Confessions of a Wedding Musician Mom

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  “Are you okay?” the blond asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, trying to catch up to them. “I …” My voice trailed off as I realized that I’d never, in fact, figured out what I should say. “I … I just wanted to introduce myself. And … and give you my card.” I started digging through my purse but I couldn’t find my business cards. Where did they go?

  “You can mail it to me,” Erica said, turning away.

  “No … no, wait!” I practically screeched as I frantically rooted through my bag. “It’s right here. Hang on … it’s … aha!” I pulled out one of my business cards and waved it in the air. I held it toward Erica, horrified to see that not only was it bent on one side, but there were two streaks of orange crayon across the front.

  Erica looked at it and smirked. “You can mail it to me.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the blond called over her shoulder as they walked away.

  I sighed as I watched them cross the parking lot. Then I crumpled up the ruined business card and stuffed it in my pocket as I walked toward the car.

  Well, that plan didn’t exactly work. If I wanted anything to start happening, I’d probably have to fork out the money for the bridal show after all.

  We could come up with the money. We’d just have to cut back in some other ways. Like …. well, maybe like … like …

  As I sat down in the car and put the key in the ignition, a thought hit me. My hand froze.

  No.

  Not that!

  Of course, maybe desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Chapter Six

  “We are going to learn how to cook,” I announced to the kids the next day when they got home from school.

  “Cool,” said Danny. “You’re going to show us how to make hot dogs?”

  “What? No. We’re going to learn to cook.”

  “Oh, are we going to make those chicken pot pies we keep in the freezer?” asked Angela, her eyes lighting up. “I love those!”

  “No! We’re going to learn how to really cook. Cooking that involves things like chopping and sautéing and using things like peelers, and graters, and … and whisks.”

  “So, what are we making?” Danny seemed suspicious.

  “We’re starting by making a lemon meringue pie for dessert,” I said, slipping an apron over my head and tying it behind me. “Then, while that chills, we’ll make lasagna and garlic bread.”

  Angela and I put our hair into ponytails and we all washed our hands. Then we gathered around the kitchen table. I’d already set up a mixing bowl and the first few ingredients we needed for the pie.

  “Okay, now the first thing we need to do is separate an egg because we need the egg white, but not the yolk,” I explained. I didn’t know how to make mashed potatoes or roast a chicken, but I did remember being shown how to separate an egg in my seventh grade home ec class. I was pretty pleased with myself for knowing how to do this. In fact, it was probably the reason I chose to start with a lemon meringue pie. “So here’s what you do. You crack the egg and sort of drop the yolk back and forth from one half of the shell to the other while …” The yolk slid out of the shell and plopped right into the center of the bowl.

  “Like that?” Danny asked.

  “Uh … no.” I dumped the yolk into the sink and rinsed the bowl. “Here, we’ll try again.” I cracked another egg and carefully slipped the yolk back and forth between the two pieces of broken shell. We all watched as a tiny yellow stream trickled into the bowl.

  “Isn’t that yolk?” Angela asked, pointing to the bowl.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” I picked up the bowl and rinsed it out again. This looked a lot easier when my home ec teacher demonstrated how to do it.

  Four eggs later, I had the three egg whites I needed for the meringue—almost. The tiniest speck of yolk had crept in, but I scooped most of it out with a spoon and figured it would be good enough. It would have to be. I was out of eggs.

  Danny added the vanilla and Angela added the cream of tartar. I had no idea what it was, but I’d bought some that morning.

  “Okay,” I said, checking the recipe and plugging in the mixer. “Now we’re supposed to beat it for about a minute, or until soft peaks form.”

  The three of us watched as the mixer hummed. Two minutes later there were still no peaks, soft or otherwise.

  “Isn’t it supposed to do something?” Angela asked over the sound of the mixer.

  I frowned. “Maybe it just needs a little more time.”

  Four minutes later the mixer was still going, but nothing had changed. The kids were starting to get glazed looks in their eyes.

  “Are we done learning how to cook yet?” Danny asked, looking around. “This is boring.”

