Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  He exhaled. Each shoot. Half the season was in the can already. “Let’s do it.” Forget the cameras, forget the cameras.

  In the kitchen, Annie-Rae perched on her stool, her elbows back on the counter, a homemade something on her lap. “How’s my Annie?” Luke squished her curls like he did every night.

  “I’m going to be on TV too.”

  “Luke, are you ready?” Garth prompted him to get started.

  He scanned the counter. Today’s focus was ricotta cheese pancakes and cookies. He loved this recipe, developed it for Ami’s opening.

  Prepping the ingredients this afternoon reminded him of why he loved the gastronome life, and for one short breath, he contemplated Linus’s invitation. It would be good to be back in the kitchen.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Joy faced the camera. He loved watching her, so easy and natural, as if she believed a million of her best friends were on the other end of that lens, stopping by for the evening. Without Ryan or a script, she soared higher. Ad lib was her element. Garth and Reba just let the cameras roll, moving around to find the best angles and shots.

  “Tonight we’re cooking in a real home kitchen—yes, mine. There, are you happy? I can hear it now: ‘Stan, where do you think she is? Is that her home . . . oh, I bet they rented a big fancy kitchen for this one.’” Joy stepped aside. “As you can see, no, we did not rent a big fancy kitchen for this show. It’s my small, boring one, and please do not send me decorating ideas or offers. Tonight’s segment? Luke Redmond’s raspberry ricotta pancakes and cookies. I cannot wait to try these. Luke, are you ready? Wait, Annie, how could I forget you? This is my niece, Annie-Rae, everyone. Sweetie, introduce Luke for us.”

  Annie giggled and scrunched up her shoulders. Something about her presence enabled Luke to forget the cameras circling the kitchen. Or that at the moment, pixie Reba stood on the counter with her remote aimed at his head.

  “I can’t.” Annie hid her smile behind her hand.

  “Sure you can.”

  Reba moved slowly, stepping over the sink, her foot landing right between the flour and the cheese.

  Annie-Rae inhaled, sucked in her gut, closed her eyes, and tipped back her head. “Hey, good lookin’, whatcha got cookin’?”

  Luke buckled forward, shimmying, trying not to discourage Annie with his laugh. A couple of dishes clattered behind him. Garth’s chest rumbled.

  “All right, Luke.” Joy motioned to him, straight-faced, eyes alight. “Whatcha got cookin’?”

  “Okay, tonight we’re working with one of my favorite ingredients. Ricotta cheese.” He reached for the tub on the counter by Reba’s foot. “But when most of us think of ricotta, we think—”

  “Italiano.” Joy kissed her fingertips and thumb.

  “Exactly.” Luke shoved the prep bowls around. “Stuffed shells, lasagna. All great dishes. But you’ve not tasted ricotta until you’ve tasted it the Luke Redmond way, in cookies and pancakes.”

  “Then teach us, oh great chef.” Joy tied on her apron.

  A random thought hit him. No. He couldn’t. But Dan wanted him to liven up . . . “The rest of the ingredients are standard. Eggs, baking soda, flour, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg.” Even with Garth’s warm breath practically breezing through his hair, this kitchen felt like home. “So, Joy, I’m going to need you to warm up the eggs before adding them to the room temperature butter.” He dropped two eggs in her hand.

  “You’re kidding. I know if you add eggs to heated butter, the eggs can cook, but cold eggs mess with room temp butter? Help us out here, oh great one, and tell us why.”

  “Because I said so. No, Joy, cup your hands like this,” he demonstrated, making a bowl with his hands, “to warm the eggs. Like a nest.”

  She made a face at the camera. “New York Yankee chefs . . . Down here we just toss it all together and let the recipe come out like it’s supposed to.”

  “First, we’re going to cut the flour with baking soda and salt.” Luke set the empty bowls aside. Joy stood watching, cradling her eggs.

  She looked so cute he almost hated to pull his prank. But . . . In one quicksilver move, Luke clapped his hands around hers. The shells crunched. Raw whites and yolks slithered from the bottom of her hands, between her fingers.

  “Oh my . . . what the . . .” Joy gaped at him, blue eyes snapping.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Garth and Reba circled, hungry vultures descending on a wounded prey.

  “Oh, Aunt Joy, Luke, two whole eggs?” Annie-Rae whined at the travesty of wasting good food.

