“Kirk,” I holler urgently into the crowd, “come quick! My legs are on fire!”
Harrison Ford turns around. So he did make it after all. But he’s no Indiana Jones—at least off the set. He stands frozen in his spot as Kirk rushes to my side and assumes the heroic starring role, snatching the extinguisher from my hand. In one swift move, he slams the oven door closed and turns off the gas.
“Fire should go out in a second,” he says reassuringly.
He’s right. No gas, no oxygen, and suddenly the flames are gone.
But I have a new problem. “The dinner’s ruined,” I say, sniffling.
“It’s not ruined,” Kirk says comfortingly, reaching into his back pocket and handing me a perfectly ironed handkerchief. Once I would have thought the crisp hankie meant Kirk was either gay or lived with his mother. Now I know it’s a white flag that he’s a true metrosexual—the newly coined term for a guy who sleeps with a woman and then joins her at a day spa for his very own facial. Nice, but I prefer a relationship where I’m the only one who exfoliates.
I wipe my eyes on the hankie, blow my nose, and start to hand it back to him. Then I think better of it. I’ll give him back a clean one. Wonder if he prefers starch?
“We’ll just tell everyone blackened quail legs are a delicacy,” Kirk says, improvising happily.
“Blackened doesn’t mean burnt—it’s a spice,” I say, stuffing the handkerchief in my pocket.
Kirk grins. “And who’s supposed to know that? Olivia the epicurean?”
Kirk helps me whip the quails onto platters, then drizzles some Grand Marnier on the side and lights a match.
“Flambé,” he says triumphantly, as the waiters whisk the flaming platters to the buffet table. “The crowd will love it.”
And amazingly, he’s right. Next time I peek out, I see that everyone is actually eating and the food seems to be a hit. A few more stars have arrived and Olivia is busy accepting accolades for our fabulous flambé.
I go back to the stove to check on the vanilla custard sauce for the soufflé. I beat the egg whites until they’re stiff but glossy, delicately fold the mixture and pop the molds into the oven. Done. I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay and sit down to wait for them to rise. It always makes me laugh that people think soufflés are so complicated you have to be Richard Feynman to get the formula right. I flunked physics and still I’ve never gotten it wrong.
The kitchen fills with the endorphin-inducing chocolate aroma coming from the oven, and I’m finally relaxed. In the homestretch now. All I have to do is get the irresistible dessert out there and then I’m out of here. Sure enough, when I take out the soufflés, they’re perfect. I can already hear the oohs and aahs. I look at them admiringly for thirty seconds—and then they start deflating faster than Jeff Gordon’s car after a blow-out at Nascar. The soufflés are sinking lower and lower, and all of a sudden my delicate dessert is a sorry second to a dish of no-cook instant My-T-Fine.
I stare into the chocolate disasters and tell myself I’m not going to cry again. I’m really not. I down another glass of Chardonnay. Good wine. Though two glasses on an empty stomach might be too much for me. Still, I’m feeling calmer. How upset can I get about questionable quails and soggy soufflés? I’ve pulled off a pretty good party, but the officious Olivia isn’t going to be grateful for anything I’ve done—except bringing Kirk. And maybe Berni secretly wanted me to ruin her rival’s party. Why else send an elementary school art teacher to cook anything you can’t fit into an Easy-Bake Oven?
Suddenly I have an idea on how I can salvage the dessert. If the wine’s making me feel better, just think how it can improve the pudding. I transfer the goopy chocolate mixture into a large ceramic bowl and grab the Grand Marnier again. That might help. I search Olivia’s cabinets and pull out some Amaretto and Frangelico and liberally pour them over my fallen masterpiece—adding a dash of Remy Martin for good measure. I should probably mix in some Tylenol to prevent hangovers. What else is in Olivia’s pantry? Mmm—chocolate sprinkles. A small bag of M&Ms. Chocolate-covered raisins. Reese’s pieces. The woman really can snack. I dump them all into the bowl.
