How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  “I think three plates is plenty!” Glenn laughs. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I saw some dessert in there, so I had better leave a sliver of room.”

  “You got me there.” I made a fallen chocolate soufflé cake filled with chocolate mousse. Mrs. O’Connor always talked about being married to a chocoholic: apparently Glenn believes that if it isn’t chocolate, it isn’t dessert. While he will happily eat any dessert placed in front of him, from fruit pies to vanilla ice cream, if there is no chocolate, he will literally stop on the way home for a Hershey bar or a drive-through chocolate milk shake.

  He stands, and the two of us clear the table. He moves in his kitchen like a man who is still finding his way, opening two or three different drawers or cabinets to find the Tupperware containers or plastic wrap. It breaks my heart a little bit.

  “Don’t look at me with those puppy eyes, you enormous goddess. I had no idea where anything was in this kitchen when Helene was alive. I cultivated very carefully my ignorance of where everything goes, as well as a complete inability to load a dishwasher the way she wanted, which kept me from having to do very much in the cleaning-up department. Frankly, I’m very tempted to load in a massive stash of paper and plastic and call it a day.”

  “Don’t get sassy with me, mister, you are perfectly capable of putting things away in your own home. Kitchens are only intuitive for one person at a time. Next time I come, you and I will reorganize so that things go where your intuition thinks they should go.”

  “Fine. If you insist on my self-sufficiency, you are going to have to get that dessert out sooner rather than later.”

  “Deal.” We pack up the rest of the stew and side dishes, and Glenn puts on a pot of coffee while I cut generous slices of the cake. We sit back down at the cozy little kitchen table and clink coffee mugs before digging into the cake, which is at once light and rich. We finish our plates in companionable silence, and sip the bitter coffee, his light and sweet and mine black.

  “So. How are you doing? What has been going on with you?” he asks.

  I think about this for a moment. “I’ve mostly been just cooking for my clients, spending time with my mom and aunt, nothing terribly exciting.” I pause, thinking about the bet. “And I’ve been reconnecting with Lynne and Teresa, you know, since . . .”

  “Since the memorial.”

  I nod.

  “It’s okay, you know. To talk about her, to talk about her absence. I sort of like it, in a way, how big the space is that she left. It would be so awful if she went away and left some minor hole, like a rock dropping into a pool of water. She was too monumental for that. What we have now is something of a crater. So we can celebrate that a bit, you and I, the enormity of the void.”

  I love him for thinking of it that way. “She was larger than life in life; it isn’t surprising that she remains so after.”

  “Exactly. And she would love that you girls rediscovered each other through her. She took special pride in your friendship, back in the day, in being a small part of that.”

  “She was a huge part of that. I don’t know if we would have ever found each other if not for that class.” The truth of this seems somehow shocking when I say it aloud. When I think about what we were to each other, what we might be becoming to each other again, for it all to rest on the tenuous thread of coincidence, of ending up in the same English class in high school, of Mrs. O’Connor deciding to organize the class by birthdate, of all of us being born the same week . . . it’s just all so flimsy.

  “I think the universe sends us the people we need. You would have found each other one way or another, but Helene always did like watching the three of you grow together. Maybe you can bring them by one night?”

  “Of course! I know they would love that.” But deep down, it lands weird, this request to bring in Lynne and Teresa. I wonder why I have to fake enthusiasm for this. Especially since my goal is anything that will make Glenn happy, and clearly he wants to see them.

  “Wonderful! That will be something to look forward to.”

  “Indeed. And my mom wanted to come by sometime, if you were up for that.”

  “Hmmm, let me see, filling the house with an endless string of smart, beautiful women? Well, I will suffer if I must . . .” His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.

  “Wicked man.” I chuckle. It is clear why Mrs. O’Connor loved him so much. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Your coming means the world, and your cooking is a gift from the gods. Why no restaurant? Helene and I both assumed you’d open one of your own after running that place in France. We were hoping to have a regular table!”