  “Luke, my, my, seems you forgot to do your hair for the show.” Joy spread her hands, yolk going all over, and smashed them down on Luke’s head, smearing the slimy eggs through his hair. He could feel her molding it to a point on top. “There now.” She angled back for a good look. “Don’t you look dapper—I’ve been missing your pompadour. Eggs work better than the finest hair gel.”

  Her eyes urged him, Come on, this is the stuff. But he didn’t care about the stuff. He cared about her. His pulse muddied. His lungs expelled the last ounce of breathable air. The kitchen walls expanded, leaving him alone with Joy on a kitchen island. The lights morphed to glassy stars. The voices became the rush of fluttering wings against his ears. Garth and Reba were tall coconut palms.

  He wrapped his arms around Joy and tipped his head, covering her lips with his, unsure, tentative, until she laced her arms around his neck, molded against him, and joined the kiss.

  Luke drew her tighter, tasting her skin, inhaling her fragrance, fanning the embers of his heart, sensing somehow if the kiss ended too soon, his hunger would never cease.

  When she broke away, Luke’s lips lingered on hers. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

  “For the cameras?” she whispered.

  “Cameras?” He kissed her again, breathing in deep. “What cameras?”

  “What do you think?” Joy crouched on the kitchen floor over the last page of the mock-up cookbook. “Pretty clever, huh?” She nudged Luke with her elbow.

  “I think it’s noon on Saturday,” he ran his hands over his face, then stretched his fingers, “and you’ve had me kneeling on a hard tile floor for three hours, cutting food out of magazines with kiddie scissors.”

  “But we have a mockup of the cookbook.” Joy jigged around the kitchen, tugging Annie-Rae to her feet and spinning her around. “We have recipe names based off Ryan’s list. Now all we need are the ingredients and the how-to.” Sigh.

  “Leave the simple part to last.” Luke hobbled to the counter and perched on the stool, hand pressed against the small of his back. “My knees and back . . . I can’t believe you called me at six a.m.”

  “Ryan’s list inspired me. Got to strike while the iron’s hot. Mock up a cookbook, get a visual. Feels real to me now.”

  “Even Red never woke me up at six for branding days.” His clear blue eyes laughed at his own fabrication. He looked funny with his tired expression and shocks of Spit Fire-dried hair going every which way.

  “Right, he probably woke you up at five. Or four. Come on, cowboy.” Joy jigged over to him. “Can’t let a little paste and paper defeat you.” She roped her arm around his shoulders, the bend of her elbow fitting the nape of his neck. His shoulder felt solid and warm beneath her hand. “What happened to the bubba who survived Hell’s Kitchen?”

  “Did I mention I failed kindergarten?”

  “Poor baby.” On instinct, without thinking, she kissed his cheek. Affectionate. More intimate than yesterday’s moment in front of the camera. She could feel his pulse surge with his quick and short breaths. When he gazed up at her, his blue eyes ignited a wildfire in her belly.

  “Luke.” She tucked her hair behind her ears as she backed away, then motioned to the mock-up. “We have a cookbook. Look.” She straightened the last page with her toe. “I say we glue that sucker together and turn it in to Allison. Here’s the cookbook. Go make millions.”

 
; “I don’t know. Annie-Rae and I were having fun cooking, testing the recipes.” Luke flowed with the moment and she appreciated it.

  She didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden passion that kept exploding between them. In the middle of the night, she’d woken up with heart palpitations. Was the only spark between them going to be on the show? The embers of sexual tension fueled by a spontaneous kiss? Allison and Dan Greene may love it, but Joy didn’t. Did Luke?

  “How’s the project?” Mama tugged open the pantry door and took out her bag of Cheetos. “You know what they say, everything you need to know in life you learn in kindergarten.”

  Luke slipped off his stool to join Joy. “We’ve broken up the book into sections. We have soups. Oyster?”

  “Chick made a lovely oyster soup.” Mama leaned over the magazine picture of a can of Campbell’s soup.

  “It’d be great if we could find his recipes, Rosie. Otherwise, I’ll have to develop one. And there’s no story or history about it.”

  Joy sat on the kitchen tile, listening to Mama and Luke. When had Luke become one of them? The perfect spice to the house female blend?

