by Zoe Chant
Her mother sent her home with a bag of fried knishes, and the admonishment ringing in her ears, “Remember, if you put that recipe in that book, it can’t be under just ‘knish.’ It has to be Aunt Sophia’s Knish Recipe. No ‘Great’—she wouldn’t like you to make her sound too old.”
Duty done, and a new recipe to try on the group, Doris sank into her car, sighing with relief. She’d just started the engine when her phone rang with birdsong—the ringtone for Bird.
“Doris? I was hoping you might be free for lunch tomorrow,” Bird said. “Mikhail invited his friend Joey Hu, who told that wonderful Chinese myth at the workshop Friday. And I happened to remember that he collects recipes from the country villages in China. In fact, he’s got a whole setup at his house, where he cooks the way they did for centuries. You might be able to get a couple of recipes from him. Please say you’ll come.”
Doris hesitated. Why? It was inevitable they were going to meet, unless Doris became a total hermit. He’d barely spoken to her at the meeting—exactly the way she wanted, of course. She’d get over the whatever-it-was she kept feeling when she saw him.
“I’ll bring knishes,” she said. “Fresh-made just this afternoon.”
“Yum,” was Bird’s happy response. “I’ll have the oven preheated when you get here, so we can crisp them up again.”
The next morning, Doris stood in her bedroom in bra and panties, looking around the moat of clothes. Nothing was quite right.
This whole situation wasn’t right. She was used to thinking of herself as a brain floating in the air, her body a mere method of propulsion. Her clothing was chosen to be sturdy, practical, proper for her age. And that was that.
But it wasn’t just that, or why would her heart thunder in her ears at the mere idea of sitting at Bird’s table with Joey Hu? This was so much worse than the Phil the Philanderer fiasco.
She forced herself to look at that humiliating memory straight on: herself, pushing sixty, and deciding that it was time to find out what all the songs and poetry were about. Phil had been reasonably good-looking. Dressed well. She’d met him at the upscale wedding of a faculty colleague and he’d been full of compliments.
They’d gone out to dinner and the theater, and the compliments he showered on her were as pretty as the flowers he brought. So she’d decided to be brave and liberated, and invite him to be her plus one on a trip to Cancun that she’d been given as a prize after her high school theater class won a regional award. She hoped that in a romantic setting she’d finally be able to discover what romance was all about.
Two days before the trip, she went to pick up a donation of left-behind clothes from a beachside motel, to be dropped at the homeless shelter sponsored by her synagogue. And there in the motel parking lot she saw Phil, who was supposed to be consulting at a local firm, entering a room with his arm around another woman.
It left her with two equally depressing realizations: either romance was mere hype and shared delusion, or she had some vital part missing that everybody else in the world seemed to possess without even thinking about it.
She looked straight at her reflection and said, “I am a single woman on the verge of retirement. This is just a lunch with friends.”
She picked up the sensible gray slacks she wore for student field trips, and put on a sturdy top in a muted cream color. Ignoring her jewelry box, she chose a comfortable pair of walking shoes.
The thought struck her that if she hadn’t felt that whammy of whatever-it-was, she would actually like Joey. His comment about the pastry at the writers’ group had been the only one with any substance of the entire evening. Not that she blamed the others for their lack of culinary critiquing skills. It was not a cooking group, and most people approached food with little more than yum! or yuck! reactions. Whatever else might be true about Joey Hu, she was certain he appreciated food.
He was also a good storyteller, fitting the tale to the situation—not too long, vocabulary accessible to young and old. As a university professor, he easily had the highest degree in the room, but he hadn’t made any move toward lecturing or taking over the discussion. Whenever she’d snuck peeks at him, he was genuinely listening, rather than staring into space, as some members did when the pages being read didn’t catch their interest.
He clearly found everyone interesting, and that made him interesting. She could see why Bird and Mikhail—two very different people—both genuinely seemed to like him.
Why not just see if friendship might be possible?
