Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (23 page)

38

T
hursday morning I’m sitting in my office with Buster Loo on my lap when Jalena calls and tells me that Tia and Olivia have both canceled on Girls Night In tonight. Then she tells me that she’s going to work late and get all of tomorrow’s paperwork done tonight so she can leave early Friday and get to the Downtown Inn and fulfill her obligation to help set up for the charity ball.

“Gotta get my work done and get some beauty rest,” she says. “’Cause Friday is our busiest lunch day and I’ll have to leave here and go straight home and take a shower so I don’t go over there smelling like a chicken leg. And then I’ll be there all night, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then,” I tell her, and I’m so down in the dumps that even the thought of getting back at Lenore Kennashaw can’t lift my spirits.

“What’s wrong, Ace?”

“Do you really want to know?” I say. She says she does, so I tell her that Mason just took not one, but two more people to represent in faulty foreclosure cases.

“Good for him,” she says cheerfully. “Maybe he can help them get their homes back.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I just need to keep that in mind.”

“Girl, don’t be sad,” she says. “Not only could he possibly get those people their houses back; he’ll probably make enough money suing those banks to buy you not one but two Ferraris.” She pauses a beat. “Then you can give me one.”

I manage a laugh and she tells me to stop worrying and think positive.

“Yeah, I’m working on that,” I tell her. I put down the phone and sit there petting Buster Loo, wondering if my misery stems from my inability to acclimate to my new life or if I really am just as crazy as a shithouse rat.

I call Avery and tell her that everyone’s canceled on us, and that doesn’t bother her at all because spike-haired Rob wants to take her to some kind of art exhibit that just opened up in downtown Pensacola. So that works out great for everyone. Except me.

I decide to try harder. I call Mason and ask him if he could have any home-cooked meal he wanted, what it would be. He thinks for a minute and then rolls off a classic Southern-granny-Sunday-lunch menu: roast with brown gravy, peas and corn bread, lima beans, potatoes smothered in roast gravy, fried okra, stuffed eggs, homemade biscuits covered in some more roast gravy, cream-style corn, and banana puddin’.

“Wow,” I say. I scribble all this down on a memo pad, and when he stops talking, I realize I’m going to need a bigger basket with which to transport food.

“Why do you ask? Are you going to cook all of that for supper tonight?”

“As much as I can,” I tell him. “But you may still end up eating takeout.”

“Really?” he says, and then he has to get off the phone, but not before wishing me the best of luck with my culinary adventure.

I hang up, look at the clock, and sigh because it’s not even lunchtime yet. I take a few minutes to write the most elaborate and extensive grocery list I’ve ever made in my life; then I start Googling banana pudding recipes.

“Thank goodness he didn’t ask for chicken and dressing,” I say as I hit the print button. I look down at Buster Loo. “Little buddy, we’re shutting this place down early today.” I pick up the three-page recipe from the printer, then clip my ridiculously long grocery list to the top of it.

I get out a sheet of paper and write, “Please call for appointment” and list my phone number with its big, bad Mississippi area code. Then I wad that up and throw it in the trash and type up a much neater sign. I print that out, grab some tape, and walk around turning off lights. I get my purse, my recipe, and my dog; then I tape that sign to the door and leave.

Two hours and two hundred dollars later, I leave the grocery store with my very first chunk of fatback and a much better understanding of why Gramma Jones always had a garden.

* * *

I go home and put the roast in the Crock-Pot first thing. On top of the roast, I put a packet of brown gravy mix and a box of French onion soup mix, and then I fill the Crock-Pot halfway up with water just like Gramma Jones used to do. I turn that on, hit the button to preheat the oven, and turn to the vegetables. I fill up pots of water for the peas and lima beans, then start chopping potatoes and put on another pot of water for those. I cover the last available stove eye with a little pan of water into which I drop four family-size tea bags.