  “We included sandwiches because Chick loved sandwiches, right?” Luke stooped to straighten the pages pasted with McDonald’s, Subway, and Panera products. “I’ve got a recipe for homemade potato chips that people seem to love.” He tapped a picture of Lays.

  “Chick used to make homemade ketchup. Remember, Joy?”

  “When did Daddy make homemade ketchup?”

  “When you were kids. Early on in his cooking days. You don’t remember?” Mama continued listening to Luke, hunched over, as he talked about the meat dishes with optional sides, then the casseroles and party dishes.

  “Chick was always up for a party.” Mama approved, pinching her chin with her fingers.

  “Now that I remember,” Joy said. “Sawyer and I used to sneak downstairs, grab a handful of tortilla chips, scoop Daddy’s famous Mexican hat dip into a cup, and skedaddle before anyone saw us.”

  “We saw you every time, Joy.” Mama tore open the Cheetos bag. “You two giggled like hyenas thinking you got away with something.”

  “So if you didn’t bury Chick with his recipes,” Luke glanced between Joy and Mama, “and they aren’t in the studio, they must be here, right?”

  “We’ve looked.” Mama munched on Cheetos. “After Chick died, Sharon and I scoured the attic.”

  “You don’t think she—”

  “No, I never let her out of my sight. I didn’t trust her like you and Duncan did.”

  “Then we’ll just have to get busy and develop his recipes ourselves. Rosie, you can help us taste test.” Luke scooted to the next section of construction paper and paste. Desserts. Annie-Rae’s schoolgirl handwriting adorned the pages pasted with instant pudding and Pop-Tart cutouts.

  A dormant guilt stirred around Joy’s heart. She’d grown up with a father who loved to cook good food. Annie-Rae was growing up with an aunt who couldn’t turn eggs into an omelet.

  Joy had grown up chasing cousins around Granny and Granddaddy’s yard, playing tag in the sweltering sun, the heady aroma of grilling meat spicing the air. When the dinner bell rang, she clambered to picnic tables laden with southern richness—homemade salads and desserts, warm breads and jams, and soul-stirring sweet tea.

  What did Annie-Rae get when the dinner bell rang? Meals of solitude with a commercially pressed pastry. Standing in the kitchen, eating pizza from a box. Best of all, she got to dump her SpaghettiOs into a microwaveable bowl and watch it spin.

  “Did Chick bake much?” Luke regarded Mama.

  “Some. He liked to make French bread and yeast rolls.” Cheeto dust fell on the cookbook’s pages. “But his specialty was banana bread. Sweet Georgia Brown, it was to die for.”

  “Really, I’m sorry I won’t get a taste of that.” Luke shuffled the pages around. “My mom had a chiffon cake I can add. I’ve wanted to do more baking, so it’ll be a fun challenge to work up some recipes.”

  “Stop.” Joy sliced the air with her hands. “Just stop. Luke, you don’t have to keep adding your own recipes.” She sighed at the reflection of her image on the mock pages. “In fact, you shouldn’t add any of your recipes.”

  “Joy, come on, I don’t mind. It’s for the show. Besides, I’ll add dishes I’m doing for the season. Allison—”

  “Luke.” Joy rose off the floor. “You’ve been on the show for what . . . six weeks? And now you’re helping me with a cookbook. I’ve hosted the show for three years, and I can’t remember one recipe. Not one.”

  Mama slipped away, the din of munching hanging in the air. Annie-Rae peered up at Joy from her spot next to Luke.

  “It’s not a big deal.” He shuffled pages absently.

  “But it is a big deal.” She spun, facing the window outside. “I grew up with Charles Ballard and I can’t boil water. What kind of woman doesn’t learn to roast meat and steam veggies? What kind of television host doesn’t learn her craft?”

  “Remember the summer of ’08?” Mama said from the living room, the low hum of the television riding her words. “You tried to learn, Joy.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, Mama.”

  “I’m adding my recipes, Joy.” Defiance fortified Luke’s tone. “We’re going to compile the best recipe book in the foodie kingdom.”

  “Stop. You’re too nice to me. I don’t deserve this.”

  Annie-Rae launched off the floor and ran for the stairs.

  “Annie, honey, where are you going? We’re not arguing, just discussing.”

