A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (26 page)

There was only a little sun out when I arrived at the
Portland Sunrise
studio. Too little. If I’d left the apartment when I’d planned, there would have been even less, but as it was, I was fifteen minutes late with no sign of a parking place and with a gnawing panic in the pit of my stomach.

I’d grown up in Portland—I was a seasoned parker of cars in impossible spaces. But that morning I found myself parking six blocks away and walking uphill in shoes I’d thought were cute but now seemed ill advised.

Three days before, I’d received a call from a production staffer letting me know what time they wanted me there (early), what not to wear (red), and what kind of necklace to choose if I wore one (large).

I dressed for the day in a vintage-looking emerald-green dress from Anthropologie, pairing it with a pearl-and-wire collar necklace I’d picked up at a shop in the Alberta Arts District. My shoes—which would never show up on camera unless I propped my feet up on the kitchen counter—were brown, piped at the edges with bright yellow, and rubbing awkwardly at the bridge of my feet with every step. Hill-hiking shoes they weren’t. I could have worn Converse sneakers and not a single viewer would have been the wiser.

Once I made it inside the building, a harried-looking production assistant showed me to the studio kitchen, where we’d film the segment. “It’s live, of course,” she said. “But if something goes wrong, just roll with it. Our viewers love it—makes them feel like they’re watching a blooper reel live.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Just whatever you do, don’t look at the camera.”

I nodded with a fake authority. “Sure.”

It was a nice kitchen space, though small and clearly not designed for actual cooking. The producer and I had gone back and forth over what kind of demonstration I would do—it would be a short segment, no longer than seven minutes. With Memorial Day looming, we finally settled on hand pies, perfect for picnics and easy outdoor entertaining.

Today’s hand pies were rhubarb with mascarpone, and strawberry with basil. Both were special in their own way, each tasting like summer.

I’d brought my own pie pastry, not trusting whichever journalism student-turned-intern got stuck with the task to make a sufficiently elastic dough for my needs. I set my dough on the counter to reach room temperature before following the production assistant to the greenroom.

The greenroom, where visiting talent waited before their turn on the air, was eclectically shabby. The couch was covered in orange-print fabric that looked to be about forty years old. The walls were covered in framed concert posters featuring musicians such as Paul Anka, Brandi Carlile, and the Decemberists, and a signed photo of Weird Al.

In addition to the wall art, there were several vases of dusty, eclectic silk flowers and a pot of equally attended succulents.

I touched up my lipstick before taking a seat on the couch, away from the mirror. Maybe it worked for starlets, but the last thing I needed was to be staring at my own face.

Sometime later, a knock sounded at the door—I’d been summoned. I followed the production assistant to the set, where I met the producer, the director, and the hosts.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a strange, out-of-body blur. After being transfixed by the curled glory that was Waverly Harper’s hair and the blinding whiteness of Dean Jessup’s teeth, I answered their questions while trying to ignore the hulking black monster that was the studio camera.

How did anyone not stare directly into that thing? It was like facing a bear and looking away.

Prompted by Waverly’s and Dean’s questions, I launched into my spiel on hand pies, how delicious and simple they were to prepare and serve.

I demonstrated how to make dough and then rolled out my prepared dough before showing them how to assemble the hand pies.

Waverly and Dean asked me questions, which I knew logically that I’d answered, though I couldn’t remember a word I’d said. My hands shook as I worked the dough. I reminded myself to smile because I knew that I wasn’t and that smiling was probably the right thing to do.

As I moved and talked and worked, my stomach churned uncomfortably. I could barely look at the food. I placed the finished pies in the “oven” and retrieved the completed ones for the hosts to eat with me.

Eat. I had to eat. Could I?

If Grand-mère could move to America as a widow and successfully run a pastry shop on her own, I could eat pie on local morning television. I squared my shoulders and took a bite while Waverly and Dean happily munched away.

The pie tasted like sand to me, absorbing the remaining moisture from my mouth. “The fruit is bright and pairs so well with the buttery pastry,” I croaked.

