Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “Georgia, you said you and Glenn would come, and we’ve already told Paul to expect us all. It’s an easy train ride from Grand Central, and Dad will pick you up at the station in Dover Plains.”

  Now Georgia remembered. She had accepted the invite in the hopes that a yes to Millbrook would get her off the hook with Dorothy for the duration of her city stay. As general counsel of a small environmental nonprofit, Dorothy had been attending the summit for years. It ran for three days, and with her mother a mere cab ride away, this was three days too many.

  “Of course I didn’t forget,” said Georgia. “I’ll be there.”

  “What about Glenn?”

  “I mean we’ll be there.” Explaining Glenn’s absence would be easy, and she already knew what she’d say: working on an important case, couldn’t get away. Dorothy would be suitably impressed and wouldn’t ask more.

  She hung up the phone and went back to the couch. The Chubby Chippie was almost gone; conversations with her mother had a funny way of driving her to eat. If Grammy hadn’t been around during her childhood, she’d be big as a house. And without Grammy’s intervention, she might not have become a chef.

  At the tail end of Georgia’s college graduation dinner, a mediocre meal at the second-best restaurant in town, Grammy announced that she had something to say. Georgia closed her eyes, praying Grammy wasn’t about to reveal that she had some horrible, fatal disease. Instead, she said she’d set up a trust that would allow Georgia to go to any grad school she pleased, plus have a little something left over for a rainy day. The way Grammy saw it, Georgia would either get the money when Grammy was dead, her ashes sprinkled over Silver Lake, or while she was still kicking and could watch her enjoy it. A stunned Dorothy dropped her spoon into her lemon Pavlova, where it quickly sank into a cloud of meringue, while Hal launched into a fit of throat clearing.

  She’d paid for Dorothy’s schooling, Grammy explained, so of course she’d do it for Georgia—after all, she was practically her daughter. Sniffling a little, Georgia told her family exactly what she wanted to do: go to culinary school and become a chef. Grammy was pleased, Georgia’s parents—having just lost any influence they’d hoped to exert over her choice of grad school or career—dead silent.

  Top Hat’s final credits started rolling, and Georgia headed into the bathroom for a shower. A day in the country sounded grand; a day in the country with Dorothy and Hal, less so. But at least her uncle Paul was cool and could usually be relied on to pull some fairly impressive bottles from his wine cellar.

  She sloughed off the dead skin on her arms, legs, and back with a sea sponge and grainy body wash that smelled like mint. After, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her mouth fixed into a discerning o. Could everyone see those little hairs above her upper lip, or was it just the lighting? She searched the medicine cabinet for the facial mask Lo had given her, the one that erased pimples, though not, sadly, girlstaches. A pill canister rolled out from behind a tub of Glenn’s shaving foam and she picked it up from the sink. Affixed to the side was a yellow-and-black warning label: “Do not operate heavy machinery or drive a car after taking this medication. Do not drink alcohol with this medication.” She flipped the canister over in her hand. It was a well-known sleeping pill, prescribed to Glenn by his family doctor. Frowning, she shook the canister. A handful of pink pills rattled at the bottom, and she poured them into her palm. She paused for a second, then popped one in her mouth, swallowing it with a gulp of water from the sink. Just what the doctor ordered.

  A loose-jowled woman behind the ticket counter looked down through the drugstore reading glasses perched on her nose and exhaled heavily. “Yes?”

  “Dover Plains,” Georgia said. “Round-trip, please. Off-peak.”

  She turned around while her ticket printed and stared up at the domed, blue-green ceiling sky dotted with constellations that loomed over Grand Central. The balcony restaurants on either end of the massive hall were empty, and travelers took their time climbing the double staircases that would deliver them to the city streets. A group of teenagers wearing huge backpacks and knee-length shorts, despite the cool spring morning, met another, identically clad group at the clock in the center of the terminal. They exchanged hugs and grins, and a girl with two thick braids hanging down her chest pointed to the famous four-sided clock and said something that made them all laugh. Georgia paid for her ticket and headed down to the lower level to catch her train. The food court, a United Nations of culinary offerings, was bustling even on this sleepy Sunday morning, and she surveyed her options, settling on a very American coffee, banana muffin, and New York magazine.