  Mama came around, eyes on the stairs, setting the Cheetos bag on the counter, her stained fingers splayed. “I’ll go check on her. I need to call Lyric home anyway. Her room, what’s left of it, is a mess. I’ll be so glad when school starts next week.”

  But as Mama arrived at the stairs, Annie-Rae raced back down, launching off the bottom step, a white laminated card in her hand. “Can we make this?” Annie shook the card under Luke’s nose, then Joy’s. “I found this. It says banana bread. Papaw made banana bread.”

  “I’ll be darned . . .” Mama gripped Annie’s hand, holding it steady. “This is Chick’s recipe. In his own hand. Maybe the original. See here, the date, October ’85.”

  “Annie, where did you find this?” Joy peered at the card, the hard ground of her soul softening at the sight of Daddy’s neat, angled handwriting.

  “In the attic.” She looked up at Mama. “You didn’t say we couldn’t go up there.”

  Joy broke from the huddle, taking the stairs two at a time. At the end of the hall, the narrow attic door stood ajar. Up the curved narrow staircase, Joy burst into Daddy’s office.

  A square of sunlight hit the sun-baked hardwood from the skylight. Under the pitched roof, the room, hot and fragrant with the scent of warm wood and molding books, was everything Joy hated about Daddy.

  His devotion to food, not to her, Mama, or Sawyer. Hours and hours he spent at the rolltop desk pushed against the wall, reading and writing until he came down to test his masterpieces, turning the family kitchen into his private laboratory where children were not seen or heard.

  When Granny and Granddaddy died, Daddy’s brothers scattered and the light of love seemed to fade from the family. No more picnics with the cousins playing tag. No more meat-scented air. No more hot buttered rolls with black raspberry jam.

  “Do you want me to go?” Luke’s voice rescued her from the emotional swirl.

  Joy motioned to the bookshelves. “Mama said Sharon shook every cookbook trying to dislodge Daddy’s notes and recipes, but nothing slipped from the pages.”

  “Annie said she found the card behind the desk, on the floor.”

  Joy glanced at the rolltop. “She probably did. I’ve only been up here once since he died. And I didn’t look for recipes. But I remember he always had a leather book . . . like a journal.”

  She’d been so mad at him when he died. Why didn’t he take care of himself?
Give up salt, cream and sugar, fatty foods? He’d be with them today if he’d just . . .

  “Joy, talk to me.” Luke’s hands caressed her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck so that intoxicating tingles tightened her skin.

  “He loved food more than us.” She stared at the recipe. Three ripened bananas . . .

  “Men can get lost in their careers and passions, but he’d have been a fool to love food more than his family.”

  “He was here physically, but emotionally—” Joy shook her head. “He missed ball games and award ceremonies. He barely made it to my graduation.” She swept the tears from under her eyes with her fingers, inhaled, and heeled her racing emotions. “Will you help me look for the cookbook?”

  “Tell me where to start.” Luke glanced around the room. “Any secret hiding places in here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “All right, Lord.” Luke closed his eyes and tipped back his head. “Where would Charles Ballard stash his secrets?”

  God, where do we look? Joy gripped the arm of the Barcalounger, the seat and back permanently molded with Daddy’s form, and lifted, glancing underneath.

  Luke pressed along the wall, stomping his foot. Joy snorted.

  “What?”

  “We’re insane, that’s what.” Joy stomped on the boards under her feet. “Daddy’s looking down from heaven right now going, ‘Cold, cold, brrr, you’re getting colder, oh my, you’re in polar bear country now.’”

  “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

  Joy dug through the desk and checked for secret panels while Luke shook the cookbooks and knocked on the shelves.

  The heat of the room soaked Joy’s skin as she rifled through the old blue chest in the corner. “Come on, room. Give up Daddy’s cookbook.” The quest became about more than recipes for the show.

  On her hands and knees, she knocked on the floorboards along the wall, waiting for the hollow echo reply.

  “Luke, do you hide your recipes?” Joy sat back on her heels, wiped the moisture from her brow. “Of course not, you’re giving them to the show.”

  “Well, not all of them.” Luke stooped over into the alcove. “I’m keeping some to myself, waiting for a special show or my own cookbook. Don’t nominate me for sainthood yet. Restaurant chefs can be very proprietary, especially in big cities. Since we can’t copyright the work we slave over to perfect, we just don’t share. What’s behind this little door?”