Cooking For the Fates

The lines at the supermarket are always the worst part of shopping. I know, I know—but what about the lingerers or the ankle biters or the hummers? I can handle all of that because I have a certain amount of patience on retainer for my journey through the store.

Do I still fight to tap the lady pursuing the produce on the shoulder because she’s standing in front of the oranges that I need? Absolutely. Do I want to scream, “It’s not staying in your body forever, just grab some damn apples!” Without a doubt, I do. That’s why, by the time I get to check out, I’m at my wit's end. 

No, I’m not always this insufferable. I swear, but I have a date. A date that I’ve been trying to get up the courage to ask for, for an embarrassingly long time. Give me some credit—it’s my first date in ages, and I’m certain, at this moment, that I have never been more nervous.

Standing in this God-forsaken line, I’m sweating profusely thanks to my faux-down, knee-length winter jacket and thick hair wrapping itself uncomfortably around my damp neck. I can distinctly remember the middle-aged sales associate who helped me pick it out. As department store employees go, she had looked like most of her closet was from the store—in a good way. She assured me at least five different times that it would be “light and airy” but would still keep me nice and toasty on the colder days. She was right.

I look down at my shopping cart. It’s not the big one but one of those mini double-decker doohickeies. I didn’t think I needed that much stuff, but now that I’m assessing what I put in here, maybe the regular-sized cart wouldn’t have been a bad idea. 

My mom always told me that if I wanted to impress a man with my cooking, then I should make her “famous” chicken with scratch-made pasta and red sauce. Not that I’ve ever really felt like cooking and impressing men went hand-in-hand as an adult woman, but like I said: long time, nervous. Now I have every ingredient from flour to Roma tomatoes and fresh basil with hours until he shows up at my apartment.

A wave of anxiety floods my body, and nausea claims its place in the pit of my stomach. Before my mind has time to catch up, someone taps my shoulder. I turn and see a gentleman standing behind me. He has the same cart as mine, but it’s significantly less full, and he looks just as displeased to be standing in this line as I am. 

Entirely caught off guard, words fail me. I just stare at him wide-eyed like I'm a ghost and a living person has finally seen me for the first time in years. 

“Ma’am?” His voice is warm and tired, like the bags under his eyes and the stubble lining his chin.

I try to hum a response, but it comes out as more of a squeak that I forget to be displeased by.

He looks far too young to be that tired. Suddenly, I’m all too aware of whether I look the same. 

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, “You’re next.” Some of that irritation washes away from his face, and I realize that his dark brown eyes are incredibly kind. 

“Oh,” I blink and look back to where the young couple ahead of me had been unloading their cart. They are indeed already paid out and bagging up their purchase. I stutter out a “sorry” and begin unloading my own over-stuffed cart. 

Even though my mind is somewhere else entirely, my body moves as though it’s on autopilot, taking things out based on how I’ll bag it all up. Olive oil, flour, spices, eggs, wine, butter, cheese. Bag one, done. Tomatoes, basil, garlic, bread, parsley, onions, celery, carrots. Bag two, done. Chicken can stay by itself. A couple of armfuls of miscellaneous products later, and I have everything on the conveyor belt. The sound of the pimply teenage clerk’s PoS scanner beeps away so he can move on to the man behind me. 

Before I can keep moving to the end so I can begin bagging up my items while he continues ringing me up, the man behind me says, “I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?”

I look at him again. Really look at him and notice that he is only a little older than me, maybe, and those are scrubs underneath his own puffy-but-not-too-puffy winter jacket. And then it clicks.

“I was in a car accident last year,” I say slowly, “I think you were one of the nurses who helped me through my recovery. Steven, right?”

A heavyweight starts to settle on my shoulders. Like that part of my life wasn’t constantly looming in the back of my mind. Now I get a big, fat, smack-you-in-the-face reminder standing behind me in my third least favorite place in the city hours before my first date in God knows how long. 

He nods his head to confirm I recollected his name correctly, but a weird look settles on his face. It’s something akin to sympathy, but like he’s fighting the urge to show me that he feels sorry for me. “Oh, that’s right.” His words are slow. Careful. “I'm so sorry about what happened to your mom. How are you doing?”

Nope. I’m not having this conversation. I give him a tight-lipped smile that I think clearly says I don’t want to talk about this in the checkout line of St. Paul’s Grocer and say, “I’m fine.” 

Some guardian angel must be looking over me because he says, “Glad to hear it.” With a nod to my quickly diminishing pile of groceries, he adds, “I hope you enjoy whatever you’re cooking. It looks delicious.” And then he puts the divider behind my half a gallon of almond milk and granola cereal and begins unloading his own cart. 