Deciding that made it easier to pack the knishes and drive to Bird’s place on the coast, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Bird and Mikhail had bought a grand old house built along a cliff overlooking the sea. Mr. Kleiner, the former owner, was an elderly artist who still lived with them, a polite and somewhat vague figure, always nattily dressed in old-fashioned clothes.
When she arrived, the first thing Doris saw was Mr. Kleiner in earnest conversation with Joey. It was to Joey that her gaze went, as if drawn by magnets, and though she made no sound that she was aware of, Joey looked up as well.
Doris didn’t know what to say. All she could do was stand there with her Tupperware container of knishes. Joey rose quickly and came toward her, holding out his hands—she was starting to offer her own hands to be taken, before she realized he was offering to take the knishes, and then she blushed and was upset with herself all over again. What was it about Joey that turned a sixty-two-year-old spinster into a blushing schoolgirl?
“You look lovely,” he said.
Doris blushed harder and held onto the Tupperware container when Joey tried to take it. There was a brief, strange tug of war. “I need to take this into the kitchen,” she said, and fled.
What must he think of me! She didn’t dare look back.
Bird, in the kitchen, didn’t seem to notice how flustered Doris felt, so she must be covering it up well enough. “Doris! Hi! I’m so glad you could come. I’ve got the oven warming for the knishes. Did you see Joey out there? He’s been charming Mr. Kleiner, like the sweetie he is.”
“Let me give you a hand,” Doris said, that word ‘sweetie’ echoing in her ears.
“If you could toss the salad . . .”
After her not so auspicious start, she was afraid lunch would be awkward, but instead it was comfortable and easy. They ate Bird’s delicious ravioli, a tossed salad of fresh garden greens, and Great-Aunt Sylvia’s knishes. The conversation, about art and food, was light and pleasant.
And yet, all through the meal, she was far too aware of Joey at the table, much too close and yet much too far away. Every time he spoke, her voice was all she could hear. She wanted to put her hands all over him, like a hormone-addled teenager.
What’s wrong with me?
Mr. Kleiner ate lightly then took his leave with careful politeness. When he was gone, Mikhail said, “That’s the liveliest he’s been in weeks. It was the art talk. I didn’t realize how much you knew about those painters, Joey.”
“Ah, the art nouveau scene in Vienna around the turn of the 20th Century was full of personalities. One of my favorites.” Joey raised a knish to salute Doris and Bird. “Who would have guessed knishes would go so well with ravioli?”
“Knishes go with everything,” Bird declared. And to Doris, “Did you manage to get the recipe written down?”
“I sure tried. We’ll see if I got it right. It was a fascinating experiment. I think my mother cooks mainly by muscle memory. Some of her words had a faint Hungarian accent, as if she was channeling Great-Aunt Sophia while she worked. I took down everything as she did it, guesstimated the amounts, and will commence experimenting. Next time I attend the writers’ group will be knish night.”
“No complaint from me,” Joey said. “Speaking of, I’m guessing that Linette will be replacing you as moderator?”
Doris flicked a look at him. It was getting easier, she thought thankfully. Yes, she could talk to him as just as Bird’s and Mikhail’s friend. “She will. We don�
�t reveal numbers of votes, but let’s just say that we don’t need a recount.”
“About Linette.” Bird looked earnestly across the table at Joey. “Mikhail told me afterward that it was you who pointed out Linette as a candidate. I always thought she was like me, preferring to stay in the background. When I first joined, she told me she liked having it at her space, but she didn’t want to run it.”
“People change.” Joey turned up a hand. “It’s natural to assume that she’d feel the same if she wasn’t saying anything.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“It was in her stillness when the subject of moderator was brought up. How she watched everyone. It seemed clear to me that she wanted to speak up but didn’t dare. I see that kind of response in a lot of students, especially the shy ones.” Joey raised his glass. “A toast to the new regime!”
They laughed, drank, then Bird said, “I hope that means you’ll come back?”
