share each week, so they could compare notes the following week. It took a while, but they got better, more adventurous. Wally can always tell someone is on the road to recovery when they start pulling out their late spouse’s cookbook or their grandmother’s yellowed recipe cards. Almost every one of those meals will bring tears.
For Boyd Robby, it was his wife’s sausage cakes, fried in lard. For Otto Warren, it was pressed veal. David Combs kept them stocked with shrimp gumbo for weeks—he wouldn’t give up until he got it right.
For Wally, it was the Spanish pork chops that Virginia used to make. Lay the chops in a baking dish with a slice of onion, a slice of pepper, a heaping tablespoon of uncooked rice, topped with canned tomatoes and season generously. Into a four-hundred-degree oven for forty-five minutes and you have a meal to remember. He can picture Virginia smiling at him from across the table whenever he eats it. He wishes he could turn back time and make those chops for her. He knows she’d be proud at how far he’s come.
So that’s really what their cookbook is all about. Not just food, but memories. Each person is writing a small story about the recipe, about something funny that happened, about the first time they made it, about what it means. It’s about sorrow and joy, about the mishaps in the kitchen as well as the successes. But most of all it’s about the women who left a few hapless men behind, men who’ve learned to pick up a spatula, tie on an apron, and cook for themselves.
Chapter Seven
Connie yawns and turns over, still sleepy. The morning sun casts patterns on Connie’s bed, the sunlight filtering through lace curtains.
She opens one eye and looks at the clock. Eight o’clock. Eight o’clock! Connie sits up in disbelief, then quickly gets out of bed and throws on some clothes. All she can remember is stumbling back up the stairs after Bettie Shelton almost scared the living daylights out of them. She must have turned off her alarm when she came back to bed.
Connie brushes her teeth and adds some hair gel into the palms of her hands before raking it through her hair with her fingertips. She runs out of the room and down the stairs, slowing only when she nears the already bustling tearoom.
A few of the regulars smile and say good morning. Connie returns the greeting as she hurries into the kitchen where Madeline is frying up some eggs in a skillet. “Madeline, I’m so sorry. My alarm didn’t go off and I must have overslept …”
Her voice trails off when she sees Hannah Wang emerge from the pantry, her arms encircling a basket of potatoes, an apron tied around her waist. She smiles pleasantly when she sees Connie, lifting her chin in greeting. “Good morning, Connie.”
“Oh. Hey, Hannah.” Connie watches her place the potatoes by the basin and begin to rinse them. Even though they sometimes ask Hannah to come in and help when they’re busy, it’s usually Connie and Madeline in the kitchen. She hadn’t expected to see Hannah here.
“Hannah called early this morning to see if we needed any help,” Madeline explains as she slides the eggs onto a couple of plates. “As usual, her timing is perfect. I thought you could do with a little rest, Connie, after our exciting adventure last night. You’ve been working so hard lately.” But instead of looking at Connie, Madeline is beaming at Hannah.
“I like being busy,” Connie quickly says. “I don’t need a break.”
“You haven’t taken a day since you started,” Madeline reminds her.
“I like working,” Connie says. She turns to Hannah. “And I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Hannah says easily. She begins to peel the potatoes. “I love being here, it’s like my second home.”
Madeline adds several strips of bacon to the plates, then goes to Hannah and gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “You are welcome here anytime. I love having you here,
For Boyd Robby, it was his wife’s sausage cakes, fried in lard. For Otto Warren, it was pressed veal. David Combs kept them stocked with shrimp gumbo for weeks—he wouldn’t give up until he got it right.
For Wally, it was the Spanish pork chops that Virginia used to make. Lay the chops in a baking dish with a slice of onion, a slice of pepper, a heaping tablespoon of uncooked rice, topped with canned tomatoes and season generously. Into a four-hundred-degree oven for forty-five minutes and you have a meal to remember. He can picture Virginia smiling at him from across the table whenever he eats it. He wishes he could turn back time and make those chops for her. He knows she’d be proud at how far he’s come.
So that’s really what their cookbook is all about. Not just food, but memories. Each person is writing a small story about the recipe, about something funny that happened, about the first time they made it, about what it means. It’s about sorrow and joy, about the mishaps in the kitchen as well as the successes. But most of all it’s about the women who left a few hapless men behind, men who’ve learned to pick up a spatula, tie on an apron, and cook for themselves.
Chapter Seven
Connie yawns and turns over, still sleepy. The morning sun casts patterns on Connie’s bed, the sunlight filtering through lace curtains.
She opens one eye and looks at the clock. Eight o’clock. Eight o’clock! Connie sits up in disbelief, then quickly gets out of bed and throws on some clothes. All she can remember is stumbling back up the stairs after Bettie Shelton almost scared the living daylights out of them. She must have turned off her alarm when she came back to bed.
Connie brushes her teeth and adds some hair gel into the palms of her hands before raking it through her hair with her fingertips. She runs out of the room and down the stairs, slowing only when she nears the already bustling tearoom.
A few of the regulars smile and say good morning. Connie returns the greeting as she hurries into the kitchen where Madeline is frying up some eggs in a skillet. “Madeline, I’m so sorry. My alarm didn’t go off and I must have overslept …”
Her voice trails off when she sees Hannah Wang emerge from the pantry, her arms encircling a basket of potatoes, an apron tied around her waist. She smiles pleasantly when she sees Connie, lifting her chin in greeting. “Good morning, Connie.”
“Oh. Hey, Hannah.” Connie watches her place the potatoes by the basin and begin to rinse them. Even though they sometimes ask Hannah to come in and help when they’re busy, it’s usually Connie and Madeline in the kitchen. She hadn’t expected to see Hannah here.
“Hannah called early this morning to see if we needed any help,” Madeline explains as she slides the eggs onto a couple of plates. “As usual, her timing is perfect. I thought you could do with a little rest, Connie, after our exciting adventure last night. You’ve been working so hard lately.” But instead of looking at Connie, Madeline is beaming at Hannah.
“I like being busy,” Connie quickly says. “I don’t need a break.”
“You haven’t taken a day since you started,” Madeline reminds her.
“I like working,” Connie says. She turns to Hannah. “And I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Hannah says easily. She begins to peel the potatoes. “I love being here, it’s like my second home.”
Madeline adds several strips of bacon to the plates, then goes to Hannah and gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “You are welcome here anytime. I love having you here,
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