  Despite logging nine hours of sleep (that little pink pill kept its promise), she felt the same jittery way she did after a triple espresso on an empty stomach. She boarded the train and turned into the first empty row available, planting herself next to the window and placing her handbag on the seat next to her. The last time she’d seen her parents was in Wellesley, when she and Glenn had broken the news of their engagement over Vietnamese takeout. They spent the night at the split-level ranch where she’d grown up, she and Glenn in her old room (where, despite her parents’ unspoken blessing, they couldn’t bring themselves to have sex), and had left the next morning after bacon and blueberry pancakes. Her parents stood at the end of the driveway and waved good-bye, their breath turning to smoke in the frosty morning air. Georgia turned for one last glimpse of her childhood and caught them kissing. They were always kissing.

  The navy blue Saab was parked at the curb, and Georgia spotted it as soon as she exited onto the platform. DOVER PLAINS the sign said. Her dad climbed out of the front seat and waved.

  “Georgia!” he shouted.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  Hal was tall and bearlike, burly but not fat. His hair was the color of strong black tea, with shiny silver-gray threads woven throughout. He wore beige pants, a windowpane-checked sport coat of muddy browns and greens, and thick-soled leather shoes. Tortoiseshell glasses framed his eyes. He would have looked at home with a pipe dangling from his mouth, a leatherbound volume of classic literature under his arm, and a knotty walking stick in his hand. It always surprised people to learn he was a physics professor since he had none of that mad-scientist aura that everyone believed all scientists should.

  They hugged, and Hal patted his daughter’s back a few times before climbing into the car. Georgia sat in the passenger seat, smoothing her swingy black dress underneath her and wishing she’d worn tights. It was colder than in the city.

  “So how are you, George?”

  “Great, Dad.”

  He turned to look at her. “You look great. Well rested. I guess this marriage business agrees with you.”

  “I’m not married yet.”

  “I know, but just in general. You look content.”

  Georgia didn’t say anything.

  Hal turned on the radio. “I can’t seem to find NPR.”

  “It’s probably Car Talk anyway. So, did Mom tell you about the review?”

  “Review?”

  “The restaurant? We should be getting a three-fork review. That’s really good.” She’d been through it before with her mother and couldn’t expect her father to know more than his wife about the Daily’s rating system or, for that matter, his daughter’s career.

  “That’s great, Georgia. We’ll have to come in for dinner sometime.”

  “Anytime. Are you coming to the city with Mom tomorrow?”

  “No, I have classes tomorrow afternoon. I’m just here for the night. Mom will take the train in tomorrow.” He turned to her. “Hey, I just realized, where’s that fiancé of yours?”

  “Oh, he’s working on a really important case. He’s sorry he couldn’t get away, but it’s sort of down-to-the-wire.” She looked down at her hands.

  “Really.” Hal kept his eyes on the road but stole a sideways glance at his daughter.

  The road grew steep and winding, and Hal hunched over the wheel, his hands firm
at ten and two. Georgia was relieved not to have to talk and concentrated on the scenery instead. Trees lining the road were starting to leaf, the grass shone green; the sleeping landscape was coming alive. In another week or so the majestic brick and shingled houses hiding out behind stone walls and tree perimeters would be camouflaged by leaves. They’d remain hidden through the summer and fall until the cycle began anew.

  “Here we are.” Hal pulled up to a wrought-iron gate flanked by stout brick columns. A call box stood on the left, and he punched a button, shouted his name, and the gates swung open. They drove through an allée of maples, past a pond where a small gazebo rested on a bank. A large stretch of wild grasses morphed into a manicured carpet of emerald green lawn, which sprawled uphill to a white Greek Revival with black shutters and stately columns. Behind the house, layers of smoky hilltops streaked the sky.

  “Wow,” said Georgia. “This place is even nicer than I remembered. Talk about Tara.” Gone With the Wind was another Grammy/Georgia favorite.

  “We’ll have to go for a walk on the grounds later.” Hal parked the car in the circular, brick-paved driveway, next to a fleet of Range Rovers.