“Definitely.” Joey smiled her way. “I’ve a couple of students in mind who I think would benefit from a wider range of writers than their age mates. I might bring them along after I’ve been a few times on my own.”
Doris discovered she’d been holding her breath, and let it out in a trickle. He didn’t look at her while speaking. What a relief! Yes, she could definitely do this.
At the end of the lunch, Joey said, “I have to get to an appointment. But first, I’d like to invite you all to my place for an old-fashioned, country-style Chinese meal. Doris, if you’re collecting recipes, you might be interested. Mikhail, I know it will be old home week for you. Bird, I think you’ll enjoy meeting my current international student. He read your new book a couple nights ago. He loves dragons.”
Joey looked straight at her. Was that hope in his eyes? “Doris?”
She hesitated, then decided that a group invitation was safely non-intimate. “I’d love to.”
SIX
JOEY
Wednesday morning, Joey got the outdoor stove going, then picked herbs from his own kitchen garden. Nothing but the best and freshest of ingredients for his mate!
“You’ll be on your best behavior,” he ordered the wolf-shifter twins. “And nothing about dragons, Cang, or imperial orders, all right? She’s human. She doesn’t know.”
“Yes, Uncle,” the twins chorused, their faces all innocence.
At least he didn’t have to worry about the serious, studious exchange student Xi Yong, who was sweeping the terrace. The qilin shifter wasn’t going to embarrass him in front of his mate.
He hoped.
Sometimes he caught a glimmer of sly humor in Xi Yong’s solemn eyes, and all three young people had been getting along very well. He had hoped Xi Yong would be a good influence on the mischievous twins, but now he was starting to think it might be the other way around.
But just then his three guests arrived, and Joey only had eyes for Doris as she approached his house. As her gaze swept over the adobe walls and the archway leading to the tiled patio that served as the entrance, he tried to see it through her eyes. Was the house too jumbled-looking? The oldest parts were left from the original adobe house. It had been added onto various times over the 20th Century.
He’d built the long terrace, and the herb garden beyond. Years of students coming and going, playing and experimenting with various projects, had led him to keep things simple. Maybe simple to him would be shabby to her?
But she smiled and seemed friendly, if reserved as usual, as they went through introductions all around. Joey introduced the twins, and then Xi Yong as an exchange student who was staying with him. Trying not to feel shy, Joey showed Doris around the house, accompanied by Bird, while Mikhail went off with the young people to make sure nothing was burning on the outside stove. Joey couldn’t help wishing he was alone with his mate, but he could see that having Bird with her made Doris more comfortable, and Bird was good company.
“It’s a beautiful house, isn’t it?” Bird said to Doris. “I felt comfortable here, the first time I ever visited. It has such a quiet, cheerful atmosphere.”
Doris didn’t answer, but Joey saw her quick smile of agreement, and his fox leaped within him.
Doris paused at the open door to the game room. “Is that a mahjong table? You’re the first non-Jewish person I’ve ever met who played that!”
“It’s actually a Chinese game,” Joey said. “Originally, anyway.”
Bird peeked in. “Doris, is that the game your mother is addicted to?”
“Oh yes. Mahjong is nearly as sacrosanct a tradition at the synagogue as actual services. At least to that generation.” Doris laughed. “But I never got into it. I had no idea it came from China.”
Joey and Doris shared a quick smile. He thought of the tale of Lady Bai and her scholar, and the bridges between different worlds. Maybe this ancient game was the first bridge between him and Doris.
“Shall I show you the traditional stove? Well, a traditional stove. Cooking was done in many ways, of course.” He drew them outside, opening his hand toward the stove he built himself. The stone stove was low to the ground, accessible to people who had traditionally sat on mats on the floor. It was made of stone and brick fitted together to enclose the fire. “Red-cooking takes a number of hours, so I got that going first thing this morning. But everything else is ready to be made before your eyes.”
Doris said, “Red-cooking?”
