Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  I head out to find my folks in their charming kitchen. The Spanish-influenced home was built in the 1920s, and retains the original terra-cotta tile floor in the kitchen, as well as the original tile counters. My parents opened the back wall and added French doors to lead into the back garden, so the kitchen gets wonderful light and breezes on the rare occasion you can get Mom to agree to leave the doors open. It isn’t a foodie kitchen or a chef kitchen, but homey and warm, and really the kind of kitchen you want your parents to have.

  “Come sit, schnookie,” Dad says, patting the chair next to him at the rustic farm table.

  “Do you want a cup of tea? The kettle is still hot,” my mom says, getting a mug off of the weird wire mug tree they keep on the counter, and rendering the question sort of moot.

  “Sure, Mom, thanks.”

  One thing about Mom, she might not remember what she had for breakfast or where her keys are, but she remembers how you take your coffee or tea, whether you like a “real” martini (gin) or a “weird” martini (vodka), and whatever it is you might be allergic to. In moments, I have a steaming cup of Constant Comment with precisely one and a half packets of Splenda and a splash of milk sitting in my hands. Of course, as it is a thousand degrees and I’m already sweating, the hot beverage has somewhat less appeal, but then I remember Jasmin telling me that in tropical climates they drink hot tea in hot weather to make themselves sweat so that they can cool off. Maybe it will work.

  “So, what’s going on? How is everything and everyone? How are our grandpuppies?” my dad asks. Thank goodness. These are easy and safe conversations. I tell them about Andrea and Law, about everyone at the Library, about Noah’s winning his school science fair, and Benji’s new three-month stage at Conlon, a two-Michelin-starred fine-dining restaurant that is owned by my friend Alana’s business partner Patrick. Benji is starting in a couple of weeks, and is giddy at the thought of learning from the team there. I also think he already has an epic crush on Patrick, who is very handsome, but also seriously straight.

  I relish sharing the adventures of Volnay and Chewbacca, ending with the couch-eating incident of this morning.

  “Oh my,” Mom says, wiping a tear from laughing so hard. “What a naughty dog!”

  “He sounds like a real handful,” Dad says, shaking his head. “What was Wayne thinking?”

  “Well, it is actually sort of widely held that older dogs can be rejuvenated by the presence of a younger dog, so Wayne just thought it would be good for Volnay to have a puppy of her own. And a friend of Noah’s mom raises this breed and had someone back out on a purchase, so . . .”

  “So Wayne just jumped in willy-nilly on your behalf,” Dad says.

  “Because deep down he probably subconsciously knew that you would object, so by involving Noah and making it about giving a home to an abandoned dog, he could justify it in his own mind,” Mom says, dipping a little into therapist mode, as she is wont to do.

  “I don’t know that it was that calculated. And it wouldn’t be what I would have done for myself. But at the end of the day, Chewie is sort of shockingly lovable, and it certainly has put a little spring back in Volnay’s step.”

  “Lovable, but hard on the furniture,” says Dad, looking at the pictures in my phone of Chewie sitting proudly in the middle of his reupholstery project.

  “Well, it’s just a couch. I e-mailed the girl who helped me at Montauk Sofa when I bought it, and ordered two new cushions. C’est la vie. Besides, as I recall, I had my own moments back in the day!”

  “Oh, god, you were a DISASTER,” my mom agrees.

  “Remember when she thought she’d help the painters?” Dad asks. They were painting their master bedroom when I was about seven, with buttery yellow walls and chocolate brown trim. Ah, the ’70s. The painters took a lunch break, and I went in and drew a field of brown flowers on the still-wet yellow.

  “The painters? How about the hole she made in the wall next to her bed?”

  When I was about ten, I once spent an entire rainy Sunday reading Nancy Drew mysteries on my bed, absentmindedly picking at a small crack in the plaster on the wall beside me. By the time I finished The Secret of the Old Clock, there was a foot-wide hole in the plaster, all the way down to the lathe.

  Dad chuckles. “How about when she sent the pork chop into the wall?” At this the three of us crack up.