  WINTERBERRY FARM a small sign announced. Outside the front door were six iron hitching posts from the days when people traveled by horse, which, luxury SUVs aside, didn’t feel all that long ago at Winterberry Farm. It wouldn’t have surprised Georgia to see a party on horseback hacking up the drive.

  “Come on around this way,” Hal said, leading Georgia to a staircase at the side of the house. When they reached the top, he stopped. “Georgia.”

  “Yes?” She turned and faced him.

  “Thanks for making the effort to come out and see us. It means a lot to me, and it means a lot to Mom, especially with the anniversary of Grammy’s death just around the corner. I know you have a lot going on with the wedding and with the, uh, review, and I’m glad you came.” Hal took off his glasses and cleared his throat.

  “Me too, Dad.” She squeezed his arm, touched by his sensitivity. Hal was a physicist of the old school; he’d devoted himself to a life filled with scientific data, backed up by still more data. This left little room for emotion, and what little he had seemed to be reserved for Dorothy. Her parents were like two teenagers in love, even after almost thirty-five years of marriage.

  “Georgia!” Her mother, a pin-thin woman wearing jade-green raw-silk pants, tapered at the ankle, and a matching Nehru-style jacket, walked to the door. Her pewter hair was flat and straight—so unlike Georgia’s and Grammy’s—stopping at her shoulder blades. A multicolored scarf twisted into a thick headband held it back, revealing a dramatic widow’s peak and an unlined forehead. Earrings of stacked wooden disks floated under her ears, and a matching necklace hung outside her jacket.

  “Hi, Mom,” said Georgia.

  “Come in,” Dorothy said, her arms opened wide in preparation for the trademark Gray family hug. Georgia complied with her own back pats, then followed her mother into the house.

  “We’re in the drawing room,” Dorothy said over her shoulder. “And where’s Glenn?”

  Georgia pretended not to hear her, feigning active interest in the party. Two dozen or so people filled the room, milling about with mimosas and other afternoon-appropriate drinks in their hands.

  A server stopped before Georgia. “Champagne or mimosa? Screwdriver or Bloody Mary?” He recited this without a smile.

  “Bloody Mary,” Georgia said. “Thanks.”

  The waiter returned with her drink, and Dorothy with Uncle Paul and his new fiancée, Holly, their hosts. They exchanged hellos and hugs, and Holly asked to see Georgia’s engagement ring, making her wish she’d got a manicure or at least filed her nails.

  “So, Georgia, where’s your fiancé hiding?” asked Paul.

  “Yes, Georgia, where is Glenn?” Dorothy asked.

  The pianist playing Gershwin tunes on the baby grand in the corner chose that moment to need new sheet music, and the room was suddenly quiet.

  “Um, he has an important case,” Georgia stuttered. “You know, he’s working. At the office. He couldn’t pull away. He’s really sorry.”

  “There’ll be other parties,” Paul said. “You’ll meet him before the wedding, Holly.”

  “Definitely,” said Georgia, wondering if he meant theirs or hers.

  “Your father tells us you met at Newport?” Holly said.

  “We worked together at the Yacht Club. We fell out of touch for years and ran into each other randomly in the city.” Georgia smiled sweetly, wondering what they’d think if they heard the uncensored version. She’d spotted Glenn at a dive-y East Village bar where he was ordering a round of shots for his pals and the girls they’d acquired for the evening. Ever the charmer even after multiple Cuervos, he ordered two sex-on-the-beach shooters, sent one Georgia’s way, and insisted he’d been searching for her since that fabled summer. She knew he was lying, but that didn’t stop her from going home with him.

  “Kismet,” said Holly. “You must be made for each other,” she added before gliding off to greet some guests.

  “It’s really too bad he couldn’t come,” Dorothy said. “We were looking forward to seeing him.”

  Georgia shrugged.

  “And unfortunately I’ll be so busy with the summit I doubt I’ll even be able to see him in New York.”

  “That is too bad.” Georgia bit off a piece of the celery stalk garnishing her drink. “But he’ll understand.”

  “How’s that Bloody Mary?” Dorothy asked.