  “I’m sure something will happen any second now,” I said, silently pleading with the egg mixture to wake up and begin peaking already. “Look, I think right there it might be … no, I guess not.” The beaters continued churning. “Okay, but I swear any second now … any second … just wait … just wait … just … just … eh, forget it.” I switched off the mixer in disgust and shoved the bowl of badly behaving egg whites out of the way.

  “Are we going to have to order a pizza?” Danny looked hopeful.

  “Of course not. That was just the dessert. We’ll worry about that later. Right now we’re going to make the lasagna.” I flipped to the tab I’d marked in my cookbook. “Okay, while I clear this stuff out of the way, Angela, you go to the fridge and get out the white carton of ricotta cheese and two …”

  Eggs. I needed two eggs to make the lasagna and I’d just used all the eggs. Oh crap.

  I was nearly in a tizzy. There was no way I could come up with two eggs, short of stopping everything we were doing and dragging the kids to the store. I definitely didn’t want to go back to the store, especially since I’d already spent way too much time there that morning, wandering around trying to figure out what things like fennel and cornstarch are, and where, exactly, I could find them.

  “Two what?” Angela asked, fumbling around in the fridge.

  “Never mind.” I sighed. “Just the ricotta cheese.”

  Angela took a plastic tub out of the refrigerator and held it up. She looked at me questioningly.

  “Right, that’s it.” I handed her a measuring cup. “Now fill this up and dump it in that bowl.”

  “What do I get to do?” Danny asked.

  I looked around, still distracted by my egg deficiency dilemma. “You get to take out the lasagna pan. It’s in that cabinet down there.”

  I pulled the bowl of would-never-be meringue toward me. Since there was little hope of it becoming a pie at this point, I might as well use it for the lasagna … right?

  I scooped up a little bit in a spoon and contemplated. Then I splashed a few spoonfuls of it in the bowl with the ricotta cheese and began to stir. I poured in a little more, just to be sure. I looked at the bowl of egg whites again. Eh, that must be close enough to two eggs, I thought. I dumped all the egg mixture in with the ricotta cheese and began stirring, proud of myself.

  “Look,” I said to Angela, “the egg whites didn’t go to waste after all.”

  “But Mommy,” she said, “wasn’t there other stuff mixed in with the eggs?”

  Angela wasn’t as impressed with her mother’s brilliance as I’d hoped. I stopped stirring.

  Aargh!!! I’d totally forgotten that we’d added vanilla and cream of tartar to the egg whites. Does it matter? Is it going to ruin the lasagna? What is cream of tartar anyway? What the heck does it even do?

  “Yes … well,” I said, slowly resuming my stirring, “those things will make our lasagna even better. The extra ingredients will give it a, uh, creamier and richer texture.”

  I didn’t have the slightest idea if that was true. For all I knew it would cause some chemical reaction that could make the entire thing explode. We would just have to risk it.

  “Which one is the zonna pan?” Danny asked.

  I looked down. D
anny was sitting on the floor surrounded by skillets, muffin tins, a loaf pan, a frying pan, two different sized baking pans, and a Bundt cake pan. I didn’t even realize we owned all that stuff.

  “Sorry Danny, I should’ve been more specific. It’s this big rectangular one … oh, and I’m going to need this skillet too. Can you put all the others away?”

  I turned back to the counter. Angela had discovered the unopened package of ground beef. She was poking her index finger into it.

  “Eww, no, Angela! Let me have that.” I tore the plastic off, dumped the meat into the skillet, and turned on the heat. “Okay, now we … aarrrgh!! I’m supposed to cook the meat with a chopped onion!” I snapped off the heat, ran across the kitchen, and grabbed an onion out of the fridge.

  “What can I do?” asked Angela.

  “Hang on,” I said, trying to keep the onion from wobbling while I cut it in half.

  WHAM!! BANG!! CRASH!!

  I whipped around. Danny was about to hurl a muffin tin into the cabinet. “Aaahhhh!” I yelled. “I didn’t mean for you to throw everything back in there! Can’t you just … why don’t you …. oh, here, just let me do it.” I shooed him out of the way and bent down to gather up the collection of cookware I hadn’t even realized I owned.