  “It was not my fault! They installed the vent filter backward!” My folks redid the kitchen when I was in high school, getting a Wolf cooktop with indoor grill, and instead of an overhead hood, put in a backsplash downdraft vent that opened up behind the stove. I decided one night to make dinner for us; pork chops to test the grill. I opened the vent, turned it on High, and got to cooking. Already confident in the kitchen and having a little bit of flair, I went to flip one of the chops with a little bit of abandon, but instead of getting my spatula underneath the chop, it hit the bone with enough force to shoot the chop right into the vent. Where it got sucked into the wall, because the filter was in backward, leaving enough space for a prime piece of porcine deliciousness to slip right by. Let’s just say it was not an inexpensive or convenient thing to retrieve. And week-old wall-chop is not going to be the latest Yankee Candle scent.

  My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I, for one, adore this dog, I think it is the closest thing you’ll ever get to having a child just like yourself.”

  And whatever else it dredges up for me, it is good to be a family again for a little while.

  * * *

  Is the water boiling?” my mom asks

  “Yep, ready for balls.” We are making the matzo balls for tomorrow night’s Seder. She mixed the batter earlier today so that it would have ample time to chill, and now that we have rolled them, it’s time to put them in the boiling salt water to cook. My mom brings over the plate with the balls, and I drop them carefully one by one into the boiling pot, reducing the heat to a simmer and covering. We have the brisket in the oven, braising slowly, and a large pot of chicken soup simmering as well. We’ll make the vegetables and matzo kugel tomorrow. The table is already set, and all of the various elements, the apple and nut and wine mixture called charoset, the freshly grated horseradish, and other Seder plate necessities are all set. My mom hard-boiled the eggs yesterday, unfortunately, so I expect they will have rubbery whites and powdery yolks surrounded by green. And since even I can’t bring myself to make gefilte fish from scratch, Mom picked up some from the local deli. It seems like a lot for just the three of us. But I’m sort of glad we aren’t hosting a big event.

  “So, how are things with that Brian fellow?” Mom asks.

  “Over. It wasn’t serious, we were just dating and it sort of ran its course.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, he sounded nice.”

  “He is nice, just, I’m not really in relationship mode right now.”

  “I would think that now would be the time you would most want to be in relationship mode.”

  “I’m just not frankly much in the mood. Dating is hard and annoying. All those conversations, where you went to school and your career and all that. It requires energy I just don’t have these days. I think dating Brian just proved that I’m not ready.”

  “Honey, I know it has been a rough couple of years, losing Jack and losing Aimee, and all of it. But you know we worry for you. We want to know that you are happy.”

  “Well, I think for the time being, we all have to settle for me being content. Happy, I don’t know what it will take to get to happy. And I don’t know that a man will be involved.”

  “What about a woman?”

  “MOM! I’m not gay.”

  “Ha! Go, Eileen. Way to put it out there.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with it if you were.”

  “Of course there wouldn’t be, but I’m not.” Vey is mere.

  “Your dad and I would be fine with it. We live in Berkeley for chrissakes.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, and I know you’d be
fine with it, but I like men.”

  “Okay. Just putting it out there.”

  “Is this about Aimee?”

  “Oh HELL no.”

  “Well, the two of you were extremely close, and you were very involved in her sickness, and you don’t seem to really be bouncing back from her death, so yes, it has occasionally occurred to us that perhaps there was more than just friendship there.”

  “Now I know how Gayle and Oprah feel.”

  “Mom. I loved Aimee with my whole heart, in a totally platonic way. She was my best friend and business partner. We were as close as friends could be for twenty-four years. So I’m not just going to get over it in ten minutes. And a boyfriend isn’t going to fix that.” I’m snippier than I mean to be, but these are the exact conversations I didn’t want to have with my parents.

  “Okay, okay, I just wanted to give you an opportunity to talk about it.”

  “No offense, Mom, but I have a shrink for that, and it isn’t you. Don’t try to be my therapist, just be my mom. I’m as fine as I can manage to be right now.”