For a final touch, I snatch a bag of mini-marshmallows from a shelf and sprinkle them over the top of my creation. Nice, but needs a little color. With a flourish, I grab a bag of gumdrops and plunk down all the pink ones. Then I add the yellow. And green. My first—and farewell—performance as a professional chef will be truly memorable. I hand the bowl to a waiter and tell him to bring it out. Then, leaving the scene of my culinary disaster, I make a swift getaway down the service elevator.
Chapter SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, I’m the one with the hangover. My eyes are puffy and my head is aching—whether from the wine or embarrassment I can’t tell. And worst of all, I have lines on my face from the pillowcase. I can’t even put my head down at this age without my face turning into a road map.
I roll over on the pillow to try to get back to sleep. I might as well make sure both sides of my face are equally etched. Is this what they mean by turning the other cheek?
“Saaa-raa,” calls Berni from outside my bedroom door. “Are you there? Come on out.”
Is there anybody who doesn’t barge into this house? I pull on a pair of shorts and wander out in my T-shirt and bare feet. When I get to the living room, Berni’s lying flat on the floor, knees up, a baby balanced like a barbell above her head.
“What are you doing?” I ask, rubbing my eyes sleepily.
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four,” Berni counts out loud, the baby wavering in her hands. Berni inhales deeply, then lowers her arms slightly. Next she exhales and lifts again, picking up the pace. “Up . . . down . . . up . . . down,” she says, moving her baby barbell more vigorously.
I’m barely awake, and Berni’s already bonding with the babies while using them to build her biceps. What the heck. Looks like more fun than my Thursday afternoon spinning class. I lie down on the floor next to Berni and take the other twin from the Jolly Jumper.
“Make sure you lift slowly but don’t shake,” Berni warns. “And keep one hand under his head and the other under his butt.”
In unison, we raise our babies and count together. I kind of like this. Better than a Nautilus machine, though frankly, this baby doesn’t weigh enough to put a muscle on a mouse.
“Now arm curls,” Berni says, sitting up and repositioning Baby A. She stretches her arms straight in front of her, curls the baby to her face, kisses her, and brings her back. Curl, kiss, curl, kiss. I can do that.
But four repetitions later, my barbell is starting to get a little soggy. Something that never happens at Crunch.
“I think he needs to be changed,” I say, abruptly ending my exercise session and trying to hand the baby back.
“Diapers are in the bag,” she says. “House rule. Whoever’s holding the baby last gets to change him.”
Could make for a mean game of hot potato. I try to pass Baby B back to Berni but she’s not taking. I dutifully go over to the bag figuring I’ll change the little tyke quickly—but instead of Pampers, Berni has cloth diapers and it takes me forever to figure out how to fold one. I probably should have guessed Berni would go for something complicated. She didn’t quit a full-time job to pat down a piece of Velcro.
Berni watches me for a minute and then laughs. “You need a degree in origami to do this right,” she says, taking over and finishing the job with a flourish. And looking at her handiwork, I wonder if she actually got one.
Berni turns to me, cuddling the now happy baby.
“So what happened at the party last night?” she asks. “Olivia called. Such an uproar.”
“You heard from Olivia?” I ask guiltily.
“First thing this morning. Ken Chablis, head of the Food Network, called me, too.”
Was he at the party? Maybe I poisoned him. Or maybe he choked eating a gumdrop. Or choked just looking at it.
“That dessert’s usually foolproof,” I say, r
eady with my excuses. “But I never made it for so many people before.”
“It’s all anybody can talk about,” Berni says.
“If Olivia’s upset, that’s just tough. She’s awful and she had it coming.” Wow. Where did all this false bravado come from?
“Why would Olivia be upset?” Berni asks.
“Because . . .” I hesitate. Seems like I’m missing something here. “Why did Ken Chablis call you?”
“Olivia told him I’m your agent. It must have killed her to have to say that.” She grins gleefully. “That Chocolate Surprise dessert you made knocked him out.”
“Are we speaking literally or figuratively here?” I ask.
“Sounded pretty awful to me,” Berni continues, “but he loved it. Said retro-chic could be the next big trend.”
