Kitchens of the Great Midwest

by J. Ryan Stradal

  “Shit. Is Scotty pissed at me?”

  “Ah, he’ll get over it.”

  They heard a knock at the door. Dan glanced in the direction of the sound. The nurse was here; someone else must have let her in through the security door downstairs. Maybe because she was recognized around the building. Of course, the residents here knew Dan, too, but no one’s opening doors for that guy. Jordy capped the bottle, chucked it into his laundry basket, and put an Altoid in his mouth.

  • • •

  Jordy opened the door. Mandy was standing there in her usual outfit: a short-sleeved white button-up shirt and tan slacks, and carrying a blue canvas shoulder bag of medical supplies. He agreed with Dan that Mandy was pretty hot. Some people might say she wore too much makeup, but to Jordis P. Snelling the Third, she wore exactly the right amount, and she smelled like how chicks smell at prom all the time.

  When she was there, caring for his mom, it bothered him to stare at her tan arms and curly brown hair, and he never looked down her shirt when she was bent over; no matter how hot she was, doing that kind of shit felt out of line. The weirdest part was that she was twenty-four, a year younger than him, and was so perfect with his mom, like she’d been doing this job for a million years. How does someone that young get to be such a great hospice nurse already? Maybe if you don’t fuck up your life too much, anything’s possible.

  “Hi, Jordy,” she said. “You hangin’ in there?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You all ready for hunting season?”

  “Ha, no. Still gotta pack and clean my rifle and stuff.”

  “How’s your mom today?” She always said “your mom” to Jordy when talking about her. It always hit him a little.

  “Watching Storage Wars: Texas,” he said, moving aside to let her in. “My brother gave her her meds already.”

  She stopped on the mat and took off her white tennis shoes. “OK, good, your brother was here.” She seemed to trust Adam more than Jordy, and, well, who could blame her?

  “I’m Dan,” Dan said, moving his beer to his left hand and extending his right.

  “I remember,” she said, watching as he lowered his hand. “Sorry I’m a little late, Jordy. I’ve been having trouble with my car.”

  “The Jetta?” Jordy asked.

  “Yeah. It just turns off sometimes when I’m stopped at intersections.”

  “Could be your throttle cable. What year is it?”

  “A ’92. Pretty old, I know.”

  “Y’know, there’s this thing on your throttle cable you can adjust to set the idle.”

  Mandy laughed. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Before you go, I’ll do it for ya.”

  “OK, thanks. That’s really sweet.” She touched him on the shoulder. Jordy thought she kind of stared at him in a way that was a little vibey, but he could’ve been imagining it. As she passed them, Jordy noticed, she avoided touching Dan.

  Mandy announced her presence as she approached Jordy’s mom from behind and leaned over her. “Is there anything I can get you to start off? A glass of water?”

  “A margarita,” Jordy’s mom said.

  Mandy laughed politely. “I don’t know if we can do that!”

  “Why not?” Jordy said, taking a white plastic Twins cup from a kitchen cupboard.

  “At this stage of care, we focus on pain management,” Mandy said, as if reading from a brochure. “And we don’t recommend mixing alcohol with this level of pain meds.”

  “Why?” Jordy said. “It’s not like she’s gonna operate heavy machinery.”

  Jordy’s mom nodded. “You got that right.”

  Jordy put on his jacket. “I’m gonna run out and get her some margarita stuff.”

  “Well, I can’t control what you do when I’m not around.”

  “Come on, Dan,” Jordy said, and then looked Mandy in the eyes. “Don’t leave until we’re back.”

  Jordy’s mom held up her left hand in a little weak wave. He’d fuckin’ get that woman the best margarita money could buy.

  • • •

  There were only two liquor stores in Farmington, and they were both owned by the city, but they still had a decent enough selection. Jordy and Dan had to go to the one out on Pilot Knob Road because Jordy’s ex-girlfriend Kaylee worked at the one downtown and he still owed her money from when he bought his Glock and there was no way they were having that stupid conversation today.