  “Well, then, I’m glad you have someone you feel you can talk to.” And the hurt is very apparent in her voice.

  “How are my girls?” Dad wanders into the kitchen.

  “Well, according to your daughter, we are as fine as we are going to get.” My mom, for all her qualities, has a tendency toward petulant when things don’t go quite how she wants them.

  “Eileen . . .”

  “Mike . . .” Uh-oh. Sounds like there is about to be a “discussion.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go check my messages.” There is a knot in my throat, and I can feel that the tears are going to come for sure if I don’t get out of here. I leave the kitchen and head for my room. One of the problems with my family has always been that my folks were so set in their ways by the time I came along, and I’m an only child, so unless the three of us agree on something, it always feels like two picking on one. And yes, often it was me and Dad disagreeing with Mom, on top of traditional mother-daughter tension.

  I check my voice mail, nothing. E-mail. Just junk. I log into Doggie Days, but the webcams are showing that it is playtime for the little dogs, no Chewie. I contemplate another Xanax, sitting on the foot of the horrible pullout bed. There is a knock on my door, and then my dad’s head pops in.

  “You okay?” he asks. And I try to say yes, but the crying starts and then I’m lost. Dad comes in and sits beside me, putting his arm around me and shushing me while I sob into his chest.

  “She just worries about you, she wasn’t trying to make you upset.”

  “I know.” I sniffle. “She just pushes my buttons.”

  “Well, she installed them!” he says, making me laugh.

  “Good point.”

  “And I helped, I know. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. And I don’t mean to shut you guys out, I just, I’ve been so sad for so long and so angry for so long and there is not a thing in the world I can do to change the source of my sadness and anger, and talking about it just makes it worse. And I’m sorry that goes against the grain of the sharing dynamic here, it isn’t that I don’t trust you or think you won’t understand, but it doesn’t help me.”

  “We just want you to have a happy life.”

  “Even if I’m a lesbian.”

  Dad laughs. “That’s your mom. I always knew what you and Aimee had wasn’t romantic.”

  I wipe my face. “Can’t you rein her in a bit?”

  “I’m sorry, have you MET your mother?”

  “Good point.”

  “For what it’s worth, we are enormously proud of you. We are thrilled that you are so financially secure, truly. But we do think that perhaps you should be thinking about how to best fill your days to help you get through this tough time. Maybe find some volunteer work that feels meaningful to you. Or travel. Something to help you refocus your time a bit, and not give yourself so much latitude to stay stuck in your grief.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Your mom went to take a little lie-down.”

  “How is she? Really?”

  “Well, you know, her blood pressure isn’t ideal. She doesn’t have the energy she used to. We’re old people, kiddo, our warranties are up. It’s all slowly downhill from here. But she’s fine, and we’re fine. Don’t worry.”

  He leaves, closing the door behind him, and I lie down, the stupid pole in the middle of my back, the flat, sad pillows, and I close my eyes against the tears that threaten to come back, and sleep.

  After a couple of hours I wake up, still somewhat off and groggy from the Xanax and the emotional discussion with my folks. I reach over and turn the light on next to the couch, as it has gotten dark in the room since I fell asleep. My arm is streaked with dark brown. I bolt upright, wondering if I am bleeding from somewhere. There is more brown on the side of the pillow, on the blanket beside me. Did I shit the bed? Is that possible? I’m checking my face for a nosebleed when a familiar scent stops me. Chocolate. Holy hell, I forgot my mom put chocolates on my pillow, and have apparently napped on them, getting chocolate all over the bed linens and me.

  But at least it isn’t blood or poop. I’m laughing hysterically when the door flies open. My mom, clearly a little groggy herself takes in the sight.

  “Are you bleeding?” she asks, rushing to my side, worry on her sweet wrinkled face.

  “Nope. But I would recommend in future that pillow chocolates be well wrapped.”

  She looks at the mess, slaps her forehead, and then begins to laugh herself. By the time Dad comes in to see what is going on, my mother and I are holding each other, laughing and crying at the same time, which is all you can ask of family. That and forgiveness.

