One Winter’s Day: A feel-good winter romance

by Laura Briggs

  “Sounds like you need someone in your corner,” said Ama sympathetically. “You don’t have to choose anything you don’t want. Honestly, Tessa is the best when it comes to dancing around difficult relatives. She’ll make your moms believe it was their idea to pick exactly what you want, if it comes to that.”

  “But it shouldn’t come to that,” sighed Nadia. “I want Lyle to step up and tell me that he agrees with me. Or say he disagrees with me. I want him to tell his mom not to be so aggressive, and help me ignore mine when she’s giving me way too much grief. Is there anything really wrong with wanting a snowflake princess wedding?”

  “So long as you’re not an ice queen, no,” said Ama with a joking little smile. Nadia laughed.

  “Thanks,” she said. “If I could only hear those words from Lyle, then I could tell myself that everything really will be okay for our big day.” She pushed aside the pictures of the ice swan fruit bowl and the icicle garlands, as if her problem could be pushed aside with them. But it was evident from the look on Nadia’s face that the solution wasn’t so simple. Ama felt a tiny bit worried, as if it was somehow possible that the silly jinx or curse plaguing them was now going to strike the wedding couple themselves. But it was just silly superstition to think anything like that. Right?

  Ama sat on the bench at the metro train station, feeling the cool breeze against her cheek, and smelling the spices from her new apple and pear turnovers and the gulab jamun with its sugar syrup dusted with fresh-grated cinnamon. A sample of Western and Eastern treats for Luke, so he could taste both sides of her cultural skills. She had wanted to bring him some of her spice cookies and her double chocolate biscotti, but her brother Nikil had gobbled up most of them when he dropped off this week’s meat delivery.

  Nearby, a trio of musicians was playing an upbeat, jazzy ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ for change as passengers disembarked from the west-end train carrying shopping bags and backpacks. With a smile, Ama flipped a few quarters into their guitarist’s open case as she rose and stepped closer to the platform, scanning the faces of the disembarking passengers. Ama’s phone trilled to life, her sister-in-law’s number on its screen when she pulled it from her coat pocket.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Are you still waiting?” asked Deena.

  “I am.” Ama glanced around. “He said he’d meet me here at one, as soon as he closed his shop. Ten minutes to go, I guess.”

  “Relax. Everybody thinks you’re at the movies. I dropped a hint that you’re seeing that film you and I saw at the mall last weekend. Perfect cover, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t want to lie, Deena.”

  “You’re not lying. I’m lying for you. It’s a totally different thing.” There was a rustling noise on the other end, the sound of Deena’s sari brushing against the rack holding the restaurant’s laminated menus. “You just said you were going out for the day. And you know what your family would say if they knew you were meeting a total stranger for a dessert date.”

  “It’s not a date,” said Ama. “He said he wanted to try some baked goods, and I’m supplying them.”

  “Yeah, and you are in no way interested in him,” replied her sister-in-law sarcastically. “So, do you want me to tell your parents where you really are?”

  “What? No. Of course not.” Pinched, Ama retreated to the truth. Imagine if Ranjit or Pashma found out—with her father still basking in triumph over her less-than-perfect date. “I have to go. Bye, Deena.” She hung up, seeing the latest passenger approach the train, one who looked familiar even in a crowd. Wool coat flapping carelessly in the breeze, an old scarf and hat that had seen better days covering part of his dark, rumpled hair.

  Handsome. Definitely rugged, without question. Even sexy wouldn’t be a stretch, despite the absence of the leather jacket and the sleek motorcycle he’d straddled in the market that first time she had seen him. Yet it wasn’t his looks alone, but something about him as a person that tugged her in his direction without her feet even moving, as if the mere sight of his countenance, the slightest facial expression betraying emotion or observation on his part, had some kind of magic power.

  Her heart was beating fast just watching him walk through the crowd. It was impossible for her to believe, but it actually skipped a beat at the mere suggestion he was glancing her way now. Just like in all the romance novels and movies, she thought.

