How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  Because I can write that check if I lose this bet fair and square and after giving it my best shot. But I know I wouldn’t be able to honor her memory with less than my best effort. So I have to keep plugging away. I have to have drinks with Milo and find more social activities, and I have to figure out how to write a cookbook proposal that at least fakes a belief that I have something of value to add to that oversaturated marketplace.

  And if I’m going to do all of that? I’m going to need chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.

  Since tomorrow is my free night, I figure I will swing by Teresa’s and visit, and as I recall, she always loved chocolate too. So tonight? I’m going to do a final test of my triple-chocolate chewies, dark chocolate cookies with white and milk chocolate chips, one of the recipes I’m thinking of including in the proposal, and I just want to make them one more time to be sure they are perfect.

  “C’mon, girl. Come keep Mama company while she makes some cookies for Teresa.” Simca and I both haul our carcasses off the sofa and head for the kitchen, where nothing is confusing and everything is safe and I know with total certainty who I am and what I am supposed to do.

  Eleven

  What time tonight?” Lynne asks when I put the phone on speaker so I can keep working. I’m just crimping the top crust over a mound of apples on the second pie.

  “Six thirty for cocktails. We’ll probably sit down for dinner around seven thirty.”

  “And you’re sure I can’t bring anything?”

  “Lynne, you are a horrible cook. Besides, between my prep, and my mom and Aunt Claire baking and filling in with the old family favorites, we already have enough food for a dozen people and there are only the four of us!”

  “Sounds more like a coven meeting than Thanksgiving,” Lynne says. I had been surprised to discover while we were visiting Teresa over the weekend that Lynne didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving. Both of Lynne’s folks are gone, and while she has open invitations from her aunts, she says that Christmas with them and the extended family is plenty of quality family time and that Thanksgiving would just be too much. Teresa and her brood go to Gio’s sister’s house, and she immediately invited Lynne to join, but I saw the panicked look on Lynne’s face and jumped in to cajole her to join me and my mom and Aunt Claire. She accepted gratefully.

  “Yes, it does at that. But it is a nice quiet dinner, and we’ll all get ample leftovers.”

  “Wine at least?”

  “That you can do.” Lynne keeps a very well-stocked wine fridge and has impeccable taste.

  “Okay, just one more thing . . . A friend of mine from California just got an extended consulting job here, doesn’t know anyone, thought I’d give him your number . . .”

  “Yeah, I think your matchmaking days are over. I can’t believe you’d even suggest it after the Milo debacle!”

  “He still feels terrible,” Lynne says, snorting.

  “As well he should!” Milo did, indeed, text me a picture as he said he would. But it wasn’t of his face. I was shocked. Then I was disgusted. Then I quickly replied to cancel the date.

  “It was an accident, he just clicked the wrong picture,” Lynne says.

  “Okay, the mere fact that such a thing is even possible completely squicks me out. You get that, right?”

  “Completely. But at least he wasn’t trying to send you a dick pic on purpose.”

  “Oh, yeah, that makes it so much better. No more fix-ups from you for now; lady, you are on probation.”

  “Well, at least he didn’t take you on a date to his mother’s house.” Lynne is really laughing now.

  Sigh. Cousin Joey’s friend Angelo called shortly after the Milo incident and was so respectful and sweet that I agreed to a date. And he did indeed take me to dinner at his mother’s house. It felt like an arranged marriage. It was the most awkward evening possible, with Angelo and I trying to get to know each other while his mother kept shoveling more masses of gummy, congealed lasagna onto our plates. Teresa was almost as mortified as Lynne was about the pornographic accident, and apparently Cousin Joey got quite the piece of her mind.

  “Yeah, both of you are on the no-fly list for fix-ups. I’ll see you tonight.”