  There wasn’t a ton of variety in the margarita mix section. Jose Cuervo, Mr. & Mrs. T, Margaritaville. Hard to tell which was the best.

  “Hey,” Jordy asked the guy working the register, a fat old townie named Russ Arnsberg who used to manage a sit-down pizza place that went out of business. “How’s this Mr. T mix?”

  “It’s good enough for who it’s for,” Russ said. “That being people too lazy to make it themselves.”

  In the refrigerated section, Dan found a twenty-four-ounce glass bottle that read N. W. GRATZ’S ARTISANAL MARGARITA PREPARATORY AMALGAMATION, 100% OREGON TILTH CERTIFIED ORGANIC, GMO FREE, CRUELTY FREE. It was less than half the size of the other bottles and cost four times as much. “What’s the deal with this stuff?” Dan asked.

  “Wouldn’t give ya a nickel for a case of it,” Russ said.

  Jordy waved his left hand at the row of mixers. “Well, what do ya fuckin’ recommend, then?”

  “I recommend ya make yer own at home. One, one, three, that’s the ratio. Easy enough a blind pig could do it.”

  Jordy picked up a bottle of Margaritaville brand mixer, which was the most expensive variety in a halfway decent size and had a “Chef’s Best Taste” award on the label. He yelled to Dan if he’d found the Patrón.

  “Nope,” Dan said from the beer section.

  “Patrón’s behind the counter,” Russ said. “But if you’re making margaritas it’s a waste of money to buy Patrón.”

  Dan walked over, his old-fashioned flip phone in his hand. “Hey. Goldie’s having people over after he gets off work tonight.”

  Jordy saw a white plastic container of margarita salt at the end of the row and took it. He might as well go all out. “Do you have any limes?”

  “People don’t buy ’em here and they get moldy. They got ’em at Lou’s Red Owl.”

  “Goddammit,” Jordy said, putting the mixer and salt on the counter by the register. “And gimme the Patrón. The green box.”

  “How’s your mom doin’?” Russ asked, scanning the items.

  Jordy shook his head. “Not good. Got the hospice nurse over there right now.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, whatcha gonna do?” Jordy said. He just hoped Russ didn’t go into the God talk like a lot of people did.

  “She was a good woman,” Russ said, like she was fuckin’ dead already. “You may not know this, but she was a hell of a bowler. Back in the early eighties we were in the same league over here. She always kicked our ass.”

  “Huh,” Jordy said, because what the hell do you say to something like that? He wasn’t there.

  Russ pulled the handles of a thin plastic bag around the bottles and salt and handed it to Jordy. “Yeah, well, tell her hi. And take it easy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t sit on.”

  • • •

  Back home, Jordy spread the Margaritaville mixer, the Patrón, the salt, and the limes from Lou’s Red Owl on the kitchen counter. Mandy ignored him from the moment the alcohol came out of the bag, which was about the time that Jordy’s mom took notice.

  “Whoa, you didn’t have to get all that,” she said from her chair.

  “We’re makin’ you a margarita.”

  Dan cracked open another Coors Light. “It’s gonna be the best one you ever had, Linda. How do ya like it, blended, or rocks and salt?”

  “Well, blended, usually.”


  “Blended,” Jordy repeated. He opened the doors of all the cabinets, finding cups, plates, coffee mugs, breakfast cereal, a red plastic tub of Folgers, a big thing of Bailey’s, some port, and a bottle of Galliano they’d had forever. After about the fifth cabinet door, a part of him wanted to yell, So where the fuck is the blender? But he couldn’t, so he just muttered it, then took a deep breath and looked out toward the living room.

  “Hey, Mom. What cabinet is the blender in?”

  “Next to the oven,” she said, as loud as she could.

  As Jordy fumbled with the components of the Black & Decker Crush Master, Mandy walked into the kitchen with Linda’s empty water glass. “Have you ever made margaritas before?”

  “I thought you were against the whole idea,” Jordy said. “Anyway, they got instructions right here on the bottle. Six ounces mix, two ounces tequila.”

