home.

  “Cam,” I asked politely, “what can I get you to drink? Iced tea? Homemade lemonade?”

  “Homemade lemonade? Wow! You know how to make that?”

  Patience.

  “Yesss,” I started in my best snark, then I amended my tone. “Let me pour you some. Please help yourself to the food.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Cam said as he sat with an overflowing plate. “Last week Middle Eastern, this week down-home southern, and, as Elliott says, usually Italian. What are you trying to do, open your own food court?”

  “No, actually she has all of this because she made—hey!” Elliott’s speech was interrupted by a whap on the back of the head.

  “She just likes to cook, right Elliott?” Natalie glared at our office mate.

  “Right,” Elliott rubbed the back of his head.

  “As a matter of fact, Alexandria is cooking for my wedding,” said Natalie.

  “Really?”

  I looked up from my ribs and nodded.

  “That’s quite the undertaking. Are you up for it?”

  It took all I had not to hurl the rib at him.

  Natalie laughed. “She usually can’t cook for less than an army brigade anyway, so cooking for about seventy-five people shouldn’t be much of a stretch. Hey, Cam, you should come to the wedding!”

  I shot Natalie a killer glance.

  “That’s a great idea,” said Elliott. “What do you think, Alex?”

  “Great.”

  I wondered how I could very precisely poison just ONE serving of wedding soup.

  We were stuffed, but it didn’t stop us from enjoying huge slabs of pie. Then Cam asked, “Alexandria, how did you get your love of cooking? And before you lecture me again on homemade spaghetti sauce running in your veins, I know that some people grow up in households with great cooks and can’t boil water.”

  “But Nonna really is the reason,” I said.

  “Come on, Alex, you wouldn’t get away with such a thin description on a sales brochure,” said Elliott, lying back on the floor and propping his legs comfortably on the ottoman.

  “I wasn’t aware that we were concocting a sales pitch about me, here, Elliott,” I shot back at my pal.

  “Come on,” said Natalie. “You know you love telling the story.”

  “Wellll.” I considered, wiping my fingers. “Okay. See, my grandparents immigrated here from Italy in the fifties and proceeded to have sons—”

  “Marco and Giovanni,” chimed in Natalie and Elliott.

  “Who’s telling this?”

  “Sorry. Go on. You tell it sooooo nice, Auntie Alex!”

  Cam took in the back-and-forth with amusement.

  “Anyway, the sons married, as good Italian boys will do, and proceeded to have sons—”

  “Anth—” began Elliott, before I cut him off with a tilt of my head and a point of my finger.

  “In any case, there were so many boys until my parents finally had me. A girl. And since I was the only girl, my nonna—that’s grandmother—”

  “I’m familiar with the term,” said Cam with amusement.

  “My nonna decided that she needed to pass the family recipes and traditions on to me.”

  “Couldn’t she teach any of the boys?”

  “I suppose, but since I was named for her mother—”

  “And she was SOOOO DARN CUTE.”

  I ignored this attempt from Elliott to rile me.

  “And because she loved the fact that I toddled around everywhere she went, she decided that I was the designated sous chef. So it just became understood that when Nonna cooked, I cooked. After a while, even my mother trusted my judgment in the kitchen, and I was usually the second in command.”

  Shaving another slice of pie onto her plate, Natalie said, “And now, we reap the benefits. Not too shabby.”

  I wrapped my arms around my knees, then looked up from my seat on the floor and caught Cam’s eye and couldn’t tell what he was thinking. As much as I loved this story, I hadn’t wanted to share too much about my life with this transient who would be gone from our lives before we knew it.

  “I guess not,” said Cam.

  At that moment, his phone rang. When he answered, his demeanor changed.


  “Oh, hey. No, nothing important.”

  What did he mean by “nothing important”?

  “Sure, I can meet you in about half an hour.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Hey, sorry guys, um, I have a thing I need to check on. Thanks for the hoops, Elliott. Thanks for the meal, Alex. It was super.”

  He jumped up and left quickly.

  “What the heck was that? The suburban version of dine and dash?” I asked.

  “Dunno,” said Elliott. “All I know is that them was some fiiiine ribs.”

  I turned to Natalie.

  “Seriously. What kind of oaf has a free dinner, sticks around half a second for a story, then leaves because he’s in the middle of ‘nothing important’?”

  “Why do you care? If I recall, when he came in, you weren’t all that happy to see him to begin with.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not. It’s just … well, I … you know I don’t like to share too much of my life story with people I don’t like.”

  Elliott popped up.

  “Or … DO you like him?”

  “What?”

  “I think that’s it. You DO like him, and you’re mad that he didn’t sit swooning at your feet!”

  “Elliott.” I stood up and straightened my oversized jersey, then shot him a withering glance. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No,” added Natalie, “I think you’re right, Elliott. She DOES like him.”

  “You two are unbelievable and have been watching too many chick flicks. Yes, Elliott, I do mean you as well. Don't think I don't know about your guilty pleasure—tuning in to Lifetime!”

  “It makes the ladies think I’m sensitive,” he sniffed.

  “Stop! I refuse to give Cam Grayson one more thought.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Cam Grayson.”

  “What?” I could hear dishware clattering in the background. Keira must have been in a restaurant.

  “I said, I can’t stop thinking about Cam Grayson.”

  “Alexandria, could you please do me a favor and send me a copy of your dance card so that I can keep track of the gentleman callers in your life.”

  “He’s NOT a gentleman caller, and since when did you start talking like you belong in a Regency romance novel?”