  This doesn’t bother me in the least, because Shawn and I have had five more dates in the past two weeks, and it just keeps getting better and better. He took me for steaks at Boeufhaus, followed by ice cream sundaes at Margie’s. The next morning I met him for the swimming workout class and I was stunned at the sheer glory of his body, his muscles beautifully defined under smooth skin, with just the tiniest bit of softness over his abs keeping him at least a bit human. And, despite my concern about the form my own form is in, my new Miraclesuit bathing suit with a zillion internal panels kept everything reasonably locked down and Shawn’s gaze was all I needed to let the self-consciousness melt away. He looked at me the way I look at chocolate cake.

  Our mutual competitive natures kicked in as soon as the class started, both of us working hard, encouraging each other, and pushing ourselves to the limit. Showered and changed, we had a hearty breakfast at the club café before heading to work, and Shawn, as I had hoped, asked me out for that Saturday night. We went to dinner and a movie, and made out like teenagers. We both had busy schedules last week—I had to begin Thanksgiving prep and spend some time keeping Teresa company while her sisters-in-law went through her house like cleaning machines, but we talked on the phone every day. We went to a play Friday night and on Sunday we had brunch and walked the 606 trail.

  Today he is with his family, but he is coming to my house later tonight for a nightcap after we are both done with family obligations. Which has me all freaked out, since I’m pretty sure tonight is the night we are likely to actually fully consummate this relationship. Because I like him. I really like him. And I trust him. He has been such a gentleman, has taken the physical part of our relationship so gently and slowly, that now, instead of being nervous about going to bed with him, I’m beyond ready, I’m eager. I haven’t been eager since Bernard. And it is that very eagerness that scares me most.

  I still haven’t told anyone about him. I mean, Lawrence knows, and has been wonderful about not prying. He is glad we connected and doesn’t push for information. Teresa and Lynne know I’m generically “dating,” obviously, for the bet. I send them pics of movie and theater tickets and menus at restaurants so that I get credit, but all they know is that Lawrence is doing a good job of fixing me up. I haven’t mentioned any of it to my mom or Aunt Claire. I’ve convinced myself that until Shawn and I are sleeping together it isn’t a real thing, so I don’t have to fess up to anyone about him. I don’t know why I’m still so skittish about telling them I’ve met someone who has real potential, but I think in some ways I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Or waiting for the sex to be bad.

  I was never really the sexiest girl, never felt that comfortable with any of it, honestly. My high school, college, and culinary school dating was fine, but never really earthshaking. I never understood how people got all insane when it came to sex; when I was getting it I enjoyed myself, but when I wasn’t, it never really bothered me all that much.

  Until Bernard. Sex with Bernard was incredible, intoxicating, and likely the reason I was so blind as to who he really was. It was boundary shattering. Soul opening. I had no idea that two bodies could create that much intense pleasure. It was like I’d been eating basic roast chicken my whole life, sometimes dry and kind of unsatisfying, sometimes juicy and delicious, but never something that was much more than simple sustenance. Bernard was roasted duck. Skin crisp and crackling and fatty, meat succulent and the slightest bit gamy and exotic—everything that chicken, while the same general shape, isn’t and never can be. I got addicted to him, to his touch, to the taste of him, to the feel of his body against mine, to the way he filled me up. He could just look at me a certain way across the room and
my knees would go weak. He could whisper something in my ear on his way through the kitchen, and I would have to excuse myself to the bathroom to furtively give myself relief before I could continue to function. It was the most centered I ever felt in my body, aware of every nerve ending, every inch of my skin alive and craving his touch. And with that intense physical connection came the emotional one, as if breaking open that sexual barrier also broke open every secret chamber of my heart and soul, and I let him know me the way no one has ever known me, every deep dark scary part of me, and it was safe and I loved him and I believed it was forever.

  I’ve convinced everyone, including myself, that sex isn’t important to me. That relationships aren’t important to me. But the truth is, I can’t imagine myself being with anyone for any length of time who makes me feel any less than Bernard did, and at the same time, I can’t imagine ever letting anyone else in that deep again. Because when they go away, if they go away, that wound is too big to heal fully. I’ve had plenty of injuries in my life, and usually, with proper care and time, it’s like they never happened. But the damage Bernard caused was apocalyptic. The scars are numerous and varied and I keep finding them in the oddest places. They are still tender when pressed. Why haven’t I dated? Because the only thing that scares me more than never feeling what I had with Bernard is the idea that I might indeed find that again.