  “Can I finish cutting the onion for you?” Angela asked.

  “No!” I yelled, trying to shove all the pans back in the cabinet.

  “Can I?” Danny asked.

  “NO!” The Bundt pan bounced back at me as if it had a mind of its own. I gave it another shove, slammed the cabinet door shut before anything else could fall out, and went back to my onion.

  “This is boring,” Danny whined.

  I went to the pantry, grabbed cans of tomato sauce and tomato paste, and put them on the counter. “Angela, you get the can opener and open these. Danny, you can …” I looked over the recipe, “go get a bag of mozzarella cheese out of the refrigerator.”

  I grabbed the onion and knife and tried again. Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.

  “I can’t get the can opener to work,” said Angela.

  “Is this mustard ella cheese?” Danny held up a block of Velveeta.

  “No Danny, the mozzarella cheese is in a bag. Here, Angela, let me get it started.” I attached the can opener to the can of tomato sauce, gave it a few twists, set it down, and went back to my onion.

  Chop, chop, chop …

  “So do I just dump all this in here?” Angela asked, tilting the can of tomato sauce toward the bowl of ricotta cheese and eggs—with vanilla and cream of tartar.

  “No!! Wait!!” I dropped the knife and snatched the can away from her. “I’m pretty sure that goes with the meat. Here, now you can open the tomato paste.”

  “But I can’t figure out how to use the …”

  “Is this the monster ella cheese?” Danny was holding up a bag of baby carrots.

  I put the knife down again and took a deep breath. “Does that look like cheese?”

  Danny glanced down at the bag, then up at me. He shrugged.

  “Mommy! I told you I don’t know how to use the can opener!” screamed Angela.

  “I’ll do it.” Danny dropped the carrots on the floor and stomped over to the counter.

  “Wait, you need to put the … oh, never mind.” I picked up the carrots and tossed them back in the fridge. The mozzarella cheese was sitting right in the middle of the top shelf. I grabbed it.

  “Quit it!” Angela yelled. “She asked me, not you!”

  “You don’t know how to do it!” Danny screamed as he grabbed the can opener.

  “Neither do you! Hey! Give that back!”

  “Get away from me!”

  “AAAHH!! Danny spilled the tomato sauce!” Angela shrieked.

  Both kids stood paralyzed. They stared at the flowing sauce like it was some sort of mysterious and terrifying being.

  “Well don’t just stand there!” I yelled, shooting across the kitchen to pick up the can. I got to it in time to salvage about half. Would that work? Did I need to add some water … or maybe ketchup or something? Could I just use what I had and hope for the best?

  I looked at them wearily. And in that moment of clarity, one of the great mysteries of my life was solved. I now perfectly understood why my mother had never taught me to cook.

  “Okay!” I announced, clapping my hands. “Lesson’s over! That’s enough cooking for you guys today. Congratulations! You now know all about separating eggs and how to open cans and, uh … what mozzarella cheese looks like.”

  “I never even got to do anything,” said Danny.

  “Sure you did. You helped with the, uh … you got to, um. Good job, sweetie!” I kissed him on the top of his head. “Class dismissed.”

  “Come on, Danny,” Angela said. “Let’s go do that thing where I put you in the laundry hamper and then roll you down the hall.”

  “Cool!” Danny yelled as they ran out of the kitchen.

  About twenty minutes later I put my first-ever homemade lasagna into the oven. And the Italian bread was on a cookie sheet—sliced, buttered, and sprinkled with garlic powder.

  Wow. I’d done it! Even if it came out tasting terribly, which at this point was still a distinct possibility, I had done it. Maybe cooking wasn’t really that hard after all.

  I turned around and noticed the mess. Shredded cheese was on the floor and the counter. Empty cans, plastic tubs, egg shells, wads of wet, sauce-stained paper towels, and a slew of dirty utensils were scattered everywhere. And that was in addition to two dirty pots, four dirty bowls, a slimy colander, and a cutting board covered with bits of onion. There were also various blobs of grease, tomato sauce, and egg all over the counter.