  When Luke saw her, a smile broke across his face. He paused to let a woman push a stroller by, then joined Ama.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked. “Cupcakes? A slice of leftover wedding cake?” He took it from her and peeked inside. “Smells good.”

  “It’s a little sampler of my best baking from this week,” she answered. “I thought maybe you’d like to try some of my pastry work and a little something from my culture, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “It looks delicious. What do I owe you, by the way?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just my way of saying thanks for the ride last week.”

  He glanced toward the train. “Up for lunch?” he said. “My way of thanking you for the pastries.” He held up the sack. “I know a great little stand that makes tacos and hotdogs on the far side of town, about twenty minutes from here. Any chance you’d like to try either or both?”

  “Love to,” she said. “I’m up for anything.”

  Ama liked trains, the way they rumbled and swayed whenever the rails met a rough patch, or slowed to reach the platform. Even when they were crowded—and the passengers a little weird or a little smelly—she still liked the atmosphere. People going someplace, people going no place, all lost in their own thoughts or stories. Even today, the middle of the afternoon, when the crowd riding to the end of town was sparse and even the window seats were vacant, she felt the same.

  Today, however, she wasn’t lost in her own head. Seated beside Luke, she had something to occupy her for a change, besides her own thoughts. He confessed that he liked the atmosphere of travel, too, so they made up stories about the only other passengers in their car, an elderly Asian man listening to music through an old Walkman’s headphones, and a young man holding a skinny mixed-breed dog on his lap, which looked happy to be breaking the transit rules.

  “It’s a seeing eye dog,” said Luke.

  “It’s too small,” Ama protested.

  “It’s a travel-size one,” he said. They both laughed. The young man with the dog was too busy looking out the window as he talked on his phone, but the old man turned his head despite whatever music he was listening to. Luke was trying her fruit turnover now.

  “Mmm. That is heaven,” he said. “You know your way around a pastry.”

  “You’re just being nice,” said Ama.

  “Trust me. I know pastry. I used to live next door to a baker, remember? I grew up beside a French patisserie. This is way better than the petit choux I used to eat for free.”

  “Thanks,” said Ama. “I try. I’m basically learning from a book I borrowed from the library, one all about classic pastry techniques. These were my first turnovers… well, not counting the batch that was a little soggy.”

  “What’s the name of this dessert?” He opened the gulab jamun and tasted one of the dough balls. “It looked like petit choux until I tasted it. It’s heavier… sweeter…” He licked his fingers. “That’s really sweet. It’s really good, actually.”

  “It’s an Indian dessert—only with a little American twist on it that I added,” said Ama. “Cinnamon, nutmeg, and crushed roasted walnuts. It’s my family’s favorite—a lot of Punjabi desserts tend to be sweeter than other Indian recipes. They’re among the most famous in Indian cuisine, though Rajasthani cooking can be pretty rich in some regions.”

  “You’re Punjabi?”

  “My father is. But we live in a neighborhood with Indian families from several different Indian states. Among a few other ethnicities whom we pretty much outnumber, on our side of the street, anyway.”


  “I owe you a little apology,” said Luke. “I don’t know much about India. I once had a friend who was Indonesian, but I’m definitely sure that’s not the same. You’ll have to educate me, since I don’t know the difference between your culture and the next one.”

  “It’s okay,” said Ama. “I have to admit that I don’t know that much about it, either.” She felt a twinge of regret as she said this out loud, though. Her family’s heritage was a part of her life in so many different ways it seemed strange to her that she didn’t know more about it by now. Perhaps if she did, it would give her a deeper appreciation for that side of herself and for the people she was closest to in her life.

  “You must be second generation, right?” said Luke.

  “How’d you know?” she answered.

  “It was a guess. Something in your voice when you talk about your family. Maybe it’s intuition,” he said. “But you said you don’t know much about your country? Even from your parents?”

