Spooning (3 page)

“
Y
'all, we need a Cooking Club to solve this dilemma, not to mention to quell your mother's deepest fears!” Wade emphatically announced in that sweet southern accent of hers when we gathered that evening.

“A Cooking Club? What the hell is that?” we all scoffed.

Take the most undomesticated girls you could find, put them in the same neighborhood, and you'd have us six. But Wade was undeterred. A proper southern girl with a strong proclivity for sweater sets, thank-you notes, and separate monogrammed guest towels in the bathroom, she suggested that we “come together” once a month with a creative dish and recipe cards in hand. We'd “taste test” one another's dishes, then swap recipes.

“Then what do we do with the recipe cards?” we all wondered (though it was actually Sydney who said it out loud).

“My Latin teacher had us keep our index vocab cards in an old shoebox,” I suggested.

“Or you could scrapbook them,” suggested Wade.

“What kind of recipes? Oh, I'll make cheese and crackers!” yelled Tara.

“Cheese and crackers do not qualify as a recipe or a dish,” Wade protested.

“Wouldn't it be a dish if you put it on a platter or something?” Sydney reasoned. Syd had a way of stating the obvious and interpreting everything far too literally. She also had a habit of redundantly stating things twice (we soon came to call it her “ADD,” as in AdDendum Disorder—“I went to BC College!” she'd announce time and time again).

“You have not had my ensemble of exotic cheeses, like the triple-cream brie,” Tara argued.

“Maybe my mother can ship me some of her cannolis?” Syd asked.

“No shipping and absolutely, I repeat, absolutely no delivery allowed, ladies,” Wade ruled. “You must always make or bake. No exceptions.” She was getting quite firm with these rules. She was a kindergarten teacher, and she was good at it. “Come on girls, let's make our mommas proud.”

“I had a bad experience with a rule-ridden girls' club when I was little,” I began.

“Oh and y'all, no photocopying of recipes,” continued Wade. “Actually, you should handwrite the recipes on the cards. That way you can add your own little flair to each one. And y'all know how I love a little flair. I sure as hell don't want this big city to take away my little ole southern sense of style.” Wade had that look on her face: the one she got when she dove into her ultracreative teacher mood zone. I could see flowered recipe cards of various colors adorned with stickers and glitter, and laminated in good firm plastic, floating above her head. I, for one, knew that my personal twists would probably be a bit scary for her. Boy, our little Scarlett O'Hara was in for a real treat with this crew.

Ten minutes later, Wade had declared this powwow our
first ever unofficial Cooking Club meeting. We might not all know how to cook, she proclaimed, but baby steps were just what the chef had ordered.

“I think in honor of tonight, we should whip up a Cooking Club specialty!” Sage sang.

“We already have a specialty? Damn, we're good!” Tara giggled. Sage swung open our fridge and stared, dismayed at the lack of contents. Then again, Skinny Sage always frowned and looked fraught with inner battles when she encountered visible signs of actual food.

Syd laughed, “We just moved in!” But like Vanna in front of the letters, Sage proceeded to highlight the bare necessities that had already made it into our humble icebox: a half-empty bottle of club soda, a jar of pickles (Tara's obsession—she was going to be a scary pregnant woman), a crisper drawer full of lemons and limes (courtesy of Mom, ever worried about the “dressings”), and a bottle of rum chilling in the freezer.

“How about some of Macie's Mojitos?” she threw out to us.

“Sage, you read our minds,” Macie eagerly replied.

Now Macie knows her mojitos, hence the name. She introduced us to her dirty little secret during our senior year. A mere drop of her sneaky cocktail concoction will tingle your spine. The sweet and sour juice had a way of wrapping itself around every inch of your tongue and making it swell with glee. It was like going to Disneyland for the first time. You couldn't sleep before it happened and you wanted more after you'd experienced it. It was deadly—really easy to make and really good going down. What a kickoff! What a recipe!

“Hydration is important,” rationalized Macie. The mojito actually tasted sophisticated—tangy yet minty with ice clinking
ever so delicately. So there we were, embarking on the virgin voyage of our Cooking Club. How fitting we had chosen alcohol as the main dish.