  Oh. Maybe this was the hard part. I grabbed a sponge and got to work cleaning up.

  When the timer for the lasagna went off I’d finally gotten the kitchen to a semi-decent state. I pulled the lasagna out of the oven and set it down.

  Now it was time to make the garlic bread. I read the instructions: Place bread under broiler for three to five minutes. I moved the oven rack to the top position—what do you know, those things are adjustable—and slid in the tray of bread.

  Since we were having a nice dinner, assuming the lasagna was indeed edible, shouldn’t the dining table look a little special as well? I went down the hall to the linen closet to find the red tablecloth.

  I was searching through some towels when the phone rang. “Yello!” I said, snatching up the bedroom phone.

  There was silence, and then a female voice said hesitantly, “Hi, my name is Susan. I wanted to speak to someone named Heather Hershey about playing the piano for my wedding.”

  I have got to start answering my phone differently, I thought.

  “Yes, of course. I’m Heather!” I grabbed my purse off the dresser and fumbled around for my calendar. “Congratulations! What’s the date of your wedding?”

  “It’s on April …” There was another female voice murmuring something in the background. “Hang on. Yes, I know, Mom!” Susan hissed in reply to the muffled voice. “Do you think I don’t know my own wedding date? How dumb do you think I am?”

  I frowned.

  “Sorry about that,” said Susan. “Our wedding is on April fourteenth.”

  I opened my calendar and checked the month of April. “Great, I’m available that day. Do you want piano music for the ceremony, cocktail hour, or reception?” See, I did learn something from calling a few other pianists.

  “I think both the ceremony and cocktail hour. We’ll have the DJ play for the reception downstairs in the … What? … Yes, Mom, we are having a DJ, not a live band!” Susan sighed. “Hang on,” she said to me. “How many times have we gone over this?” There was a pause. “Yes, I know, but … Yes! Yes, of course I remember Tonya’s wedding. I was there, wasn’t I? Yes, I know, yes. I already told you, that was because Tonya and her husband are cheap and they got a cheap, crummy DJ. Didn’t we already … Seriously? Seriously Mom? You’re going to bring
that up now? I’m on the phone!” She cleared her throat. “Just ceremony and cocktail hour,” she said sweetly into the phone.

  “Ohhh … kay,” I said.

  “We were picturing more traditional music for the ceremony, and then some more upbeat, modern songs for the cocktail hour,” said Susan. The voice in the background murmured again. “Yes Mom! I was just about to say that! Would you please just … would you … Look Mom, do you want to just get on the phone yourself? … You sure? Because it sounds like you want to be in charge of this conversation.” There was another pause. “Okay, well then, let me talk!”

  “Uh,” I said, “maybe this is a bad time? You can call me back.”

  “No.” She sounded surprised. “Right now is fine. We also want some show tunes.”

  “No problem.” I made a mental note to check and see if I had any.

  “So how much would you charge?”

  “Well, for both the ceremony and cocktail hour …”

  “HEATHER!!” Steve roared from down the hall. “HEATHER?!”

  Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like Steve’s typical greeting at all. Something was very, very wrong.

  “Hang on just a moment, Susan.” I put the phone down and ran down the hall.

  An ear-piercing Eeeeeeeeee filled the house.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth as I entered the living room. Steve was surrounded by a cloud of black smoke.

  “Oh no,” I gasped, running into the kitchen. “The garlic bread!”

  Steve followed me, coughing. He climbed up on a chair to pluck the batteries out of the smoke alarm before yanking open the kitchen windows.

  A burst of smoke shot into my face as I opened the oven door. I was barely able to breathe as I pulled out the charred solid-black remains of the bread. I heard the kids behind me.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela asked as she ran into the kitchen. “Is the house on fire?”

  “Are the fire engines coming?” Danny hurried over to the window at the front of the house.

  “Sorry to … disappoint you,” I said between coughs as I scraped the cripsy black chunks into the trash and flung the possibly unsalvageable cookie sheet onto the stovetop. “No fire. … It was just a slight … cooking mishap.”