  “I know a lot about their cultures, sure. Their recipes, their families, some of the traditions that are important to them,” she said. “But other things? Geography, plants, day-to-day life and catch phrases—I’m totally clueless. I can barely speak Punjabi anymore.” What had been easy when she was little had gradually slipped away: in high school, Ama had rebelled against her parents’ wishes by speaking only English. Fairly mild as far as defiant teenage behavior goes, but not something Ama was proud of, especially knowing how much it had disappointed them.

  “I can speak a little French,” said Luke. “Not much, but some.”

  “Cool,” said Ama.

  “Ma petite amore,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “‘My little love,’” he said. “Not exactly impressive, is it?” He smiled. “Let’s just say it doesn’t come in handy very often. Not with motorcycle customers.” He popped another of the sticky dough balls into his mouth.

  Ama settled back against her seat. The scenery flew by, the ghost reflection of the girl in the window smiling back at her, in Ama’s knitted multicolor cap.

  “What are you looking at?” Luke asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just like to watch the world go by sometimes. It’s amazing how fast things travel. The blur… it’s like something from a museum painting.”

  “The world looks like that from the back of a motorcycle,” said Luke. “I took a ride when I was ten with my best friend’s father. I used to dream about it afterwards. I kept this little die-cast motorcycle on my night table, and would look at it every night, imagining taking another ride. With me driving.” He gave a faint smile after this remark. “It was a while before it came true, but I couldn’t wait.” He looked at Ama. “Did you ever have a dream like that?”

  It was Ama’s smile that became wistful now. “About baking,” she said.

  “Owning one?” he guessed. “A bakery, I mean.”

  “Baking,” she said. “Period. The moment I opened up a book on desserts, I found what I loved most in life. I guess I started dreaming about bundt pans and cupcake foil and French rolling pins after that. Kind of like the way you dreamed about motorcycles.”

  “Did anybody have the heart to buy you an Easy-Bake Oven?” he asked.

  Ama laughed. “Nobody,” she said. “I was grown up enough for a real one when I figured out I loved it, though. So no big loss.”

  Luke tasted the last of the sticky syrup on his fingers. “You should open your own bakery,” he said. “I could really taste the love for your work in those pastries. It’s like the… I don’t know… the nectar of human happiness is part of its ingredients.”

  “The nectar of human happiness?” said Ama. “No one’s ever described my baked goods that way before.”

  “I always wanted to be a poet,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “It would make up for having no real musical talent.”

  “Do you write poetry?” she asked.

  “Sometimes. I jot things down on old napkins and stuff. Probably nothing great, but who knows? Maybe there’s a gift for words buried somewhere inside me. I’ve always wanted to find a way to express things that sound stupid when said out loud.”

  “I can’t imagine you sounding stupid,” said Ama, shaking her head.

  “Plenty of dumb things come out of my mouth,” answered Luke. “There are plenty of things I want to come out that don’t make it. The story of the human experience, right?” He wadded up his napkin and tucked it in his coat pocket.

  Ama was having a hard time imagining anything like that from Luke, although it was true of everybody on the planet. He was having no trouble with words around her that she could sense. But could he say anything to me that wasn’t utterly rude or inappropriate and I wouldn’t find it amazing?

  “I can’t write a poem to save my life,” said Ama. “I would have flunked all my composition assignments if my sister hadn’t helped me with outlines and suggestions. Words aren’t really one of my gifts.”

  “You speak to people through food,” pointed out Luke. “You don’t need words. Communication through flour, sugar, yeast… it’s one of the most ancient forms of dialogue besides hand signals.” He made a series of mime gestures, being careful not to drop the paper sack of dessert at the same time.

  “I think you’re better at words than primitive communication,” Ama said with a smile.

  “That’s why I wish I were a poet. I would’ve been happy being a violinist or something too, I reckon, but it turns out my fingers are only good at installing spark plugs and spot-welding metal. My mom paid for lessons once, but I was a failure.”