After the tea starts to boil, I take it off the eye, cover it, and set it to the side. In its place, I put a pot filled with cold water into which I carefully place six eggs. The peas start boiling over, and while they have my full attention, I realize I forgot to add the fatback. I slice off a piece of that mushy stuff and drop it into the boiling water. Then I put butter in the limas and salt those down again. I turn those eyes down to low and put a lid on both pans. Then I grab the bag of frozen biscuits out of the freezer and pop them in the oven. Twenty minutes later, I’ve just finished chopping onion and pickles for the stuffed eggs when the kitchen timer goes off. I try the limas and they taste great so I take them off the stove. I try the peas and they taste like pure-D crap so I put the lid back on and let them simmer a bit longer. I take the eggs off the stove, pour the water off, then let them sit and cool.

I mash the potatoes, throw in some seasoning, try a bite, season them some more, try another bite, add some butter and a tad bit more milk, and then finally pour them into a glass bowl. I start on the fried-okra project, and it takes me about five seconds to abandon that. I think okra needs to be fresh, not frozen, and I get homesick thinking about Gramma Jones’s house, because she had some of the best okra stalks in the state of Mississippi, or so she used to say. I heat up the frozen cream-style corn, which takes only a minute, try the peas again, then get busy with the egg stuffing. The cooked ball of yellow yolk smells like stinky feet, but I just keep stirring in the mayonnaise.

With everything off the stove except for the peas, I decide to tackle the banana pudding. I have to get down on my hands and knees to dig out a double boiler, and when I finally get the dang thing out, it hasn’t been used in so long that it’s coated with a thick film of dust.

I wash and dry those two pans, read my recipe for the tenth time, and start on the pudding. It’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. It just requires a lot of stirring. I chop up the bananas, toss a bunch of vanilla wafers on top of them, and then pour the pudding on top. As I watch steam roll out of the bowl, I’m pretty sure I should’ve let that pudding cool first.

I try the peas again and they still don’t taste right. I think about pouring them down the drain but decide to let them simmer some more before I do that. I go lie down on the couch and think about all the big Sunday dinners I used to have as a kid. I don’t know how my grandmother cooked a meal like that and then still made it to church.

* * *

I make three trips to the car, and I’ve almost got dinner loaded up when I decide to take real plates and silverware. I carefully stack four plates in a small cardboard box and take that to the car along with a bag of forks and serving utensils. Buster Loo is following me every step of the way, showing great interest in every box that goes out the door. I finally get the tea jug, tell Buster Loo good-bye, and head out the door for the last time.

I call Mason and tell him I’m going to need help bringing in dinner, and when I pull up in the parking lot, he and Connor are standing out back waiting. Connor makes a big fuss about how good everything smells as he taxis food to the conference room.

“We’re going to have to build a kitchen and a dining room in here if you keep this up,” he says, picking up the box of plates.

“Yeah,” I say and hope he’s joking.

Mason comes back outside to get another box, and we finally get it all moved inside. They help me get everything uncovered and make sure every dish has a spoon, and when we’re done, it’s quite an impressive spread, of which I am very proud.

“Man, I haven’t had a dinner like this since my papaw’s birthday last month,” Connor says.

“I haven’t had a dinner like this since I was home six months ago,” Mason says.

“I don’t remember the last time I had a dinner like this,” I say, because I don’t.

“Well, I don’t eat dinners like this because I don’t want to get fat,” Allison says from the doorway.

Mason stops dipping potatoes and stares at her. I just look down at my plate and try to remember all the reasons I don’t need to get up and slap the hell out of her.

“You are such a relentless bitch!” Connor says to her.

Then she realizes what she said and how it sounded and starts apologizing.

“Allison,” I say, not believing I’m having this conversation, “it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” She keeps on, so finally I say, “Look, it’s not like it’s some big secret that I’m fat. I know I’m fat. I like to eat. I’m not offended by you using that word around me; now, can we please just move on?”

“I’m sorry,” she says again and looks like she’s about to start crying.

