Lessons in Lemonade

by Andrews, Kathryn

  “Thanks. She’s happy, and right now that’s all I really care about.”

  Reaching over, I slap him on the shoulder. “Such a good husband you are.”

  He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

  “How can I help?” I ask, because there’s no way I’m going to sit back and just watch this happen. When you’re a friend of mine, you’re a friend, and I always try to go above and beyond when I can.

  “I’m not sure. Like I said, she’s got people all lined up for each aspect, so I’m even wondering what I’m supposed to be doing. I appreciate you offering, though.”

  “Food—I’ll bring the food. Oh, how about arroz con pollo?” I ask as we cross over the Hillsborough River, and I glance toward downtown. I love the view of the city, along with Spanish chicken and yellow rice, one of my favorites.

  Reid chuckles and again shakes his head. “Are you going to make that?” He looks back at his phone in his lap and fires off another text.

  “No way. I’ll have Eric make it.”

  Eric is a guy I found through the culinary program here at The Art Institute of Tampa. He wants to be a full-time personal chef, and well, I need to be fed. He wasn’t starstruck, didn’t ask to meet any players or get tickets to any games, so we hit it off perfectly.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “It shouldn’t. You love his food just as much as I do.”

  He laughs, shoving his hand through his still wet hair. “Yeah, I do.”

  Ten minutes later we pull into the condo building, and Zeus is waiting behind my front door for me as he hears us walk down the hall. His big tail is thumping hard on the floor and, like usual, I can barely get the door open before he’s on me.

  “Hey there, big guy! How’s my boy?” I scratch ferociously behind his ears and rub his sides. There is nothing better than owning a dog. We never had one when I was growing up, but now that I have, I can’t see me ever not having one again. The love, the loyalty, the companionship—it suits me perfectly.

  He circles around me and nuzzles me hard with his head.

  “Yeah, I missed you, too,” I tell him.

  Zeus was a spontaneous addition. I had honestly never even thought about having a pet—we do travel a lot during the season—but I was out for a run on Bayshore Boulevard, and I stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few things for lunch. Outside, in a box, were three black puppies with a sign that said Free.

  One look at Zeus and it felt like lightning struck through me, an electrical charge that shocked me, and I knew he was meant to be mine. That’s how he got his name, too—Zeus is the god of the sky. He controls the lightning and the thunder.

  Of course, I had no idea how to take care of a dog. I took him to the vet, who couldn’t be certain what breed he might be or how big he was going to get, but I didn’t care. At the pet store I had the salesperson help me buy all the things he thought I might need, I got a book about caring for a dog and found a dog sitter for when we’re gone, and the rest is history.

  Reid told me I was out of my mind, but I saw the way he looked at Zeus; he loved him instantly, too.

  Now, over a year later, he’s eighty-five pounds of all black fur with just a tiny patch of brown on his chest, lean muscles, and floppy ears, and he’s just the sweetest boy.

  Moving past him, I walk to the kitchen, drop my bag on the counter, and put the pies in the refrigerator. I do understand what Reid is saying about the sugar and unhealthy ingredients, but I just can’t help myself. Everyone’s got their weaknesses, and it just so happens pie is mine. Well, any sweet for that matter. I have the biggest sweet tooth.

  From across the room, the sounds of Bryan’s name being spoken on the main sports channel catches my attention. Yes, I leave the television on for Zeus when I leave. I don’t want him to be lonely.

  “Rick, I do think this is the year for Brennen and the Tampa Tarpons. They have every tool in their arsenal to make for the perfect season and go all the way.”

  “I have to agree with you, Darren, and based on what we’ve seen just from the start of this season, the rest of the conference better watch out.”

  On the replay screen between the two hosts is a pass Bryan made to Reid, another to me—the best wide receiver in the country, if I do say so myself—where I ran for an extra thirty-two yards, one of our defense crushing the offensive line of the Giants and sacking their quarterback, and one of our kicker completing a fifty-six-yard field goal.