  “That is sweet, but I don’t have the mentality for restaurant work, not for the long haul. I know so many chefs who burn out, who eventually dread the kitchen. I love the work I do. I think because I started cooking for my friends and family, doing it as an act of love and nourishment . . .”

  “And comfort and healing,” he adds seriously.

  I nod. “And that. My job is as close as I can get to that feeling. Yes, I’m doing it for money, but I genuinely care about my clients and I feel a part of their lives. If I had a restaurant, I might know if it was someone’s birthday or anniversary, but I wouldn’t know what their favorite dish was, or what childhood memory I could cook up. This way, I can make a living doing what I love, and I feel like I’m making a difference in a really personal way.”

  “That makes a lot of sense. Being on the beneficiary side, I can tell you, you do make a difference.”

  “Thank you.” I pause, wanting to say the thing that has been lurking in the back of my mind all night. “Was she disappointed in me, do you think? Because I disappeared? Because I wasn’t here for her when she needed me?” There is a little lump in my throat, but I’m determined not to cry.

  “Oh, honey. Not in the least. You have to remember that with her career she had to be prepared to make connections that had time limits. Every year a new group of students, new faces in the teachers’ lounge. She loved you, and always said how special you were to her, but she knew that in the times you weren’t in touch, it wasn’t because you didn’t love her.”

  I lose hold of the tears in my eyes. Glenn reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I meant what I said. She didn’t want people to know, when she got sick; she didn’t want the attention. Trust me, if I had thought for one minute that having you around would have made things better, I would have been in touch myself.”

  “That makes me feel better.” And again I realize how unfair it is of me to make this about myself and my own guilt. “How are you doing, really?”

  “I’m okay. Good days and bad days. I joined a group down at the church, so that has been helpful. My buddies are good about making sure I have stuff to do, places to go. I’m thinking about doing some volunteering. The days can get a little long.”

  “My mom did that too. She does a great after-school program down at the Y a couple afternoons a week. She reads with kids, does arts and crafts, helps the older ones with homework. Parents who work can have a safe place for their kids to be between the end of school and the end of their workday, and parents who don’t can have a little break to run errands or get in a workout.”

  “That sounds like a great thing—do you think she would talk to me about it?”

  “Absolutely. They always need more people, especially since it runs five days a week. I’ll have her give you a call.”

  “Thank you. And I think I will take you up on that kitchen organization. I can never find the thing I need when I need it. Suppose I’m going to have to navigate those things a bit more proactively.”

  “How does Saturday look?”

  “Wide open.”

  “I’ll bring lunch.”

  “With brownies?”

  “Absolutely.”

  • • •

  When Simca and I get back fr
om our walk, I make a small pot of tea and settle in on the couch with my laptop. Simca hauls herself up next to me, snuggling her warm weight against my hip. I rub her head with my left hand while scrolling through e-mail with the other.

  From: MamaItalia2734@gmail.com

  To: LynneRLewiston@HampshirePR.com; ChefEloise@gmail.com

  Subject: Getting it done!

  Ladies,

  Find attached a photo of my nametag from my first volunteering effort. I spent the afternoon at the local senior center giving manicures to the ladies. It was a HOOT. Those old broads have some stories to tell, and apparently, the nookie opportunities are rampant over there. Let’s just say I used up a whole bottle of Jungle Red.

  How is everyone else doing with their projects?

  Also, I’m getting us tickets to the special showing of The Breakfast Club at Webster Place for the 24th, so save the date for movie night!

  T

  Lynne has already replied.

  Nice job! I had a meeting with my new Realtors over at Coldwell Banker. We are going to start looking at properties this weekend. I’m for the movie for sure. El? What do you have for us?

  LL

  I hit reply all.

  Well, I have officially told my client Lawrence that I am available for fix-ups, so he promises that I will have horrible dating stories to regale you with very soon. And I’m going to tour Midtown Athletic after work tomorrow to see if maybe they have some options for me.