He must know. This is the network that discovered Emeril and the Iron Chef. Though given what they sometimes make, my Chocolate Surprise deserves a James Beard Award.
“So he wants the recipe?” I ask nervously. God knows what I threw in there. Because I certainly don’t.
“He wants the recipe and wants you,” Berni says. “He asked if you’d come in for an audition, but I said no. I played hardball and told him no tryouts. Either he books you or not. And he did. Two weeks from tomorrow, you’re on live.”
“Berni, you can’t keep doing this,” I say, exasperated. “I mean, I appreciate it and all, but you can’t run my life.”
“Of course I can,” Berni says, nonchalantly. “That’s what agents do. I’m good at it, too. Listen, Sara, this is a big deal. People love that network. Think of the future. You could end up endorsing a grill.”
Ah, the American dream. I could marry a prince. I could live in a castle. I could endorse a grill.
“But I’ve never done anything like this before,” I say.
“Exactly the reason to do it,” says Berni, looking tenderly at her babies. “Trying something different is the whole point. Nobody expects doors to open at our age. But look at us. Isn’t it amazing? New husband for you. New babies for me. And new careers for both of us. We’ve zipped past forty, but we get to start again. Who would have thought?”
Not me, for one. But Berni’s convincing.
“So how much would I get paid?” I ask, apparently ready to buy into the dream.
“Nothing,” Berni says putting down Baby A, who’s now blissfully asleep. “You do this to build your career.”
“Clothing allowance?” I ask hopefully. Berni’s a barracuda. Her negotiations must have gotten me something.
“Are you kidding? This is cable. You’ll get an apron. With a logo if you’re lucky. Ken said to bring your own bowls and spoons to the set. And sugar. Just in case.”
“Hair and makeup?” I ask.
“Sure. If you do it yourself.” She picks up Baby B and begins wagging her head in his direction, leaning in closer until she’s rubbing his nose with hers.
“Boo-ful, boo-ful baby,” she burbles, fully forgetting about me.
So much for the art of the deal. Bring my own sugar? Maybe I should call Olivia.
Kate has convinced me to come with her to a chic Madison Avenue day spa for the latest South American Wrap. I thought I’d be getting some Nuevo Latin chicken with salsa on the side. Instead, I’m the one getting wrapped. Apparently, the very same Brazilians who sent us the bikini wax have devised a new form of torture. This time for weight loss. Your targeted body parts are covered in a plaster cast, and after just one session you end up thinner and cellulite free. Or you vow never to go skiing again.
Right now, the white-uniformed Felita is carefully bandaging my calf. The material is slowly snaking its way up my leg, and I’m starting to get an itch somewhere above my ankle. An area that she entombed five minutes ago.
“When you get to the thighs, wrap really tight,” Kate commands, waving her fingers excitedly. Her fingers are about all she can still move, since her own plaster casts reach from shoulders to wrists. With her encased arms extending straight out in front of her, she looks like a sleepwalking Egyptian mummy.
“Very tight,” Felita agrees, without a break in her wrapping rhythm. English doesn’t seem to be her first—or even second or third—language, so I’m not sure how much faith I can put in her assent. But she smiles pleasantly.
“Is good?” she asks, finishing one leg and starting on the other.
Oh yes, is good. Nothing makes your day like double casts, an itch you can’t scratch, and interrupted blood flow.
I look down at my legs, now thoroughly trapped in white plaster. I can’t even ask anyone to send me an FTD bouquet or a Hallmark “Get Well” card because this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I can’t be this desperate to lose five pounds before my television debut. Oh yes I can.
“Are you feeling thin yet?” Kate asks, staring at her own plastered arms.
“I’m feeling like a refugee from M*A*S*H,” I reply.
“But a thin refugee, right?” Kate suggests.
A strange aroma starts to waft up off the cast. Either the fat is disappearing or the herbs and algae that were mixed into the plaster are marinating on my sweaty legs. Kate claims one hundred and sixteen secret ingredients, all flown in fresh daily from South America, go into the mix. Sounds like we could have had lunch here after all. The Brazilian comes over and shakes something from a container over the top of the casts. Salt and pepper?