  Man, do I love highlights like this. It’s like reliving the adrenaline of the moment all over again and showing all my boys in action. Of all the teams I’ve played with over the years, this group of guys is by far my favorite. It feels less like a team and more like a family, and I’m picking up all the feel-good vibes everyone is throwing down.

  Grabbing a glass of water, I hear my phone ding as I chug. Rummaging through my bag, I find it and see there’s a text from Billy inviting me over to his house for dinner (his wife Missy is cooking Mexican) and an Instagram notification. Dinner with them? Hell yeah—she makes the best guacamole. I fire off a text thanking them and saying I’ll come over, and then I open the app. There’s a comment from Meg on the photo I just posted, the one of me eating a bite of pie in front of the stack of pies at the training facility, the caption saying: Living high on the hog. Keep ’em coming, ladies.

  Her comment says: Living high on the hog—more like being the hog. Oink oink, Jack. *pig emoji*

  Ha, funny girl! A grin splits my face and I shake my head. She’s been giving me shit ever since I met her over the summer, and honestly, it’s become one of the highlights of my day.

  Immediately after the wrap party at Zach’s winery, I found her on social media and turned on post notifications so I would see her through the noise. I followed the Instagram page for her restaurant, and she tagged herself on one of the photos, which is how I found her personal, private page.

  Her feed is one hundred percent the girl I met at the party. It’s bold, full of color, and has a ton of pictures of her with her friends and cooking food . . . all in high heels. I don’t know how she does it, but I’m damn sure glad she does. Her legs are phenomenal, which I had to comment on, and so began the banter. Not a day has gone by where we haven’t poked fun at each other for one thing or another.

  Did I want more with her? Absolutely, but she friend-zoned me pretty quickly, and well, I’m okay with that. You can’t win them all, and really I’m glad it didn’t happen, because I’m enjoying our exchanges way too much.

  Responding, I add: Word is, eating chocolate-covered bacon is all the craze, and this pig’s got something you can dip in chocolate and eat.

  Smirking to myself, I shove my phone in my pocket and grab Zeus’s leash. He runs to the door and sits like a good boy, waiting for me.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes with a new notification. Pulling it out, I see it’s Instagram again; Meg must have replied. When I open the app, there in the notifications is her response: the green puking emoji. I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me.

  Arroz con Pollo

  I’M GOING ON a date tonight—well, in about ten minutes now—and surprisingly I’m super excited about it. Not just a little bit excited, but a lot excited. Actually, I think I’m more excited about what we’re doing, but the guy seems okay, too.

  I met him on a new dating app I joined, and he appears to check all the boxes for having a good time. His profile says he’s a college graduate, works in finance, likes to travel, loves to try new food, and loves sports. I mean, if his personality doesn’t suck, our interests are lined up pretty closely, and I can’t see me not having a good time.

  As for what we’re doing, it’s the final night for the scarecrow contest. That’s right, scarecrows, and we’re going to stroll through the Battery and check them out before we sit down for dinner.

  The competition is hosted by the Junior League of Charleston. It’s a hundred dollars to enter, and each establishment gets to decorate
their own scarecrow and display it. The money is being used to provide food bags to families in need over the holidays, and I can’t think of a better use for it. The whole city has gone crazy with scarecrows, and it’s drawn in visitors from all over.

  The competition kicked off the night of the harvest moon, it closes the third week in October, and the scarecrows are displayed until each business chooses to take theirs down, which will most likely be soon after Halloween. The contest winners will be announced in tomorrow’s Sunday newspaper, and ribbons will be awarded throughout the day.

  Of course, our scarecrow is a chef.

  Taylor, being the awesome new front-of-house manager that she is, found us a six-foot scarecrow online and then decorated her to look like me. When I first saw it completed and staked in the bushes outside, I couldn’t help but laugh. She put a brown curly-haired wig on it, it’s wearing an OBA apron with high-heeled boots, and it’s holding a rubber chicken in one hand, a large plastic knife in the other. I’ve posed next to it for more pictures than I can remember, we’ve been tagged on social media more in the last month than we have in the last four, and sales have gone up thirty-two percent this month over October of last year.