  In other news, I had dinner tonight with Glenn O’Connor and he requested that we set a date for you guys to come with me, so let’s look at calendars and find a night to go keep him company.

  Count me in on the movie.

  XOE

  Then I shoot a quick e-mail to Marcy.

  To: MarcyBakes@gmail.com

  Subject: Halloween

  Well, we have the theme . . . classic Chicago, whatever that means to us. And Lawrence has requested we be pretty girls, any ideas? The good news is he wants me to do street food, so let’s be sure whatever pretty girls we are going to be don’t require Spanx!

  XOE

  I start looking through my recipe files in search of some of my street food recipes, when my e-mail pings with Marcy’s reply.

  Easy. You be Daryl Hannah in Splash and I will be Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. Chicago girls, and their most famous classic roles. We can dress up like them in the two famous fancy restaurant scenes, which puts you in a flowy floral dress and me in cuffs and a dickey, neither of which requires Spanx, and both of us have to carry plastic lobsters. Done.

  M

  I love that little pixie. Now I just have to get a wig.

  And a flowy dress.

  Six

  I love Wednesdays. Wednesdays are blissfully quiet. The older kids are at school all day and they all have after-school programming. Geneva and Shelby have their weekly group. The four moms and their kids all met in a Mommy and Me class, and now they take every Wednesday afternoon for group playdates. They go to museums or to the zoo or to a pottery-painting place, something active and interesting. The house is peaceful, and all I have to do is cook. Since tomorrow I will only be here to coach Ian, I have to get them set for dinner tonight and tomorrow, as well as lunches and snacks to get them to Friday dinner.

  I set up my insane mise en place, all my prep work, as soon as I arrived this morning. I have a lot to do, but if I stay focused, I should get it all done and cleaned up and still be out by four when everyone starts getting home. For tonight, I’ve got a bacon-wrapped pork loin roast, which I will sear crispy, and then leave for them in a slow oven, so that it is hot but not overcooked when it is time for them to sit down to dinner. Sweet potato, pear, and parsnip gratin is the perfect foil for the pork, and a crunchy, simple salad of sliced celery, fennel, green apple, and shaved Parmesan, dressed in lemon juice and olive oil, will keep things from getting too heavy. I’m making lemon cream squares for dessert, a special thing for Darcy. I know she had a math test today that she was really anxious about. They are her favorite. I figure it will either be a reward or a comfort, and will let her know I was thinking of her.

  The work is easy, recipes that are second nature, the slicing and dicing and chopping. I’ve got this kitchen set up just the way I love it, everything in easy reach, plenty of prep bowls and containers and sheet pans for keeping it all organized. The night before, I make my time and action plan, what to do in what order to keep me working as efficiently as possible. While it all requires a certain amount of attention, it does allow for my brain to wander more than a little. Usually, it would be thinking of new recipes or techniques, wondering about how to take a dish that often requires a lot of last-minute attention and convert it to something that can be done in advance. But these past few weeks, since reconnecting with Lynne and Teresa, since the bet? My head is swirling with ideas that make me at once anxious and excited.

  I’ve always deep down wanted to do a cookbook, as it seems that most of my free time is spent developing recipes and imagining how the photographs would look, how people at home might cook my dishes for people they love. So the butterflies about having to actually pull a real proposal together are welcome and sort of joyous. To kill two birds with one stone, I’ve signed up for a drawing class, as my potential new nonfood hobby, thinking that maybe I could do some cool line drawings to incorporate into the cookbook, to elucidate the more complicated recipes. I loved to doodle and draw when I was a kid, and still fill any handy piece of paper with intricate scribbles when I am on the phone or bored. Marcy got me one of those adult coloring books—it has very elegant detailed graphics of profanities—and I like to work on them while I watch TV. I’m even glad about the new exercise program, since that will be good for me in the long run, even if I’m a little nervous to see how much I’ve really let myself go physically.