  “We can put in more tequila than that,” Dan said.

  “Yeah, fuck this,” Jordy said, looking at the bottle.

  Dan pulled the cork on the tequila bottle and started dumping it into the blender. “You figure about halfway?”

  “I am not here, I did not see this,” Mandy said.

  “Now just fill it the rest of the way with the mixer?” Jordy said, unscrewing the top and pouring in a green fluid that reminded him of conventional antifreeze.

  “You guys,” Mandy said. “You haven’t even put the ice in yet.”

  “Shit. Ice, I don’t even know if we have ice.”

  Dan opened the freezer. “You got, like, one tray.”

  “Well, dump it all in there.”

  With the entire tray of ice, the faint green contents were nearly up against the lip of the blender’s pitcher.

  “Shit,” Dan said. “Fluid displacement, dude.”

  “We hardly got any of the mixer in there.”

  “Maybe if we grind it up, it’ll make room.”

  “I have no fuckin’ clue,” Jordy said, trying to put the lid on the blender.

  Dan was confused by the Crush Master’s settings. “Smoothie? Maybe Pulse?”

  Dan pressed PULSE, the lid flew off, and as they watched, ice chunks, sugary green mix, and tequila splattered over everyone’s shirts and faces and hair.

  “Fucking shit!” Jordy said.

  “Great, great,” Mandy said, looking down at the front of her blouse. “Great.”

  “Dan, just back the fuck up, OK,” Jordy said, tearing two paper towels off of a roll and handing them to Mandy.

  “Geez, dude, sorry,” Dan said, grabbing several paper towels off of the roll.

  Mandy dabbed at her shirt with a paper towel. “I gotta go to my next patient in, like, ten minutes.”

  Jordy glared at Dan as he wiped himself off. He never should’ve let Dan near the blender. Ever since Dan was a kid, he was an absolute shitbrain with any object that had moving parts or required thinking. He didn’t even get his driver’s license until the fourth try, and that was probably because the folks at the exam office didn’t want to ever see him again.

  “Sorry, man,” Dan said again.

  “You ruin fuckin’ everything,” Jordy said, wiping off the counter.

  “I got another shirt down in my car I’m gonna get,” Dan said, and left the kitchen to go put his boots on.

  “You can fuckin’ stay down there,” Jordy said.

  “If I can just for sure get the smell out,” Mandy said, dabbing her shirt by the sink, acting like she ignored the exchange. “I don’t have time to go home and change.”

  “Maybe she’s got a shirt you can borrow.”

  “It’d be better than nothing.”

  Jordy walked quietly into the living room and touched his mom on the shoulder. “Mom, can Mandy borrow a shirt of yours?”

  “Of course,” Jordy’s mom said. “Go into my closet. Anything you want.”

  Mandy sighed. “Thank you. I’ll bring it back.”

  Jordy pointed down the hallway. “My mom’s room is back there.”

  “Thanks,” Mandy said, and disappeared around the corner.

  • • •

  While she was changing, Jordy finished cleaning up Dan’s goddamn mess and went back to the job, holding the lid down on the blender, adding a little more mix, even though Dan was wrong, grinding up the ice did not make more fucking room, and sliced a lime with his Buck knife to garnish three glasses. He wasn’t sure how to salt the rims of the glasses but figured that part could wait.

  He was just pouring the margaritas when Mandy walked back out, wearing a long-sleeved blue denim shirt that Jordy remembered his mom wearing to the last family reunion two years ago, when she had a stage IV malignant tumor on one of her ovaries that was about a week away from being diagnosed.

  She was supposed to be going in to get her liver checked out. “The doctor’s gonna tell me again to quit drinking,” she said at the reunion, “so first I’m gonna drink up.” His mom had a total blast at the Knights of Columbus Hall with her sisters and cousins, at one point standing on a table with her sister Melanie, singing “Mustang Sally.” They were so happy, and nobody knew there was anything wrong. That shirt was in a thousand pictures taken that day and night, framed on people’s walls, all over everyone’s Facebook pages, all of that. She’d never worn that shirt since.