  I can only imagine how positive this has been for the city.

  At the moment, though, I need to decide on this gravy—a new sausage biscuit gravy, that is.

  My restaurant, OBA (short for Orange Blossom Avenue), serves breakfast and lunch during the week, and on the weekend we have a special brunch menu. As for at night, generally we’re closed, but it seems more and more we’ve been booking private events for Friday and Saturday nights. I’ll never complain about the private events. The menu is set ahead of time, so it’s easy for us to prepare and serve, and I get to charge a nice amount per person.

  Now, what makes us unique is that we do have a lot of classic dishes on our menu, but we also have a bunch of originals, too, to keep patrons coming back for more. Plus, everyone who comes in gets a bag of madeleine cookies to take with them when they leave.

  Of course, over the last couple of years, our menu has included biscuits and gravy on and off, but each time we change it, I try something new. Today, I tested four different sausages: a spicy chorizo sausage, a browned maple sausage, a chicken and pancetta sausage with rosemary, and a seafood sausage. I’m leaning toward the seafood sausage, and then with each biscuit open-faced, we can top it with lump crab meat and serve with a garnish of cantaloupe.

  Beside me, the door to the kitchen swings open and Taylor breezes in, her eyes lit up with humor. That wasn’t even ten minutes, more like five, but I’m excited to get out of the kitchen tonight. Bonus points to him for being a few minutes early.

  Taylor joined us here at OBA a couple of months ago after I realized how hard it would be to do it all with Shelby gone. She’s bubbly, just out of college, loves being around people, and is insanely organized. She’s perfect for the job.

  “Oh no—I know that look,” I tell her, a smile pushing past my lips.

  “Yep, tonight is going to be so much fun for you.” She grins, her eyes crinkling a little in the corners.

  This year, for my New Year’s resolution, I set a goal to go out on a date with someone new every month. Though I have no interest in finding a life partner, I do enjoy meeting new people, and I realize that over the last couple of years, I’ve spent too much time behind this kitchen door and not enough out living life. Also, like Taylor Swift, I use each experience as an inspiration to create a new monthly dish.

  “Are you being sarcastic?” I ask, moving over to the sink to wash my hands.

  “Just wait and see.” She swings the door open, and a medium-height guy cautiously saunters in with wide eyes. His gaze roams around the kitchen and then lands on me.

  “You’re a cook?” he asks, as if this displeases him.

  In all fairness, I left my career off my profile so I can see how this might throw someone off, but what’s wrong with being a cook?

  Taylor lets out a surprised sound next to him and quickly rolls her lips between her teeth.

  “Chef would be a more accurate term, but yes, I’m a cook.” I remove my apron and lay it on the counter. Taylor will hang it up for me with the others after we leave.

  “Huh.” He presses his lips together then decides to look me over from head to toe. His eyes halt on my legs and heels then shoot back up to my face.

  Taylor is still standing in the doorway, and even without looking at her, I know she is trying hard not to laugh.

  “And you make enough money off cooking to make a living?”

  Okay, that’s a little forward of him to ask, but I’ll go with it. After all, first impressions don’t necessarily need to be lasting impressions. Maybe he’s nervous, or has terrible social skills?

  “Yep, I do. I’m ready when you are.” I gesture toward the dining room to get him moving.

  He turns, takes a few steps, and then tosses over his shoulder, “You look beautiful.” As if my profession has all of a sudden been forgotten. The kitchen staff behind me murmurs.

  “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.” And he doesn’t. He has light brown hair, a bit of a baby face in that his skin is smooth, and he’s wearing dark jeans with a white button-down shirt and nice shoes.

  Taylor winks at me as I grab my purse from the office desk and Scott and I head out the front door.

  “Ha, look at that—your scarecrow looks like you,” he comments, stating the obvious.