And then it came to an end. Waverly and Dean thanked me before turning to the camera—the hulking menace—and saying something about … something. I wasn’t even listening.

The director cut to commercial. Waverly complimented my necklace, Dean shook my hand, and I was whisked away from the set by yet another production assistant.

After a ten-minute walk, I was safely back inside my car, a depleted husk of a human being.

And I still had to go to work.

I stopped back by home just long enough to change my shoes and then left for the office.

Marti whooped when she saw me. “It was perfect!” she said, wrapping her
short arms around me in a hug. “Wouldn’t have changed a thing. You were so natural. And your column? The Internet traffic has tripled. Good work!”

I thanked her and continued to my desk.

“You made it!” Linn cried when she saw me. “How did it go?”

“I still think I might throw up,” I said as I sank into my chair.

“We all watched from the break room—you looked great, you sounded great. Very natural.”

“I don’t know how,” I replied, my voice flat. “I was terrified.”

Linn nodded sagely. “Well, it didn’t come through that way, and you haven’t thrown up so far. That’s the important part.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I guess.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“Good heavens, I hope not,” I told her, before opening my latest article and digging into the familiarity of work.

My phone started ringing the second I started my lunch break. “You were wonderful,” my mother said, sounding happier than I’d heard her for weeks. “Your dress looked wonderful on camera, so much better than that Waverly woman. And your pastry looked perfect—I’m so proud of you. Your grandmother would have been too.”

My heart squeezed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Those hand pies looked really good,” Sophie said when she called moments later. “I’m glad you told that Dean guy that premade dough is a bad idea. All those additives and stabilizers. Did you have fun?”

“It was an experience,” I told her.

Alex sent me a congratulatory text. Chloé called after she’d watched the segment on the DVR, squealing over the experience of seeing me on TV. My dad called from the restaurant after the lunch shift ended, telling me how proud he was and how authoritative I sounded.

Caterina sent me an e-mail ranting about how long it was taking the studio to upload the day’s episode onto the Internet.

I responded to each conversation and missive as graciously as I could; I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it had been the worst morning of my life within recent memory. By the end of the day, the video clip had been posted on the front page of the food section’s website. Lots of clicks, lots of comments, and all I wanted was to go home and go to bed.

Instead, I left work an hour early to supervise the workers installing the range for the new restaurant. Though I took my laptop, I still didn’t get the work done that I wanted to, so I had to use the late-night hours to complete my latest column.

The following Monday, Nico, Adrian, Clementine, and I gathered in the newly refurbished kitchen to begin work on the menu.

Nico and Adrian brought the groceries, bags and bags of supplies, every food group represented. Clementine parsed through the goods, setting aside the eggs, butter, fruits, and vanilla beans, dipping into her own stash of Valrhona chocolate.

“Saw your segment on
Portland Sunrise
,” Adrian said. “You looked good.”

“Thanks,” I replied as I organized dry goods on shelves.

“I was sorry to hear about your mom and her cancer,” he continued. “How is she?”

“Hanging in there, doing treatments,” I answered. “She’s a strong lady.”

“I’m praying,” he said, before getting to work with the ingredients.

I wondered later what he’d meant. Was he a man of faith, a believer? Or was he the sort of person who threw out spiritual-sounding platitudes? Only time would tell, though I reasoned that if I really wanted to know, I could ask Nico.

While Nico, Adrian, and Clementine worked, I busied myself with the front of the house. Alex had delivered the chairs from D’Alisa & Elle the day
before, and I spent the next half hour dragging tables around and arranging the chairs around them.

Strains of friendly banter floated toward the front; I smiled. It would be a happy kitchen, the kind where everyone competed a little but gave a lot, where the camaraderie created strong friendships and better food. The strains of Barcelona, R.E.M., Caro Emerald, and Mumford & Sons provided the soundtrack to the work.

I ached to be there, in the midst of it. To be working with my hands, tasting, choosing.

But my job was to make the whole thing work, to make sure the front of the house complemented the food, to make sure that the whole thing ran smoothly. And anyway, my place was at the newspaper.

Wasn’t it?