pouring tea for Aunt Mayda. His decision to take the four of us out for dinner. I know he’s only acting friendly. Darn that Archie! He’s gotten me thinking about Daddy and Aunt Mayda as an item, and I can’t stop.
Tammy opens the heavy door to the cafeteria. Her other hand rests on my arm. “Relax, Vannie. No one can make your father and Mayda do anything they don’t want to. Have fun tonight.”
“Right,” I agree, determined to do just that.
Aunt Mayda arrives half an hour late for dinner. “Sorry,” she apologizes, and goes on about a client being delayed and the awful traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Daddy kisses her cheek. Then he steers her into his office to discuss some issues he insists require her special attention.
He always gives her a peck on the cheek, I remind myself. A kiss on the cheek is for good friends and relatives.
“Let’s eat, Vannie,” Robby says. “I’m hungry.”
“We’ll eat as soon as everything’s on the table,” I tell him. “Get the water and the salad from the refrigerator. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Suddenly I’m too busy to worry about Daddy and Aunt Mayda. When I’ve gotten the chicken, rice, and squash from the oven, I send Robby into Daddy’s office to say dinner is ready. Daddy and Mayda come to the table deep in conversation about the December holiday events.
I start serving. Daddy chatters on, ecstatic over some choral group he’s engaged.
“No business talk at dinner,” I say sharply. “Family rule.”
Daddy stops in mid-sentence to stare at me. It is a family rule, but no one’s said so since before Mom got sick.
Aunt Mayda smiles. “Sorry, Vannie, and a good rule it is. Excuse me while I wash my hands.”
When she returns to the table, Aunt Mayda studies her plateful of food. “Everything looks wonderful. Don’t tell me you made this chicken yourself, Vannie.”
“Uh-huh. I made everything.”
We start to eat. Aunt Mayda smiles at me. “Mmmm, the chicken is delectable. We know whose cooking genes you’ve inherited.”
My mother’s genes and Archie’s recipes. “Did your father used to prepare this chicken dish?”
Puzzled, Aunt Mayda shakes her head. “No, why do you ask?”
I feel my ears turning warm. “I was wondering, since you said he used to make the pasta-cheese omelet—I mean, the dish I made the day we moved in.”
Mayda laughed. “Well, that was the extent of his cooking.”
“Did your grandmother like to cook?”
Mayda shook her head. “Not that I remember. My mother prepared our meals. Though until I was four, we had a cook—Mrs. Beasley. She turned out lovely pastries but always overcooked the roasts.”
“Is that why she left? Your parents fired her?”
“Vanessa!” Daddy breaks in. “Stop cross-examining Mayda. Let her eat in peace.”
“It’s all right, Roger,” Aunt Mayda says. “I suppose living in the cottage has made Vannie curious about my family.”
We eat in silence. The chicken is good, I notice. So is the squash, if a bit overdone. And the rice could use a bit more salt.
“Vannie, may I have more chicken?” Robby asks. He’s been eating steadily, ignoring my questions to Aunt Mayda.
“I’d like some more, too, Vannie,” Aunt Mayda says. She forks the piece she has left, and holds it up to Daddy. “What do you think Roger?”
Daddy cocks his head to one side as he chews. “Nice. Very nice.”
Aunt Mayda beams. “I think it would make a terrific entree choice for the holiday dinner.”
I hold my breath while Daddy thinks this over. “Possibly,” he agrees.
I have a sudden inspiration. “I could add some dried cranberries and almonds to spice it up.”
“You could add?” Daddy asks. “We do have a caterer, Vannie—Gracious Dining.”
Aunt Mayda makes a face. “Their trial period is almost over and, frankly, I’m not impressed.”
Daddy puts his hand to his head. “Don’t tell me you want to change caterers on top of everything else.”
“I was
Tammy opens the heavy door to the cafeteria. Her other hand rests on my arm. “Relax, Vannie. No one can make your father and Mayda do anything they don’t want to. Have fun tonight.”
“Right,” I agree, determined to do just that.
Aunt Mayda arrives half an hour late for dinner. “Sorry,” she apologizes, and goes on about a client being delayed and the awful traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Daddy kisses her cheek. Then he steers her into his office to discuss some issues he insists require her special attention.
He always gives her a peck on the cheek, I remind myself. A kiss on the cheek is for good friends and relatives.
“Let’s eat, Vannie,” Robby says. “I’m hungry.”
“We’ll eat as soon as everything’s on the table,” I tell him. “Get the water and the salad from the refrigerator. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Suddenly I’m too busy to worry about Daddy and Aunt Mayda. When I’ve gotten the chicken, rice, and squash from the oven, I send Robby into Daddy’s office to say dinner is ready. Daddy and Mayda come to the table deep in conversation about the December holiday events.
I start serving. Daddy chatters on, ecstatic over some choral group he’s engaged.
“No business talk at dinner,” I say sharply. “Family rule.”
Daddy stops in mid-sentence to stare at me. It is a family rule, but no one’s said so since before Mom got sick.
Aunt Mayda smiles. “Sorry, Vannie, and a good rule it is. Excuse me while I wash my hands.”
When she returns to the table, Aunt Mayda studies her plateful of food. “Everything looks wonderful. Don’t tell me you made this chicken yourself, Vannie.”
“Uh-huh. I made everything.”
We start to eat. Aunt Mayda smiles at me. “Mmmm, the chicken is delectable. We know whose cooking genes you’ve inherited.”
My mother’s genes and Archie’s recipes. “Did your father used to prepare this chicken dish?”
Puzzled, Aunt Mayda shakes her head. “No, why do you ask?”
I feel my ears turning warm. “I was wondering, since you said he used to make the pasta-cheese omelet—I mean, the dish I made the day we moved in.”
Mayda laughed. “Well, that was the extent of his cooking.”
“Did your grandmother like to cook?”
Mayda shook her head. “Not that I remember. My mother prepared our meals. Though until I was four, we had a cook—Mrs. Beasley. She turned out lovely pastries but always overcooked the roasts.”
“Is that why she left? Your parents fired her?”
“Vanessa!” Daddy breaks in. “Stop cross-examining Mayda. Let her eat in peace.”
“It’s all right, Roger,” Aunt Mayda says. “I suppose living in the cottage has made Vannie curious about my family.”
We eat in silence. The chicken is good, I notice. So is the squash, if a bit overdone. And the rice could use a bit more salt.
“Vannie, may I have more chicken?” Robby asks. He’s been eating steadily, ignoring my questions to Aunt Mayda.
“I’d like some more, too, Vannie,” Aunt Mayda says. She forks the piece she has left, and holds it up to Daddy. “What do you think Roger?”
Daddy cocks his head to one side as he chews. “Nice. Very nice.”
Aunt Mayda beams. “I think it would make a terrific entree choice for the holiday dinner.”
I hold my breath while Daddy thinks this over. “Possibly,” he agrees.
I have a sudden inspiration. “I could add some dried cranberries and almonds to spice it up.”
“You could add?” Daddy asks. “We do have a caterer, Vannie—Gracious Dining.”
Aunt Mayda makes a face. “Their trial period is almost over and, frankly, I’m not impressed.”
Daddy puts his hand to his head. “Don’t tell me you want to change caterers on top of everything else.”
“I was
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