countertop by the sink.
“It’s a kind of potato pancake. There’s lamb
stew in that pot.” I gestured to the back burner. “Together, they
taste pretty amazing.”
“Lamb? Really?” Spencer pulled a face. “Like,
fuzzy, adorable, baaaah kind of lamb?”
I laughed. “Is there another kind?”
“No way am I eating that,” she said and
crossed her arms to punctuate her declaration.
“What are you, six? At least try it. I
promise you won’t be sorry.”
She frowned, still
skeptical, but I could tell I’d won the exchange when she sniffed
at the air again. “Fine. I’ll try it.”
“And like it.” I winked.
“No promises,” she said, though she beamed at
me. “Did Maggie teach you to cook?”
“She taught me everything I
know.” I deftly flipped the potato pancake. “There’s this old rhyme
that goes something like, ‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan.
If you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never get a man.’ But Maggie
always changed it to, ‘if you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll
never be a
man.’“
Spencer giggled. “The more I hear about
Maggie, the more I like her.”
We grinned at each other. I knew Spencer
liked me, and it was only a matter of time before she’d warm up
enough to tell Tommy she was dating someone, but I also felt a
small pang of regret that I’d never get to introduce her to
Maggie.
“ So what’s with the unmade
bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is
spotless.”
I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate
and glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked
under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter
was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets
beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.
“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.”
An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the
bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before
turning to look at her.
She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s
that?”
“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds
of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got
distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I
decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”
Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with
that?”
“Not really, but I think she appreciated my
ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that
extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to
broaden your culinary horizons?”
She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I
have a choice?”
“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous
amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish
and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from
under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the
kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own
stew down on the placemat across from her.
“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I
also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that
sounds more appealing.”
She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea
sounds great.”
I filled the kettle and set it on the already
hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the
plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea
steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had
pushed into my hands before I left.
“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer
asked.
I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one
of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into
several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.
“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer
knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.
“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp
breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It
welled with blood, and I closed my
“It’s a kind of potato pancake. There’s lamb
stew in that pot.” I gestured to the back burner. “Together, they
taste pretty amazing.”
“Lamb? Really?” Spencer pulled a face. “Like,
fuzzy, adorable, baaaah kind of lamb?”
I laughed. “Is there another kind?”
“No way am I eating that,” she said and
crossed her arms to punctuate her declaration.
“What are you, six? At least try it. I
promise you won’t be sorry.”
She frowned, still
skeptical, but I could tell I’d won the exchange when she sniffed
at the air again. “Fine. I’ll try it.”
“And like it.” I winked.
“No promises,” she said, though she beamed at
me. “Did Maggie teach you to cook?”
“She taught me everything I
know.” I deftly flipped the potato pancake. “There’s this old rhyme
that goes something like, ‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan.
If you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never get a man.’ But Maggie
always changed it to, ‘if you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll
never be a
man.’“
Spencer giggled. “The more I hear about
Maggie, the more I like her.”
We grinned at each other. I knew Spencer
liked me, and it was only a matter of time before she’d warm up
enough to tell Tommy she was dating someone, but I also felt a
small pang of regret that I’d never get to introduce her to
Maggie.
“ So what’s with the unmade
bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is
spotless.”
I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate
and glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked
under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter
was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets
beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.
“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.”
An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the
bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before
turning to look at her.
She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s
that?”
“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds
of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got
distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I
decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”
Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with
that?”
“Not really, but I think she appreciated my
ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that
extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to
broaden your culinary horizons?”
She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I
have a choice?”
“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous
amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish
and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from
under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the
kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own
stew down on the placemat across from her.
“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I
also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that
sounds more appealing.”
She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea
sounds great.”
I filled the kettle and set it on the already
hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the
plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea
steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had
pushed into my hands before I left.
“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer
asked.
I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one
of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into
several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.
“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer
knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.
“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp
breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It
welled with blood, and I closed my
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