“Thank you,” I say a little less unkindly. Remembering that my own issues don’t give me the right to be entirely heinous to kind nurses at the grocery store, I quip, “It was great to see you outside of the ICU.” 

A breathy puff of a laugh and what I swear is a genuine smile radiate from him. “You, too.” 

That was that. I pay my $250 and some change bill and haul my cart away from the register. I'm out of that grocery store without a second glance behind me. 

Homemade pasta and sauce will take up pretty much all the time I have between now and 7:00. Knowing Dillon, he isn’t going to be late either. 

It doesn’t need to be done by the time he gets there, Lyd, I remind myself. I’m not a 1950s housewife with dinner on the table for my hardworking husband. Honestly, he’s lucky I’m going to these lengths at all. I think it's been at least a year, maybe more, since I actually cooked something.

The sun is sitting low in the sky, and rush hour traffic is hectic, but I make it back home in record time, thankfully. 

My apartment is modestly sized, a runaround way of saying that I live alone. The front door opens up to a small living area with my parent’s old couch. It’s about ten unhurried steps away from the kitchen, nestled in the corner of the opposite wall. An island floats in the middle, with the dining area on the other side. My one bedroom and bathroom are connected to the side of the living room that doesn’t open up to the kitchen or house the wall-mounted TV. 

After all the groceries are unloaded and put away, I turn on some music and set to work. The first thing is the pasta dough so it can be set while I prepare the sauce. I wipe off the counter just to be sure that it’s clean before setting out my measure spoons and cups, a fresh sack of flour, theolive oil, and some salt.

Even though it’s been a while since I made my own pasta, I can pull out the recipe from the archives of my mind like it’s an actual index card with the short recipe written out in my mom’s handwriting. 

My family’s not Italian—not very, at least—but my mom was a chef, and she detested boxed noodles.    

Before dipping my measuring cup into the flour, I wipe my sweaty palms on my hips. The paper bag crinkles as I reach in and then dump out a mound of the ingredient onto the counter, creating a little nest for the rest. After mixing it all together, I kneed it ‘til it’s smooth and everything’s well incorporated. Even if I'm as good of a cook as my mom was, I’m still very impressed with my finished product. 

My hands and forearms are throbbing and tired by the end of it. I brush my hands together to get rid of all the dough and flour stuck to them before moving on.

“Beautiful,” I say to no one but ABBA since that’s what was currently playing on my homepod. 

I fill my lungs with a deep breath and then sigh it out loudly, letting my tongue hang out while I do it to “get it all out,” as my therapist had instructed me to do. 

Wine. I bought two bottles, so it doesn’t look like I didn’t bother to buy a fresh one for our date. Or that I had been so nervous that I couldn’t wait to crack it open—even if it were true.

The deep red liquid gurgles against the neck of the bottle as I pour it generously into the oversized wine glass. My first sip (gulp) is warm and sweet and tannic-y.

Another sip (gulp), and I’m off to work again, preheating the oven and cutting up the veggies. My wooden cutting board still smells like lightly treated wood, a key indicator of how much I don’t use it. I make far too many single-serving instant meals in my trusty microwave, I realize. 

Once the diced onion, celery, and carrots are sauteeing in olive oil with salt and pepper in my stockpot, an almost intoxicating aroma begins permeating the small space. Maybe it’s just the wine, but I get the distinct feeling of melting as I mince up the garlic.    

The beep from my oven draws me back into the present, letting me know that it’s ready for my chicken. I pull out a pristine-looking glass pan and set it on the white stone countertop with a light clink. After seasoning and oiling the chicken, maybe a little too generously, it’s in the oven cooking. 

I pull out another pot and begin the process of boiling some water. It’s been about thirty minutes, so the pasta dough should be ready for noodle-making. I finish adding all the ingredients for the sauce and let that cook while I start on the ball of dough.

Just because my mom loathed boxed pasta didn’t mean that her noodles were nice, and mine are even less than. 

I cover the island top with a fresh sheet of flour and roll out the dough as flat as I can. With a knife so nice and sharp it could be brand new, I cut down its length in long strips, making perfectly crooked noodles. Then I cut those in half. 

As I’m waiting for the water to finally boil, I hear a knock at the door and my phone buzz at the same time. Dillon must be early. Precisely on-time? Sure, but early would be an anomaly that would even impress me. 

I grab my phone as I make my way toward the door, checking the text before opening it. The little message bubble makes me pause, though, about two steps away from the handle, hand out, readying to open it. 

Sorry, Lyd. Won’t be able to make it tonight. Something came up. Will make it up to you... I PROMISE. 

