Читать книгу The Crepe Makers' Bond - Julie Crabtree - Страница 14

My Casa de Chaos

M and Nicki are coming over soon so we can do the first day postmortem. (That means “after death,” like an autopsy. I got the word from watching CSI.) We always hang out at my house because M’s mom seems to get nervous if we’re around too much, and Nicki’s house is so quiet and orderly we can’t really cut loose. My house, on the other hand, is generally kind of messy, usually loud, and frequently crowded because Ryan’s friends are always around. I think my parents like the chaos.

Another thing is the food. Our house is wellstocked with snacks and leftovers, and I am constantly making stuff for people to try. M and Nicki enjoy my culinary creations, but Ryan and his friends really devour everything. Sixteen-year-old boys eat like dogs—quantity seems to be the key factor, so I am not necessarily flattered when they inhale something I’ve made. I have seen three of them wipe out a family-size bag of tortilla chips, a vat of salsa, and a large package of Oreos in about three minutes.

As soon as the last bell rang, we had reunited next to the eighth-grade lockers. I explained The Godfather commercial confusion to them as we walked home.

We pile into my house, a bit out of breath from walking fast. I hang my keys on the little hook by the door as I say, “So you can see how it really would look like Dad keeled over in the community garden. I mean, he really did, technically.” By now, M and Nicki are both sort of chuckling about it, but shooting me little cautious looks too.

Nicki goes serious as she looks at me and asks, “You’re okay now?”

“Yes, no. I am totally relieved that Dad’s okay, but I can’t even fathom my embarrassment level about it all . . . the PA announcement, tripping, my Dad’s bad acting . . .” I throw my hand in the air dramatically and collapse onto a chair.

“Air, you’re funny—this whole thing is funny,” M gives me a playful punch on the shoulder.

“Hilarious,” I reply, holding my belly and shrugging my shoulders as though I am cracking up when in fact I am not even smiling.

M rolls her eyes and giggles.

Nicki, sensitive soul that she is, doesn’t laugh with M, but she does smile at me and say, “You really didn’t know what was going on today. It’s not like you made it up for sympathy or something.”

“Nope, I didn’t.” I shrug, fiddling with a loose thread on my cuff. I think about Nicki’s reaction, and ask, “Nicki, when you said something earlier about understanding loss, what were you talking about?”

Nicki cuts me off with a forced laugh. It scrapes out of her throat. “God, I don’t know. I was trying to be sympathetic is all.” She smiles brightly, but I can see that snapping “don’t mess with me” flash in her eyes. I know not to push it.

M pipes up, “Well, Nicki did almost lose her baby brother.”

Nicki looks gratefully at M. “Exactly!”

I say nothing, but I can tell Nicki knows I am still curious.

Nicki goes to the sink to wash her hands and says, “Ariel, this whole thing was just a giant misunderstanding. Maybe M is right, it is a little funny?” She turns off the water and cuts her eyes at me over her shoulder.

My mind flashes to the moment right after the earthquake, that unreal, peaceful silence. Nicki knows that I think she is hiding something. I get up and stand next to her and we both stare out the window. The neighbors have replaced the wind chime that broke in the earthquake, and its tinkling sounds like rain on something metal. I turn away from the window and slump onto a barstool.

M sits next to me as Nicki continues to stare out the window.

Sighing, I admit, “I just feel . . . stupid.” I am beginning to see that it really isn’t a big deal, but I do feel anxious about it still—like I will become a joke at school because of this whole weird thing with my dad, not to mention the klutz jokes coming my way after tripping in front of the whole school.

“Okay then, what’s there to eat?” M gives me a wink and I know we are done talking about it. When M decides to move on from a subject, there’s not much more to say.

“Let’s chow!” I throw open the fridge door dramatically and do a little cha-cha dance as I pull out tortillas and move the milk jug.

Honestly, I still feel weird and worried. I feel like I did after the earthquake last week. I had been very shaken-up (no pun intended there), maybe even more than M or Nicki, but I had to pop up and act silly right away. I pretended I was unaffected, even though my heart was hammering, my arm throbbed from where the flour canister had hit it, and I felt like I might cry. I didn’t, of course. It did make me wonder if I am really as tough as other people think I am, or if I am a big faker.

M and Nicki start talking about going shopping this weekend. M wonders if she can drag her mom out of the house, and Nicki is talking about going to Michaels to get design ideas for this year’s yearbook. My mom is doing laundry in the basement; we hear her muffled “hello” drift up the stairs with the cozy, warm smells of Tide and Downy. Ryan’s friend Matt once said, talking while his mouth was stuffed with lemon pound cake, that he loved walking into our house because it always smells like laundry and food. I guess that’s true.

I begin rummaging around to see what I can make as a snack for us. I decide to use the tortillas to create something similar to an appetizer recipe I saw on a cooking show. I pull out the blender and begin to assemble it.

“Nicki, look, we’re having something blended. Hmm. Smoothies?”

I snap the glass pitcher into the base and shake my head. “Nope.”

Nicki props her elbows on the counter. “Please tell me you’re not going to put tortillas in the blender, Ariel.”

I just laugh as I rummage through the condiments in the refrigerator door, pulling out a few random items. “Patience, girls!”

M twirls in circles on her stool, thumping the wall as she makes each turn, her voice getting louder in bursts as she spins past me on the kitchen side. “I feel like this year is going to be harder class-wise.”