  “Good,” Georgia said, looking around the oak-paneled, octagonal room. Rows of oil paintings grouped according to subject—some landscapes, mostly horses—lined the walls. The dark-wood furniture was upholstered in silk damasks and tonal stripes. None of it looked particularly sturdy or comfortable. Georgia watched as one of the guests, a heavy woman with a cane, heaved herself into a tiny slipper chair that looked as if it were designed for a child. The chair groaned slightly but stood fast on its own four feet.

  Dorothy summoned the waiter. “I’d like a Bloody Mary too, please.”

  “Are you sure, Mom?” Dorothy barely drank, and never anything stronger than chardonnay.

  “Why not? It isn’t every day I get to see my engaged daughter, minus her fiancé, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Georgia.

  The waiter brought the drink and Dorothy held it up. “To Glenn.”

  Hal walked over. “Are we toasting the affianced couple?”

  “Nope,” Georgia said. “Just Glenn.”

  “We can easily remedy that.” Hal raised his glass. “To our daughter, Georgia, and her imminent two-spoon review. Congratulations, Georgia.”

  Her mother knocked back a quarter of her drink. “This drink certainly packs a punch,” she said hoarsely.

  “And while we’re toasting, I’d like to raise a glass to your late grandmother,” Hal nodded at Georgia, “and my mother-in-law. A wonderful woman, fabulous grandmother, terrific baker, astute business owner, and a great friend.” His eyes grew shiny. “Things just haven’t been the same without you, Mary. We miss you.”

  “To Grammy.” Georgia sipped from her glass. “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year.”

  “I still wonder if the doctors couldn’t have done more,” Dorothy said. “At least she died doing something she loved.”

  Georgia stared at her mother. “No, she didn’t.” Grammy had suffered a massive stroke while practicing tai chi at her local Y. The ambulance whisked her away and meds were administered, but it was too late. Hours later she was dead. “She didn’t love tai chi. She only did it because she saw it on Oprah.”

  Watching a little television and sharing a homemade snack—usually a muffin, sometimes maple-walnut, sometimes banana-chocolate-chip—had been a Grammy/Georgia after-school tradition. With Grammy living around the corner and up the street from the Grays, and Dorothy and Hal working nonstop, Grammy was like a substitute mother and father rolled into one. It was Gr
ammy who taught Georgia how to play T-ball, who was “class grandma” of her second- and sixth-grade classes, who taught her the secret to a perfect soufflé.

  Before Dorothy could respond, a white-haired man and his much younger date approached her parents, and her father and the man exchanged a hearty handshake. The four of them were soon engaged in a spirited conversation about low-VOC house paints.

  Georgia smiled benignly at the back of her mother’s head, wondering how much longer she’d have to stay at her uncle’s party. In true high-WASP style, the hors d’oeuvres were limited to sandwiches—chicken, turkey, and roast beef—cut into triangles, and a lame cheese-and-cracker plate where a Vermont cheddar was the standout. She contemplated ordering a dirty martini just so she could nosh on the olives.

  “Let’s take a walk in the garden,” Hal said when the couple finally moved on.

  “Good idea,” Georgia agreed.

  “Let me refresh my drink,” said Dorothy, putting down her near empty glass and picking up a white wine from a tray. “And get my purse.”

  They walked through French doors onto a wide terrace surrounded by rhododendrons, hydrangeas, and other flowering shrubs, nowhere near blooming, but slowly awakening from their long winter slumber. Teak furniture, weathered to a silvery gray, was dressed for the season in snappy white-and-green stripes.

  “These shoes aren’t the best for walking,” Dorothy said, eyeing the plump cushions on the sofa. “How about we sit for a spell?”

  Her parents sank into the sofa, facing the rolling hills in the distance. Hal put his arm around Dorothy, and she rested her hand on his knee. Georgia pulled up an armchair next to them, and they sat in silence until a waiter balancing a tray of drinks walked through the doors. Each took a glass of wine, even Dorothy, whose glass was practically full. “In case he doesn’t come back,” she said to no one in particular. Another waiter appeared with a platter of chicken skewers, and Georgia and Hal each took one, gobbling them up immediately. Dorothy passed.

  “So,” Hal said, wiping his mouth with a cocktail napkin, “Paul just told me a funny story. Apparently this is where Timothy Leary did his acid tests.”