  So now I’m prepping Thanksgiving and keeping focused on a wonderful meal for the Farbers and then repeating a wonderful meal for my mom and Aunt Claire and Lynne, all the while trying to deal with the duality of being excited to see Shawn tonight, and nervous about what might happen. At least for the moment, it’s quiet and I’m just concentrating on crimping a piecrust as attractively as I can manage.

  Shelby and Brad and the kids are all at a local senior facility, serving Thanksgiving brunch to the residents who don’t have family to visit them. It’s the perfect thing to keep the kids aware of how important giving back is, especially during the holidays, and it keeps them all out of my hair so that I can get their dinner organized. Ian has been helping all week, and he is a more-than-competent sous chef, but to be honest, I really like the solitude of doing this work alone. It’s my twentieth Thanksgiving, I realized earlier this week. I’ve officially been making this meal more than half my life, having taken it off my grateful mother’s hands my first year home from college. I’d been missing having access to a kitchen, and came home from my first semester of dorm life ready to cook anything and everything. My mom, always a very good if not particularly passionate cook, was delighted to hand over the reins and we never looked back. Even in France, if I couldn’t get home for the holiday, I always made as full a Thanksgiving dinner as possible for local friends and ex-pats.

  I brush the tops of the two apple pies with an egg wash and sprinkle the tops with coarse raw sugar crystals and slide them into the oven. I set the timer, then check my list. The turkey is in, slowly burnishing to a golden brown. The stuffing and sweet potatoes are in their casserole dishes, ready to be reheated while the turkey is resting. The mashed potatoes are in one of the slow cookers, where they can reheat gently on low without collapsing. Green beans are prepped in the steamer; the dough for the rolls is in its second rise. Shelby set the table in the formal dining room, and Geneva and Darcy helped with decoration, and it is a lively riot of autumn leaves and gourds and cut-out crayoned turkeys. In the very center, an ancient wicker cornucopia, with real fruit spilling out onto the table. Everyone has a mini pumpkin with their name written on it to mark their places. They’ll have their dinner at three, and then go to a movie, whatever animated movie has been released for the holiday weekend, and then come home for turkey sandwiches and cold stuffing and a night of board games.

  I’m just pulling the pies out of the oven to cool on a rack in the butler’s pantry when I hear the cacophony of Farbers coming in the front door. I smile, listening to the joyous noise of them. When I was growing up, our house, while no less loving, was a quiet place, just the three of us. We laughed long and loud, to be sure, but it was still the difference of a small chamber ensemble versus a full symphony.

  “Ellllooooiiiise!!!” Geneva comes flying into the kitchen, her long chestnut curls a banner behind her, slamming her tiny body into me with the force of a miniature tank.

  “Ooof. Hello, sweet girl. How was your morning?” I say, reaching down to pull her up into my arms and receive the loving kiss on my cheek and the tight little arms around my neck.

  “It was great, Eloise! I gave them a show! I danced and sang and made everyone happy!”

  “Boy, did she.” Brad comes in and peels her out of my arms, dropping her unceremoniously onto her feet; she sprints off as soon as she touches the ground. “Happy Thanksgiving, Eloise.” He kisses my cheek in the same spot as his rambunctious and affectionate daughter. “Smells amazing in here. Anything I can do to be helpful?” he says, grinning, as he snakes his hand out toward the casserole of stuffing. I swat at it and put on my angry grandmother tone.

  “You leave that stuffing alone, Bradley Farber.” My falsely stern tone makes him sheepish.

  “Okay, Mama Bear. I’ll wait.” He wanders to the cookie jar, retrieving one of the almond apricot biscotti I filled it with yesterday.

  “Brad, seriously? Dinner is in less than an hour and a half, and you already ate your weight in cookies this morning. Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Shelby says to him, laughing. Brad has a hollow leg. I have no idea where he puts it, but his hunger is constant. I’d kill for his metabolism. Doesn’t matter how much he eats, how active he is or isn’t, he stays the same weight. Not thin like Shelby, but never more than the littlest bit poochy in the middle.