  * * *

  What does the wiseass child ask?” my dad says, leading the abbreviated and somewhat irreverent Seder we tend to prefer when it is just us.

  “When are we gonna eat?” I say, accepting my cue.

  “Soon!” my mom says.

  Things are back to normal after yesterday’s tension. My chocolate bed debacle broke the tension, and we cleaned up, went out to Chez Panisse for dinner, came home and watched, you guessed it, taped episodes of NCIS while both Mom and Dad fell asleep in their recliners. Today we mostly relaxed, went to the amazing Monterey Market, where I bemoaned the climate of Chicago that makes such variety and abundance fairly impossible. We puttered around in the garden out back, ate casual lunch of cheese, sausage, bread, and fruit with a salad of market finds with herbs from the garden. We made the matzo kugel, reheated soup and matzo balls, threw the brisket back in the oven, and my mom made her famous dome of broccoli, just steamed broccoli florets that have been meticulously arranged in a deep glass bowl with all the heads facing out so that you can actually unmold it in a perfect dome. I’ve never been able to successfully replicate it.

  Our Seder hits all the high points, we wash hands, open the door for Elijah, dip twice. We ask the four questions, name all the items on the Seder plate, and claim the ten plagues. We eat the Hillel sandwich. We ask the questions that the Wise, Wicked, Simple, and Too Young to Know How to Ask children would ask, and we answer. My “wiseass child” is our cue that we are wrapping things up, and are going to get to the best part, the meal.

  Mom and I head to the kitchen to retrieve the plates of gefilte fish, each on its classic leaf of romaine with slice of cooked carrot on top. A little horseradish colored magenta with beet juice, and we tuck in. My dad dips his hard-boiled egg in the leftover salt water from the dipping ritual earlier. My mom slices hers and eats it with the fish. I skip the egg, not being a fan of hard-boiled in the best of circumstances, but definitely not when Mom is making them, bless her heart. The fish is good, was clearly handmade by the deli, fairly light and with clean fish flavor, enhanced by having been poached in a classic fumet broth. The horseradish punches it up perfectly and keeps it from getting boring.

  “So glad you could be here, honey.” My mom reaches
over to squeeze my hand. She’s been very solicitous since our discussion yesterday.

  “Me too, Mom. And I was thinking maybe I’d try to come again before Rosh Hashanah, if you thought that was good.” I realize that even if we are beyond deepness, closeness is still important, and I need to make more of an effort to spend time with them.

  “We were actually thinking that we are overdue for a Chicago visit, so maybe this summer we would come there instead, what do you think of that!” Dad says, striking deep fear into my heart. Managing them here in their natural habitat is one thing. Having them invade mine makes for deep mental and physical exhaustion. But of course I can’t say that. What I say is, “Of course, that would be fantastic! And I can have a party at the house, invite all your old cronies to come see you and visit.” If they are coming, a project like a party will keep us busy, productive, and away from dangerous subject matters.

  “Wonderful. We’ll make plans soon,” Mom says, standing to clear the plates.

  We walk out with the soup bowls, and tuck in again. The broth is rich and chickeny, the matzo balls are perfectly seasoned.

  “Great balls, girls,” Dad says. “Are there more?” My dad can eat a matzo ball in half a second, and while Mom and I have barely dented our first, both of his are gone.

  “Are your legs broken? They’re in the kitchen,” my mom says, and he gets up to replenish his bowl.

  “I’m going to get the brisket!” I say, wanting to move this party along.

  By the time we have eaten heartily, packed up leftovers and gotten everything cleaned and put back to normal, they are both wiped out. Dad falls asleep watching the news from his recliner, and Mom heads to bed early to read. My flight is at noon tomorrow, so we will go somewhere for breakfast before I have to go to the airport. Two and a half days, but it feels like I’ve been here for a week. I’m exhausted.

  I head for my room, leaving Dad snoring in front of the TV. I check my e-mail.