Nicki snorts delicately, “Maybe you’ll actually have to study?”

M comes to a stop on her stool by slapping her palms on the counter in front of Nicki. She gives her signature one-eyebrow-up look. “I studied last year,” dramatic pause, “once or twice.”

I scrape cream cheese into a bowl and laugh. “M, this will be a harder year for you because you have to get me through geometry.”

As we talk about our classes and I work on the food, I feel myself calming, letting go of this horrible tension I have felt all day.

I put a large serving platter on the breakfast bar. I have sliced the filled, rolled tortillas into pinwheels, and they look kind of elegant. I am pleased. I hope they taste good too. With a little tweaking, this recipe could become a go-to appetizer staple in my recipes binder. I need more appetizer recipes.

I watch M bite into one and chew thoughtfully. “Ariel, these are super good.” She shoves the rest in her mouth and bobs her head enthusiastically.

Nicki takes one and delicately pinches off a section. She is always a slow, cautious, tidy eater. She turns her head a bit, contemplating, and says, “Do you have any Tabasco?”

I find the bottle of hot sauce and hand it to Nicki. She shakes out a healthy dollop, takes another teensy bite, and smiles dreamily. “That is good.”

Nicki eats really, really spicy food. It’s one of the things I love about her—the way she gobbles up Thai food that brings most people to their knees, and always sprinkles a whole packet of red pepper flakes on her pizza. Her spicy habit doesn’t match her shy, quiet personality, and I find this very pleasing.

We are snacking and gossiping when Mom emerges. She says “Hi” to M and Nicki, not to me. “How was your first day, girls? I guess you heard about my husband’s ‘heart attack’?” She continues addressing M and Nicki, avoiding me. I guess she’s still mad about the bee kit scene.

“Hey, Mom, wanna try these?” I point to the tray on the counter. “Peace offering?” I give her my best “I’m sorry” expression.

I get a long, level look in return, and then she smiles on the left corner of her mouth. A signature Mom expression. It means I am mostly forgiven. “Sure.” She pops one in her mouth, whole. “Mmm. Tasty, Ariel. Ryan and Matt will probably inhale the rest of those when they get home from football.”

“I made a lot, so that’s okay.”

Mom ruffles my hair and heads to the front hall. “I have to go get them, but need to stop by the hardware store first. Oh, Mattie? Your mother called and asked me to make sure you are home by 5:30. I think she said that your dad is coming or something . . .” She trails off as she grabs her car keys from a hook by the door.

M looks a bit puzzled, maybe concerned. “Okay, Carolyn,” M says. “I’ll be sure to take off before then.”

The door bangs shut and Nicki and I both turn to stare at M, waiting expectantly for her to speak.

She pops another pinwheel in her mouth and chews loudly. Finally, she says, “I have no idea. My dad isn’t supposed to visit until next week. Maybe the message got mixed up or something.” She takes another, and carefully drips one drop of Tabasco on it. She chews this one more slowly and shrugs her shoulders.

We spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, laying around and organizing our new binders. Nicki is trying to teach me and M to get more organized, but it is not a successful campaign. Still, with the clean slate of a fresh school year, Nicki is optimistic we will keep “the system”—which involves color-coded, tabbed and labeled binder dividers—in place. Nicki gets a rush from organizing and cleaning. Seriously. I guess we all have our “things.”

Nicki leaves before M, and as she rounds the corner outside I see her opening her phone. Again. Another “emergency.” I know M thinks I am being suspicious and paranoid, but Nicki is usually not about sneaking and secrets.

M leaves around five, just as my mom, Ryan, and his friend Matt tumble through the door. It gets loud and confusing for a minute with hellos, good-byes, people trying to go both in and out of the front door, our dog Fiesta barking in excitement, and my mom yelling about Ryan and Matt’s dirty sneakers and telling Fiesta to pipe down. Geez, it’s la casa de chaos sometimes around here.

I follow M out to the front yard, and we hug on the sidewalk. She promises to call and tell me what’s going on.

I go back into the house. The tortilla spirals have already disappeared. In my room, I flip on my PC and begin typing up the recipe and notes for the appetizer I made this afternoon. I stop typing and head to dinner when I hear mom shouting that it’s time to chow down. If M hasn’t called by after dinner, I am going to call her.

Tortilla Spirals à la Ariel

6 large flour tortillas

1 package cream cheese, softened

⅓ C. sour cream

½ t. garlic salt

½ t. onion powder

2 T. chopped sun-dried tomatoes (They are usually sold in

jars in the produce section. They are totally different-

tasting than fresh tomatoes, so don’t substitute.)

1 small can chopped olives

⅓ C. chopped nuts—pecans are really good, but pista-

chios or walnuts or pine nuts would work too

Use a blender or a hand mixer to mix cream cheese, sour cream, onion powder, and garlic salt until fluffy and creamy. Spread equal amounts of cream cheese mixture on each tortilla. Sprinkle all the other ingredients over the cream cheese. Roll each tortilla up as tightly as possible. Using a sharp knife, cut the roll into vertical circles about a quarter inch thick. The slices are pretty spirals, and look nice alone, but a light sprinkling of paprika or perhaps a bit of parsley would look great. Make hot sauce available for dipping.