She pats the casts, then pings the flesh on the underside of my arms. “Wrap arms?” she asks.
I watch mesmerized as she pinches an inch of flab. Guess those curls with Berni’s babies didn’t do the trick. Maybe Dylan would make a better barbell. But I can’t bear to have my arms wrapped, too. In fact, if Felita doesn’t stop playing with that too-soft upper arm flesh, I’m going to use one of my leg casts as a battering ram.
“How much longer do we have to stay like this?” I ask Kate when Felita finally leaves.
“Fifty-nine minutes,” she says, trying to look at the watch on her outstretched wrist. “Some people leave the casts on for days, but it’s not recommended.”
As if this shorter stint has the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. I can’t imagine that researchers have run any double-blind studies on this little procedure yet. Or even any animal studies. And come to think of it, if anybody did to a dog what we’ve each paid the Brazilian three hundred fifty dollars to do to us, they’d end up on PETA’s hit list.
I’m trying not to think about a second itch I can’t scratch when Felita comes back with a worried look on her face.
“Problemo!” she says excitedly. “Big problemo!”
Damn. I knew something would go wrong. I’m going to be really embarrassed if I end up dying because she put the wrong herbs in the plaster.
But she has something else on her mind. “Problemo,” she repeats. “Is a man. Come.”
It should be pretty obvious that we’re not exactly in a position to handle problems right now. Or men, for that matter. But Kate has already jumped off the table.
“I’m sure it’s Owen,” she says smugly. Since she can’t run her fingers through her hair, she tosses back her head and shakes it a few times. “Nina has been my secretary forever and I love her. But if she doesn’t stop telling Owen where I am every second of the day, I’m going to kill her.”
I’d be mortified to have anybody see me this way, never mind a lover. But Kate gives a little smile, secretly pleased that Owen can’t bear to be without her for a minute, and heads confidently out the door. I hope the emergency isn’t that he needs a dose of affection because there’s no way she can give him a hug.
Whatever Owen wants must be pretty important because the meeting takes longer than I would have thought. I wiggle my toes to make sure they’re still moving and decide that maybe I should get a pedicure someday, after all. Kate finally comes back, looking shaken. She glances at me briefly and takes a moment as if deciding what to say. Then she takes a deep breath.
“You better sit down
,” Kate says.
“How can I sit when I can’t even bend my knees?” I ask. I’m sprawled across the table, but if this requires my total attention, I can make an effort. I prop myself up with my elbow.
“I just meant for you to steel yourself,” Kate says. And then she seems to do the same. “Sara, there really is a problem. The man outside. He wanted to see you, not me. It’s James.”
So it isn’t Owen who showed up. It’s not Dylan. Not Bradford. It’s James. The name doesn’t make any impression for a moment.
“Oh my god,” I say, suddenly jerking so abruptly that my elbow slips and smashes against the side of the table. “The James? My James? I mean not ‘my’ James. My ex-husband James? It can’t be. He’s in Patagonia.”
“I know it can’t be, but it is,” Kate says consolingly. “He’s here and he hasn’t changed. Or maybe just a little. He looks even better.”
This is helpful. Without thinking, I massage my injured arm, then run my fingers through my own hair. But what am I doing? I don’t want to see him. Not now, not ever. Although if he waits a few more minutes, at least I’ll be thin.
“Tell him to leave,” I say vehemently. “I want him gone. Gone, gone, gone.”
Of course gone is what he’s been. The real question is what’s brought him back. Maybe he knows I’m finally happy and he figured he’d show up and try to screw up my life. Again.
“He says he came back to New York a week ago,” Kate explains. And then she adds quietly, “He wants to see Dylan.”
I fly off the table—casts and all—and land flat on my face. I scramble back up and tentatively touch my nose. Not bleeding. Probably not broken. But at least there are plenty of bandages if I need them.
“He’s never wanted to see Dylan before. And he’s not seeing Dylan now,” I say, trying not to get hysterical. “Go tell him that.”
Mine Are Spectacular! Page 10
