Kitchen Chaos (18 page)

I don't know if it's because she's making an effort for me or she's actually starting to like Lillian, but Frankie has been less . . . well . . . Frankie-ish lately when the three of us are together. She and Lillian are far from BFFs, but at least I don't feel like a referee anymore every time we're all in the same room. I'm not sure what will happen when this project is over, but to be honest, it's been nice to hang out with someone other than Frankie sometimes—someone whose personality doesn't “fill the room,” as my mom says—and I hope Lillian and I will stay friends, even if it goes against Frankie's grand plan for the universe.

So now it's Saturday, and my mom is checking on Nana's kugel in the oven and getting Cole ready for his “
abuelita
time.” That's what Angelica calls the
time they spend together at the cooking studio while Mom and I are in class, only Cole can't pronounce
abuelita
so he just squeals, “
Bita
time!
Bita
time!” while my mom attempts to stuff him into his jacket and tie his shoes.

The kitchen smells so good, I could practically take a bite out of the air. This is actually the third time this week that my mom has made a meal from scratch. After we finished off our leftovers from last Saturday's noodle class, Mom got inspired to make her down-home mac 'n' cheese (heaven in a dish) and a lasagna that was almost as good as Frankie's dad's. So what if we've been carbo-loading all week? My mom's getting her cooking groove back, and she's been less moody. I actually heard her singing in the kitchen this morning. It's all good by me.

On the way to class, I carry the kugel while my mom pushes Cole's stroller. She's walking fast, “like a genuine New Yorker,” Dad would say, and it's hard to keep up with oven mitts on my hands
and carrying a heavy, hot casserole. Mom's never been in this much of a hurry to get to cooking class before, but I'm not complaining—and neither is my brother, who's still babbling about “
bita
time” and bouncing in his seat.

We've never been early to the studio before, but I guess there's a first time for everything. Luckily, Angelica's already here, and Cole practically bursts out of his stroller like the Incredible Hulk when he sees her. Javier's here too, and it looks like he's brought some of his old toy cars for Cole to play with. His usual bored look is replaced by a goofy but sort of sweet smile when he sees how happy his hand-me-downs make my brother. Minus the headphones and attitude, I can see how someone might think Javier was kind of cute. I've caught Lillian staring at him a few times during class, and by the look on her face, I'm pretty sure she has at least a teeny-tiny crush on him. And she
did
get pretty embarrassed when Frankie teased her about him.

“Welcome!
Buenos días
!” Chef Antonio says as the rest of the class arrives. Frankie's mom is chatting with Dr. Wong as they walk in, and while I can't even begin to imagine what they have in common, Lillian's mom actually looks interested in whatever it is they're talking about. Frankie and Lillian walk in behind them looking as surprised as I am that their moms are hitting it off.

Henry and Errol and the Newlyweds come in together too. I guess since the rest of us knew one another already, the four of them just bonded.

“I like to call this class ‘Bean Me Up, Scotty,' because today we are exploring the wild and wonderful world of legumes!” Chef announces as we take our seats at the big steel table. “And do you know what else is special about this class? When we are finished, you can say that you've
‘Bean there, done that'
!”

We all groan, but Chef Antonio is so nice that we can't help smiling anyway. Well, maybe not
Javier—over in the corner he's just hunching his shoulders and slouching down in his seat and probably wishing he'd put his earphones in before his dad made that awful joke. Even Lillian's mom is grinning a little, though it's possible she didn't appreciate Chef's lame attempt at humor.

“Okay, okay, no more bean jokes—I promise!” Chef Antonio puts his hand over his heart like he's saying the Pledge of Allegiance. “How about a little history of the legume instead? Seeds of the plant family—beans, peas, lentils, soybeans, and peanuts—go a long way back. They were found in the royal tombs of Egypt, mentioned in Homer's
Iliad
and the Old Testament, and grown by the Aztecs, the Incas, the native peoples of North America, and early farmers in Afghanistan and the Himalayan foothills.”

Wow.
And I've always thought of them as a side dish. Chef dips his hand into a bowl of dried beans on the table and lets them sift through his fingers. “Did
you know that beans like these are believed to have saved medieval Europe from starvation?”

Chef Antonio makes that last part sound totally serious, and we all lean in a little closer, hoping there's more to the story. Who knew beans could be so interesting?

“Speaking of starvation,
amigos
,” Chef says, “let's get cooking!”

Everyone laughs, and my mom, who happens to be sitting right next to Chef Antonio, gives him a playful shove. It reminds me of something she would do with my dad, and Chef is smiling at her just the way Dad would. Is my mom flirting with him?

“Oh, but wait!” Chef says, noticing our foil-covered casserole dish for the first time. “It looks like
nuestra amiga
Jackie has brought something for show-and-tell.” He looks at my mom. “What have we here?”

My mom looks slightly embarrassed as she peels off the foil, revealing a perfect noodle kugel. Even
Dad would be impressed. “This is Nana Silver's noodle kugel.”

She hands Chef Antonio a fork that we brought from home, and he takes a bite right from the pan. He closes his eyes as he chews, as if he's concentrating hard with his taste buds.

“Dios mío,”
Chef says, opening his eyes at last. “Nana is a genius. I must have her recipe.”

My mother gives him one of her “Don't I know it?” smiles. “I'll have to think about it because, normally, you have to marry into the family to get it,” she says. “And only if you promise to include it the next time you teach a noodle class.”

Chef Antonio makes an X over his heart with his finger. “Promise.”