  “Hey, Chef, I’m ready for work!” Ian says, heading straight to the sink to scrub his hands in the simple, unconscious habit of a real chef.

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve got a list for you.” I made Ian his very own time and action plan. He is going to be in charge of some of the last-minute stuff, making the gravy, for starters, as well as turkey carving, which we’ve been practicing on chickens for the last few weeks. Shelby has requested a brief poultry moratorium for the foreseeable future as a result, but the kid is great with the knife and I have total faith that he will get the bird to the table in good form.

  Ian and I go over the details, and then I have him grab the rest of his siblings for roll time. Every year we do this together, the kids and me, shaping the soft yeast dough into rolls. The kids each get their own sheet pan and lump of dough, and they can make whatever shapes they like and top them with anything from sesame seeds to toasted pumpkin seeds to little bits of onion. I’ve got their trays all set up on the kitchen table, along with individual bowls of egg wash, and the center of the table has bowls of possible toppings. It’s always been my little parting gift to Shelby and Brad: I keep the kids fairly well occupied for about a half hour so that the two of them can sit and have a glass of wine and some peace after their hectic morning before I leave them to a weekend full of activity.

  “Hey, El,” Robbie says, Geneva pulling his arm practically out of his socket. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, happy Thanksgiving, Eloise,” Darcy says.

  I pull the soft, pillowy dough out of the warming drawer where it was proofing and cut it into four equal portions. I’ll help Geneva with hers while the rest work on theirs. We cut and shape the dough, each pan reflecting the maker. Darcy’s are all fanciful, intricately braided designs with meticulous application of toppings. Robbie’s are rustic, essentially just random lumps of dough, indifferently egg-washed, and sprinkled with whatever toppings are nearest to hand. Ian’s are perfect and chefly, rolled under his small hands to identical taut spheres, the toppings blended for flavor: fennel seed and onion; poppy seed and lemon zest; pumpkin seed and Espelette pepper. Geneva and I make flowers and butterflies and other artistic applications of dough, using the toppings like colors in a palette. We get the tray
s in the oven to bake, and Shelby sends the kids downstairs to play. Ian sets his phone with a timer to let him know when he needs to come upstairs to get his list started. I go over what is left to do with Shelby as I pack up one of the now-cooled apple pies into my pie carrier.

  “I can’t believe you have to go home and do this all over again,” Shelby says, shaking her head. “It must be exhausting.”

  “I love it. Besides, everything is pretty much prepped over at my mom’s house; most of it just needs reheating. I’ll put the turkey in as soon as I get there, and then we’ll relax and have cocktails till dinnertime.” It’s true—even our gravy is made ahead, since for my family I do Julia Child’s deconstructed turkey recipe, which cooks in pieces on top of the stuffing, so it cooks quickly and evenly and makes the stuffing dense and moist. But because of that, there are no pan juices, so I made the gravy earlier this week from some extra wings and the giblets. There is very little to do for tonight beyond reheating and carving the turkey once it is done.

  “Better you than me!” Shelby says. “But it does sound nice, a small quiet dinner. A nice long weekend.”

  Always funny how the grass is greener. I’m so envious of Shelby’s brood, of the long table set today for this family, including both Brad’s and Shelby’s folks, who will be coming in soon. Jealous of the potluck party they will have tomorrow with Brad’s sister and her family, and some close friends. A big house full of happy people eating well and sharing stories. And she envies my simple quiet dinner, and the rest of my weekend, which she and Brad always insist on my taking off, full of long days with no responsibilities.

  “Well, you should be all set for the weekend. I’ve got plenty of snacks and stuff laid in for you, Ian has a bunch of recipes for repurposing leftovers when you get sick of turkey sandwiches if he wants to play in the kitchen, and I’ve got all of Brad’s Sunday supplies in the second fridge.” Brad does a big breakfast for his family on Thanksgiving Sunday: eggs and pancakes and bacon and sausages and hash browns.