  My mind drifts to Jack, the guy I met at Zach and Shelby’s over the summer. When Taylor first posted our scarecrow, I mimicked its pose and Jack made a similar comment, but more along the lines of me finally exposing my long-lost twin sister. Over the next two weeks, on additional posts, he also teased that he couldn’t tell which one of us was the scarecrow and how I need to stop scaring the scarecrow. He was definitely more original, and he’s always funny. The guy regularly makes me laugh, and I already know he’s going to have a field day with tonight’s date.

  “So, you’re a cook,” he says again, only this time he’s nodding approvingly.

  “Yeah, something like that,” I answer as I start walking toward the heart of the Battery.

  “How long have you worked there?” he says, looking over at me. I can feel his eyes roam over me again and I can’t tell if it’s making me feel slimy or not, but I already know this is over just as it begins. I mean, if he doesn’t understand the difference between a chef and a cook, he’ll never understand me—not that I was looking for long-term anyway.

  “Since it opened,” I tell him, not glancing his way. A vision of Shelby and me standing outside after we flipped the wooden sign in the window to open for the first time flashes in my mind. We hugged each other tight, and I knew right then the restaurant would do great things.

  “Nice. It says a lot about a woman when she can keep a job consistently.”

  I stop walking. “I beg your pardon?” There’s fire in my tone; I can’t help it.

  He tries to ignore my ire and keeps on walking. “You know what I mean,” he says sheepishly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t think I do.” My hands fall to my hips.

  He lets out a sigh and turns to face me. “Sorry, that came out wrong. My last girlfriend was constantly trying to find herself and changed careers like four times while we were together.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to find yourself,” I say defensively.

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t the one paying for it,” he says bitterly.

  “Ah.” Now his comment makes more sense. I’m definitely thinking it’s his social skills (or lack thereof) creating the weird vibe.

  We begin to walk again, and conversation stays minimal as we’re both a little uncomfortable now.

  The weather is cooler and the humidity has receded, which is nice. We must walk for a solid mile up and down the blocks, and with each new scarecrow, the tension lightens. Most scarecrows are typical
with a plaid shirt, jeans, and suspenders, but some went all out to match their stores like we did. There is an old man scarecrow smoking a cigar, sitting in a rocking chair, and playing chess out in front of the smoke shop. Child-sized scarecrows are decked out and playing in front of a children’s clothing store, and there’s even one on its knees praying in front of St. Mary’s Catholic Church.

  Eventually we decide we’ve seen enough and dip into an Italian restaurant not far from where we started at OBA. The head chef has been here for years and makes the most delicious gnocchi. She sneaks out from the back to say hello, and we talk a little business but mainly keep it to pleasantries.

  “So,” Scott begins after we’ve ordered. “Do they ever host any sporting events where you work? Like the World Series, the Kentucky Derby, things like that?”

  Where I work. I snicker on the inside at how he hasn’t put two and two together yet.

  “Ah, no. OBA is more of a low-country chic bistro. Its Southern fare and quaint setting attract locals and tourists, and the menu is known for intertwining fresh farm-to-table ingredients from the local market with a strong mix of coastal and French influence. Think crab cakes, oyster stew, jambalaya, she-crab soup, shrimp and grits, fried green tomatoes—things of that nature.”

  He looks bored by my description then asks, “No chips and queso or chicken wings?”

  “No, that’s really not our brand.”

  “Those are my kind of places. I’m a pro sports bettor,” he announces while leaning back in his chair. He smirks at me like I should be impressed by this.

  Taking one from his playbook, I ask, “So, you’re a gambler?” I know it’s a low blow, but I couldn’t help it.

  He frowns. “We don’t really call ourselves that.”

  “I see.”

  In the spirit of the once-a-month dates, I ask him questions about what he does. Although he and I aren’t going to work out, I make the best of the dinner and let him talk about what he loves. It’s not my thing as it all seems a little risky and uncertain, but he’s passionate about it, and well, I am definitely learning something new today.