“Asshole,” I breathe out angrily. My eyes begin to sting. I’m not sure if I’m more hurt or angry. Who cancels a date thirty minutes before it’s supposed to happen? With a text message nonetheless.

Knock knock knock comes again from the dark slab of wood in front of me.

My head jerks up, causing a tear to slip down my cheek. I roll my eyes. I’m not wasting my tears on that bastard. 

I sniff and wipe away any lingering wetness before ripping the door open a little bit more aggressively than I mean to. 

I hadn't even looked through the peephole to see who it was first. 

I’m met with deep brown eyes and a startled “Oh,” followed by an all-too-kind, “Are you okay?”  

Steven. 

Flying by his question entirely, I ask my own, “What are you doing here?” I glimpse at the hallway around him. “How do you know where I live?”

Suddenly, I’m forgetting my fury and self-pity and feeling far more like I’m about to end up on an episode of some millennial girl’s murder podcast.  

Steven’s eyes go a little wide like he’s realizing what I’m probably thinking, and his nostrils flare. “I uh,” he lets out a chuckle that could probably fool me into letting him in if he asked, murderous intentions entirely forgotten. “I– You left your wallet at the register.” He holds up a chestnut-colored hunk of leather I recognize as mine. His words are hurried and nervous now, “I know the clerk. He’s my nephew, and I told him I would return it. Your ID was inside. I had just hoped the address was current.” He holds it out for me to take. 

I do with a quizzical look on my face. “Thank you,” I say hesitantly. Even if he is a nurse, “murder podcast” is still a little too fresh in my mind. 

“I’m sorry,” Steven blurts out awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably should have just let you go back and get it yourself. I’m realizing now how weird this is.” 

I bite my cheek from smiling, finding this situation a lot less homicidal and far more humorous. “It’s a little weird,” I say lightly. 

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together before saying, “I’m sorry.” He opens his eyes to look at me again. A fluttering feeling moves through my stomach and into my chest. “I’m sorry I interrupted your evening, too. I’ll be on my way now.” He says the last part with a thumb toward the direction he had to have come in from.

As he starts walking away from my doorstep, I tell him to wait a little more loudly than I mean to, my heart thundering in my chest now for an entirely new reason. 

Steven stops his movement and looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes alight, prompting me to continue. 

“I was supposed to have a date tonight,” my mouth is saying the words before my brain can catch up. He opens his mouth to say something, but I continue before he can, “I was making him dinner, and he canceled. So I have all this food and no one to eat it with me. I haven't cooked in a long time, though, so I can't promise it will be good.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” he says a little reluctantly, though he’s not making any moves to start leaving again. 

A bitter laugh leaves my mouth. “Please. It was supposed to be a first date. And he bailed. Thirty minutes beforehand. With a text. There are no toes to step on.”

He pauses, unsure of whether he should really accept my invitation or if it's some kind of trick. Maybe I’m the one giving off serial killer vibes now.

Against my own better judgment, I add, “If anything, then just as a thank you for coming all this way to return this to me.” I hold up the wallet I had entirely forgotten about until now.

“Okay,” Steven agrees slowly before making his way across the threshold. I hold the door open to let him pass through. The air that rushes past me is cold from the winter air outside and smells musky; like he’s just gotten done with a long shift. I don’t hate it.  

“I hope you like pasta,” I say from behind him as he makes his way into the space. 

He doesn’t get too far before turning to face me and saying, “As long as it isn’t made with boxed noodles.” 

I laugh at the mischievous look on his face. “You joke, but I am in the midst of making my own pasta.”

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Your date canceled on someone willing to make him homemade pasta?”

I nod my head in confirmation. “He promised to ‘make it up to me.’”

Steven blows out a breath, and it ruffles the hair around my neck. “If you want my unsolicited advice, he doesn’t even deserve a second chance.”  

I smile and offer to take his jacket, which he promptly removes. I hang it up next to my own in the entryway closet. 

“It smells amazing in here, by the way,” Steven says as we make our way into the kitchen. “How can I help?”

I look at the chaos that is currently my kitchen. Pasta rolled out and cut up on a sheet of flour with a half-drank glass of wine smeared in greasy fingerprints and mauve lipstick. Water boiling on the stove next to a pot of bubbling and spattering pasta sauce. My timer yelling at me that the chicken’s done. 

“Honestly,” I drawl, “this is a damn mess. I think a better question would be, ‘How can’t you help me.’”

Steven laughs a laugh that makes me want to laugh, too. “Alright then, let’s get to work.”

I don’t really know if I believe in fate, but I’m having a hard time imagining that this wasn’t the work of some kind of divine intervention. Even if our time’s only fleeting.