  “I was learning to play the sarangi once,” said Ama, remembering.

  “What’s that?”

  “An Indian instrument. It’s sort of like a cello, but it has this really unique range of sounds,” she said. “My aunt plays one, and she tried to teach me a few songs. I’m really bad at it.”

  “What were you born to do besides cook?” he asked. “Not that there’s anything wrong with living solely for baked goods. But I think everybody craves pieces of other experiences.”

  “I didn’t even crave to be a baker at first,” said Ama. “I didn’t have a lot of practical dreams as a kid. I think I was always dreaming of things that were impractical—or larger than life, sometimes. Needless to say, I didn’t get that many of them, except maybe a trip or two to the seashore. A trip to Mexico once.” Sand and shells there, too, but also excellent pastries that melted in Ama’s mouth, so that the smell of cinnamon brought her back to that celebration in the town plaza where she had bought an insanely colored shoulder bag and lost twenty dollars to a pickpocket.

  “Dreaming of the beach isn’t silly,” said Luke.

  “I dream of other things, too,” Ama said. “I like the idea of traveling. I want to eat pastries at a real Parisian patisserie someday. I want to make incredible wedding cakes that take people’s breath away. I make cakes now, but… do you ever have that perfect design that you want to make real? You really want someone to share in how special it is, as more than just a picture you sketched.” She tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear as she tried to explain it. It eluded words, like the thoughts and feelings Luke wanted to put into poems.

  “Every so often, yeah,” he said. “A very cool sketch I want to see painted on a bike somewhere out on the road, making its way down Route 66 or taking the open road to no place in particular.”

  “You make life sound pretty adventurous,” said Ama. “Like it’s waiting to happen around any corner.”

  “Lives are probably more like scrapbooks, collecting up all the things we do,” said Luke. “There are more small things than big ones. That’s how we fill up drawers and boxes, with candy wrappers from fairs, or coasters from restaurants.”

  “I have a coaster from a restaurant in Mexico in my wall collage at home,” said Ama. Coincidence that he made this comparison? I think not.

  “You prove my point, see?” said Luke.


  “Fate did,” she said. “Or the universe. Not me personally.” But she bumped lightly against him at the same time. There were the sleeves of wool coats between them, but the feel of his arm was reassuringly real and solid. This was an adventure, this day out with Luke, she thought, if the feelings inside her were any indication. But an adventure that was more like a secret spy mission, with her cell phone switched off and Deena covering for her with the story about the movie, she remembered guiltily.

  Luke settled more comfortably beside her, stretching one arm across the back of the seats. It wasn’t touching her, but Ama imagined it settling around her, its fingers resting on her skin. The casual stretch and embrace—she had imagined it plenty of times when watching late-night movies with her mother and auntie, the old coming-of-age romance stories in which onscreen lovers shared their first moment of attraction.

  Of course, she and Luke didn’t have a pair of aunties watching them right now, or have to answer questions on suitable prospects, or worry about the first impression they were making on a whole family. And Ama was basking in the freedom of knowing that this moment, this afternoon, belonged to nobody but her and Luke. It was all hers, and it could be whatever and however she wanted it to be.

  “So what do you know about modern Indian art?” asked Luke.

  Ama smiled. “Nothing at all,” she answered.

  They arrived at the taco stand, where the food proved delicious. The little vendor’s cart was near the waterfront, its sides decorated with paintings of tomatoes, sombreros, and dancing peppers. Ama tried one topped with pico de gallo and sliced jalapeños, then a chicken one with chipotle sauce.

  “I love this one,” she said, licking her fingers. “It makes me think of this bread I want to try. It involves chipotle, cheddar, onions, and this tomato paste sauce… anyway, it sounded delicious.” She polished off the rest of her taco in two bites.

  “Bread sounds like your favorite food, when you talk about it like that,” he said.