  “Is this OK?” Mandy said, standing in the living room for Jordy’s and Linda’s approval.

  “Yep, looks all right,” Jordy said.

  “You look beautiful,” Jordy’s mom said. “You should keep it. Really. Keep it.”

  “Thank you, but I can bring it back next time, no problem.”

  “No, please. It looks perfect on you. Keep it.”

  “Thank you,” Mandy said. “Now I better get going.”

  Jordy walked over to the living room with a tray of margaritas and set them down on an end table near his mom’s chair.

  “Hey, what about your car?”

  • • •

  Down in the parking lot, Jordy lifted the hood of Mandy’s 1992 Jetta. He’d noticed that Dan’s car was gone; the clumsy fuckup got the hint, at least.

  The forty-five degree early November afternoon smelled like cold water and dead grass, even with the metal and oil of the engine rising to his face. Jordy hoped it was going to snow before Saturday—it was way easier to track deer in the snow—but it didn’t look like that shit was going to happen. Though it was promisingly overcast today, Friday’s forecast was for partly cloudy skies and highs in the mid-forties. Just painful.

  Mandy sat in the front seat of her car with the driver’s side door open, as Jordy messed with the throttle cable of the Jetta until it seemed like the idle wouldn’t give out.

  “Oh, and look,” Jordy said, calling her over to her chunky-sounding idling engine. “Your intake manifold isn’t sitting correctly. It’s not sealing the intake. You gotta get that looked at.”

  “I don’t know when I have the time to do that,” Mandy said. Jordy knew that she probably didn’t make a lot of money and maybe couldn’t afford to fix the car, but to lose the car would mean losing the job.

  “Use my car tomorrow. I’ll just get a ride up north tomorrow morning from my dad or something. Then leave your car here and I’ll take a look at it Monday when I get back. The only problem with my car is that the horn is kinda fucked.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You’re taking care of my mom, so.”

  “I know, but it’s my job.” Neither of them said anything for a moment. They just looked at each other. He stared at this little mole behind her left ear. He decided he liked that mole. “Well, thank you,” she said, at last.

  “Oh, hey, and if you’re free tonight and want to go to a party,” Jordy said, not knowing why he was saying this, “a guy I know is getting some people together at his place here in
town. If you’re interested.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Text me the address.” Jordy thought for a moment and realized that yes, he had her number in his phone, because of his mom. Jordy looked at her, in his mom’s blue shirt, while her idle ran high and her intake manifold was tweaked and the air smelled oily and cold. This was as perfect as things were likely to get.

  • • •

  His mom had finished off one margarita and was starting on a second as Jordy took his boots off in the doorway.

  “Mom, you were supposed to wait,” he said.

  “This is the food of the gods,” she said. Jordy sat across from her and picked up the one drink remaining. Even a foot from his face, he could smell that it was the strongest margarita he’d ever had.

  “This is,” his mom said, smiling at him, “the best margarita in the world.”

  He held his margarita in his left hand and rubbed her bony back with his right hand as they watched another episode of Storage Wars: Texas, which seemed to be on a lot.

  “Christ, a lot of people abandon their shit,” Jordy said.

  “Mandy sure is nice,” his mom said. “You should get married to her.”

  Jordy laughed. “I’m not even going out with her.”

  “She likes you, I can tell. Just ask her, I bet she’d say yes.”

  “OK, whatever, sure.” Jordy put the margarita down. “Can I get you anything else right now?”

  “Venison meatballs,” his mom said. “Gotta get a deer so you can make us those venison meatballs.”

  “Can you still even eat them?”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  “OK, then,” Jordy said, looking out the living room window onto the parking lot, hoping they’d be able to shoot a deer. He thought that maybe he’d stay out in the woods all week until he did. “Maybe I can get Adam to come down. And Melanie. We can have a big dinner with stuffing and mashed potatoes and all that stuff. I’ll get some of that wine you like, that White Zinfandel. What do ya think of that?”