  But the dating. That is when those butterflies turn into pterodactyls, and those bitches have a temper. Sharing my Bernard story, or as much of it as I felt up to in the moment, with Lynne and Teresa, got my head in a bit of a swirl. My mom doesn’t know; it felt too unfair to dump it on her when I came back, with everything she had to manage with my dad’s illness. It would have only made her feel worse. Marcy knows, but we don’t ever speak of it. Even my conversations with her about it have always been mostly on the surface. She doesn’t know that he was the only man I’ve ever been in love with. She doesn’t know how badly he broke me. That deep down, where I don’t ever like to look, I don’t know if I even have it in me to ever let another man in, not that deep, not for real.

  Which is why I am so grateful for the quiet today. Because tonight?

  I have a goddamned date. And thinking about food, about feeding my Farbers, that is the only thing keeping me from total panic.

  I pull the chocolate chunk cookies out of the oven and slide them on a rack to cool, and I turn off the blackberry balsamic sauce I’ve made to top ice cream, to let it cool. I load the second dishwasher with the gear from this last round of cooking. The first one is already well through its cycle. I check my watch. It’s 1:45, so with the two-hour dishwasher cycle, I will be able to finish up here in plenty of time to get out the door before the hordes arrive. And to get home and figure out what on earth to wear. Thank God Marcy has the night off, so she can help me get ready. And since her cable is on the fritz for the umpteenth time, she’ll hang out with Simca at my place while I’m on my date, and be ready for a good debrief when I get home.

  Jack, my date, is a friend of Lawrence’s, recently divorced and an architectural photographer. He is forty-five, has two kids, and lives in Albany Park. We had a very pleasant phone call—he certainly sounds nice enough—and I agreed two days ago to meet him for drinks tonight at the Violet Hour. And promptly threw up.

  I never throw up. Ever. I once legitimately picked up E. coli in Mexico, and only found out because I had a bad enough case of the runs to call my doc, and she said she could no
t believe I was even standing, let alone not puking my guts out with the levels in my system. My stomach? Iron. Lined in Teflon. And kryptonite. But within forty seconds of agreeing to my first date in nearly a decade, I was hunched over the toilet like I’d been eating yesterday’s bargain-bin sushi dipped in raw chicken juice. Poor Simca didn’t know what to do, so she climbed up onto my back and sat between my shoulder blades chewing my ponytail and licking the back of my neck as I retched.

  I sit down to quickly write my note to the family:

  Hello, Team Farber! Hope you are hungry.

  For tonight, there is bacon-wrapped pork loin in the first oven. Take it out to rest at 5:30, and you can carve at 5:50. Ian, if you are feeling ambitious, reduce the pan juices, mash in the cloves of garlic, monter au beurre, and season to taste to make a pan sauce. There is a sweet potato gratin in the first warming drawer; should be ready to slice and serve. The celery fennel salad is in the white bowl in the fridge with the damp paper towels on top and the dressing is in the jar next to it. Take the bag of Parmesan shavings that are on top of the salad and sprinkle over before dressing.

  Lemon cream bars are in the fridge drawer in the butler’s pantry.

  Ian—tomorrow is going to be a dessert challenge, and there will be at least one or more savory ingredients in the box, so bone up on some creative nontraditional dessert ideas tonight.

  Happy eating!

  Big love,

  Eloise

  I finish wiping down all the counters just as the dishwasher pops open to indicate that it is finished. One of the many things I adore about these Miele units: they make everything easy, including knowing when your cycle is done. I pull open the door and quickly unload the dishwasher, putting everything back into its place. I gather up my stuff, shut down all the lights, and head out the back. It was a long day, and my feet and lower back can feel the time spent standing, despite the cushy gel mats they have on the floor. I should have just enough time for a hot bath before Marcy arrives, and I’m hoping it will soothe my nerves as well as my aches.