And Bird chimed in, “Is that how you made those delicious ribs last time?”
“Yes. I forgot to ask if you keep kosher, Doris, so I thought fish was safest. I’ve got a beautiful halibut one of my students caught yesterday. I hope you’re all right with that?”
“My family is Reform. We don’t eat pork and shellfish, but other than that, we don’t keep strict kosher.” She added, her cheeks pink, “Thank you for your consideration.”
“No problem! About red-cooking, the basic ingredients are simple, as people in the country didn’t have much beyond what they could get in their gardens or village. Ginger, cilantro, chili, are the most common spices. Broth or wine and sugar are also added, and it’s cooked for many hours over a very small fire. Meat was rare, a luxury for most. Vegetables and rice were more common.”
Doris looked fascinated. Joey extended his hand beyond the terrace. “Would you like to see the herb garden?”
“I’d love to,” she said.
Bird said, “You go ahead, Doris. You’ll have all kinds of questions. I’m going to get something to drink.”
Joey led the way, taking her over the neat rows, which Xi Yong had weeded at dawn while Joey was prepping the fish. “Chinese meals are a communal fare. The food is customarily chopped into bite sized pieces, unless it’s something like my fish, which will be so tender that pieces can easily be picked up with chopsticks. People would select their portions from the communal plate.”
Doris said, “It sounds like Chinese cooking is similar in a lot of ways to traditional Jewish cooking. Variety was not always possible, so people learned to be imaginative with few key ingredients. Or cook around basics that were easier to get.”
“In China, that was rice,” Joey said.
She nodded. “As for meals, they were definitely communal. Still are, when a family is in reach of each other.”
They were talking alone. It was just about food—a vital subject, of course, but not personal. Still, Joey counted it a great victory.
When she ran out of questions about how spices were preserved and treated, he led the way back to where Bird was chatting with Vanessa. Mikhail and Xi Yong spoke in Chinese, watched with fascination and total incomprehension by Vic.
Joey resisted the impulse to draw Doris off alone. Any movement toward private conversation must come from her. Meanwhile everyone was hungry, and he could smell that the fish was done.
So he clapped his hands. “All right, time to haul out the ingredients. Minions!”
Vic mock-saluted as Vanessa smothered a laugh, her long blonde curls bouncing. �
��Today we get to be the minions.”
“Woman and man your stations,” Joey said.
And caught Doris looking away with a grin.
SEVEN
DORIS
Until today, Doris had never thought about how attractive a man could look while cooking.
She had already been distracted by Joey’s hands. They were so neat, so well-made. He cooked with an economy of movement, every gesture sure. Practiced. Cooking was nothing new to him—not a guise he put on to impress people.
She had been around cooks long enough to know when someone not only knew what they were doing, but enjoyed it. His niece and nephew were clearly less experienced, but they made up for their lack of expertise with the enthusiasm Doris saw in her best students. Though she loved to cook, it was nice to sit back and watch someone else’s expertise, especially as it was clear they were having fun.
As Joey began transferring steaming food into waiting dishes, which his three students carried to the round table, she let her mind drift back to how attractive Joey was even while cooking. ‘Attractive’ leading its way to the S word:
Sexy.
She knew very well what scared her about Joey Hu. That at age sixty-two, after forcing herself to come to terms with her total lack of luck with men, she had met a man who put butterflies in her stomach as if she were some giddy sixteen-year-old. Except at sixteen she hadn’t even felt this way!
And yet, here she was, watching this man whose age was impossible to guess—anywhere from sixty to vigorous seventies—with a lock of silver-streaked blond hair curling across his brow, encouraging the young people with jokes and easy comments as they worked together.
It was . . . sexy. There was no other word for this warm feeling somewhere behind her bellybutton, but lower. It made her feel warm all over. It wasn’t the enervating heat of a humid summer day. It was more like the shimmering glow of a room lit only by candles, and it drew her toward him, rather than pushing her into wanting to seek shadows and cooler air.