We make a spicy Indian lentil stew called
daal
, Mexican refried beans (which you don't actually fry twice), and Native American succotash with lima beans, green beans, and corn. They all taste better than they sound, but I'm not very hungry.
Something about the way my mom and Chef Antonio have been looking at each other gives me a funny feeling in my stomach. It's the only time I can remember cooking class—or Chef Antonio—making me lose my appetite.

Coming home today, I feel pretty good. Not only did Mr. Mac call on me not once, not twice, but
three
times—
and
tell me that I have an ear for history (or just for him, but if that's what he thinks, excellent!)—but Liza, Lillian, and I are golden for our project.

Since working at our houses has been fairly disastrous, on Monday we asked the nice art teacher, Ms. Lu, if we could stay in at lunch and work in her room. She was totally cool with it, so we've been spending
our lunchtime there every day this week. And we rock! We've cranked out a papier-mâché ice-cream cone. (An ancient food, ice cream, brought to this country by lots of different immigrant groups, because I guess everyone likes creamy frozen sweetness! Plus, it's such a melting-pot example, since the ice-cream cone was supposedly invented at the St. Louis World's Fair in 1904. Melting-pot food and history—a perfect combination.) Then we finished our bagel diorama and another one on the hot dog. They are so cute! We're not finished, but we're in great shape.

So I'm walking down my block, definitely singing a happy tune in my head, when I see Dad up ahead of me—by himself with Rocco on a leash. How lucky am I? This week Dad's off on Thursday, making today even better. When I catch up to him, he gives me a one-armed hug.

“Hey, hon! School's out already? Seems so early. Don't they teach you guys anything?” My dad loves to tease, and somehow, he's convinced that if he says
something often enough, it will get funnier.

“Ha-ha, Dad. We're there plenty of time, believe me. And, I'll have you know, it was stupendous today—one of my teachers even said so.”

He stands up from picking up Rocco's poop with a plastic bag, then tries to ruffle my hair. “Gross, Dad, keep away from me!”

Shaking his head, he starts up our stoop. “Hysterical much, Frankie? My hand was encased in plastic, goofy girl. So I guess you don't want to go get stuff for dinner with me?”

I jump at the chance to go shopping with my dad. It's so fun to watch him make his choices at the butcher shop, inspect the fruit and vegetables at the produce stand, sniff deeply and dramatically in the bakery to make the perfect bread selection, and then, if we still need something else, talk to all the old ladies at the supermarket as we pick up the rest. It's kind of an adventure. And they all worship him. As my dad likes to say, the world loves a fireman.

“Definitely!” I run up behind him. He chuckles and leans inside to deposit Rocco, douse himself with hand sanitizer, and grab some shopping bags from the hooks in the hall. “Let's hit it, Frankie!”

I dump my backpack inside and follow him back out the door.

We make our way down Court and Smith Streets, stopping every few feet to chat or check on one person or another. First it's someone my dad went to high school with, then it's a friend of my grandmother's. A girl who used to babysit us who's visiting from college, then a guy from my dad's fire company. Every day is old home week when you've lived your whole life in Brooklyn.

At Esposito's, the butcher shop, he's waved to the front of the line—and since it's Dad, nobody seems to mind. He points to some pork chops, which the plump man behind the counter wraps up for him right away, congratulating him on his choice and throwing in an extra one or two—for all those growing boys,
he says. Pointing the wax-paper package at me, the butcher booms, “This your girl, Joe? She don't look nothing like you—she's beautiful!”

I blush and shove my hands in my pockets. So embarrassing. But everybody laughs—the guy has said the same thing every time we've come in since I can remember. I used to love it, but now I'm mortified.

“Looks just like her mama, Dom, just like her mama.” Dad smiles. He gives them a friendly salute. “Later, fellas.”

Now we head to the Korean vegetable stand, where he'll probably get a bunch of bitter greens to cook up with garlic and some little potatoes.

I've been telling him about my day and about the exciting progress we're making with our food project. Watching his confidence with tonight's ingredients reminds me of something.

“Hey, Dad, do you know what you're going to make for the Museum Night potluck? Granny's gnocchi maybe? Or that seven fishes thing?”

Poking the dusty potatoes with one finger and balancing the good ones in his other hand, he doesn't even look up. “Oh right, yeah. I haven't even thought about it,
bella
. When is it again? Week after next?”

“No, Dad! It's Monday. You know that already; I put it on the master calendar.”

Turning suddenly, Dad drops all the potatoes he's juggling. “Monday? As in this coming Monday?”

“Um, yeah. Monday. Same date it's been for the last month or so.” I crack myself up. Doesn't anyone listen to me? I cannot take my eyes off some purple peppers and think that Chef Antonio would really like to see these.

Despite years of practice, I'm not prepared for what comes next. Dad squints his hazel eyes, like he's in pain.

“Francesca, I am so sorry.” Uh-oh. Full name, serious tone, this is not going to end well.

“Uh, what's wrong?” I stall.

“Hon, next week I have that training trip. I told you guys, I'll be gone for a few days. Remember?”

You know that expression about blood running cold, or turning to ice, or whatever it is? That happens to me right now. All the liquid in my body freezes, and I cannot move my limbs. Somehow, I manage to squeak something in spite of my clenched jaw.

“But,
Dad
, you cannot be serious. You promised. I
put it
on the
calendar
!”

“Frankie, I guess I forgot to look at the calendar. I'm so sorry, baby. It only works if we remember to check that thing, and anyway, this is beyond my control. It's required training. We have to stay up-to-date with new technology, you know that. It's my job.”

When have I heard that one before? Oh yeah, all my life.

“But the calendar . . . the potluck . . .,” I begin to whine.