“It’s really okay,” I tell her. Again. And instead of getting up and punching her right in the face because I’m so sick of listening to her mouth, I say, “I should’ve picked you up a salad or something.”

“No, really, you shouldn’t have,” Connor says quickly. He looks up at her. “Why don’t you run and get yourself a salad? And while you’re out why don’t you run on home, pack your bags, and go to Tallahassee like you’ve been threatening to do all week.” He gets a scoop of lima beans and she turns around and leaves. “I am so sorry about that,” he says to me. A minute later, I hear her walk out the door.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him. “I can’t imagine how stressed-out y’all must be.”

“She wants to be stressed-out,” Connor says. “She likes the drama it creates, so she can run home to her mama and whine about it.”

Mason doesn’t say a word; he just sits there with the potato spoon in his hand. His expression is unreadable.

“Ace, thank you so much for bringing all of this up here,” Connor says. “I know it was a lot of work and I really appreciate it.”

“Well, I didn’t make corn bread because something went dreadfully wrong with the peas.”

Connor grins and nods because his mouth is full and Mason finally starts scooping potatoes again.

“This is an amazing meal, Ace,” Mason says. “Thank you.”

39

B
uster Loo and I are snoozing on the sofa at the gallery on Friday when Avery comes in with Rob.

“Someone could come in here and murder you!” she exclaims.

“Nah, I’ve got my trusty guard dog,” I say, pointing to Buster Loo, who is on his back doing the worm squirm.

Rob starts laughing and I stick out my hand. “Ace Jones. Nice to meet you.” His hair is all laid down and he looks even better in person than he did in that picture where I thought he looked rather handsome. He’s actually beautiful, in an exotic way, much like Avery. I think they make a unique and attractive couple.

She shows him around, then takes him upstairs and shows him both of our studios, and when they come back downstairs, he’s very gracious with his compliments. He wants to talk shop for a while, so we settle into the couches and do just that. It’s easy for me to see why Avery is attracted to him, because in addition to his dark eyes and luscious lips, he’s quite the conversationalist. When our discussion winds down, I tell Avery that I’ve decided to take the rest of the day off and I think she should, too.

“What about the gallery?” she asks.

I go in the office and get my
CALL ME
sign, which still has tape stuck to it.

“Really?” she says.

“Really,” I say. “I used it yesterday and it worked like a charm.”

We say our polite good-byes, and Rob tells me one more time how much he enjoyed visiting the gallery. I get my purse and leash up Buster Loo while Rob carefully sticks the sign on the door for me.

“I’m going to start using that sign a little more often,” I tell Avery on the way out. In the parking lot, Rob opens the passenger-side door of his Range Rover and Avery hops inside. She smiles and waves, as does he, and I walk out and get in my dirty ol’ Maxima.

I get home around two o’clock and decide to take a nap. I sleep till almost seven, when Mason calls and asks if I’d like to join him and Connor for some pizza. I politely decline and watch television until he gets home at nine.

He stretches out on the couch and we discuss Allison’s behavior from the night before, and he tells me that when she gets back on Monday, he’s going to tell her that she can work from nine to five, and if she protests, he’s going to point out that he’s not asking. I ask him what Connor said about that, and he says that Connor stood by his suggestion to fire her.

“She’s ridiculous,” he says. “I’m not putting up with shit like that. She’d been acting like a total bitch to
both
of us for two days, and I’d already had all I could stand of her. Then when she said that to you, I just had to sit real still and not move because I wanted to tell her to get her annoying ass out of my office and never come back.”

I start laughing and go over and give him a hug.

“Thank you,” I say, snuggling up beside him.

“Thank you for these superb dinners you’ve been fixing lately.”

“You’re quite welcome,” I say.

He asks me if I’d like to watch a movie and I tell him that I’d love to. I fix popcorn and drinks while he surfs through the movie channels; then when I curl up on the couch with him, I’m feeling good about us again.