B
y eleven o'clock all us roomies were piled into our barely there bathroom, mojitos in hand, for some last-minute adjustments before heading out. Macie brushed her Bright Smile pearly whites. Tara was bent over, meticulously rubbing raspberry lotion onto her perfectly shaped legs. And Syd was sipping her mojito on the toilet.

“Mace, take off that top. You look like you're expecting!” Tara chided. Macie had put on an empire waist, peasant-looking top. It was a pretty green color and looked good with her eyes, but the free-flowing material was a little much.

“I'm not as trampy as you,” Macie countered.

“I'm not telling you to be a ho, but I do think you should flaunt those abs you work so hard on.” Backward encouragement, but encouragement no less coming from Tara.

“I work them so hard, because I don't have any. I am cursed with the McDougal middle,” explained Macie. She lifted the green chiffony thing and grabbed at the white flesh covering her stomach. “Pinch an inch …” she quoted gleefully with her fist full of fat. Truthfully, she really wouldn't have had much to pinch if she stood up straight and wasn't grabbing as if she had to hold on for dear life.

“J. Lo wouldn't wear that top. J. Lo doesn't hide!” Tara had just recited one of our mantras. Macie nodded and turned back to her bedroom. If you ever wanted the last word among us all, you only had to somehow bring J. Lo into the mix. J. Lo. Those
two simple words signified so much. Take a typical name like Jennifer, so American, so bland, so predictably the name you would find on a mug or a license plate key chain at a rest stop along Route 66. But now shorten it to a simple letter, and ta da! You have a superstar. Maybe my name could be shortened to C. C. Bro. But then again, I was no J. Lo. With her ample derriére and low-slung pants, J. Lo could shorten her name any way she damn well liked. And what a superstar—to have a big old bootie and never make one single excuse! Have you ever heard J. Lo complain that she missed the gym this week, or that she indulged in just a little too much Häagen-Dazs? As if! No, she swings that butt out there with pride. Every girl should take a lesson or two from her. Macie came back out in an adorable tube top.

“Notice the placement of the wide black stripe,” she pointed to her midriff area, “Pure genius on the designer's part. Had to be a woman!” Ah, black—the essential color of New York City.

It was our first night out. No curfew, no homework, no worries, no nothing. It was our maiden voyage as single, soon-tobe professional ladies and we were on the prowl looking for love, drinks, and some Top 10 cheesy songs to ease our minds. Pink might say, “I'm coming out.” Well, we were already out and ready to go … ready to get this party started right.

P
art of me felt silly being so excited about all these “firsts.” But you have to understand, for some of us, the only thing we had to get excited about back at school was the fact that “drink or drown” at the local bars started at 4:30 P.M. sharp on Fridays. For ten bucks, you could drink either really watered-down
beer or imbibe on the themed shots of the evening (with such charming names as the Buttery Nipple or the Blow Job). Can you tell the oh-so-clever bartenders were of the male species? Overall, the whole “drink or drown” thing was pretty gross. The end result was that seven plastic beer cups later, you either felt really bloated or really tanked. Neither of which was really attractive. But we did it for four years and, by golly, we never missed a night.

We ended up at the bar around the corner from our humble abode, Top Shelf. Tuning out all the Top 10 cheesy music, shot glasses hitting the bar, and sultry whispers from boy to girl, I sat back and gazed at the endless possibilities life now had to offer. As I watched a girl daintily feed bar nuts into a cute boy's mouth, I had to consider that Mom could be right—the way to a man's heart might be through his stomach. Perhaps it was time to be proactive. I had lost too many possible boyfriends in college by not calling them back. My mother had never allowed me to make a call if the intended recipient was of the male species, but now that I was out on my own and an adult, I was going to be a hunter. So I began to assess the prospects at Top Shelf and immediately felt glum … How was I ever to find a desirable boyfriend/husband? I had grown up on Disney movies. I was waiting for my Prince Charming. Dark hair or blond … made no difference to me. But I was too cognizant of those random flaws that shouldn't matter. That one over there had a mole beneath his ear, the one by the stairs was biting his nails, the one talking to Tara had a bit of a mullet. (Hockey hair is so undesirable.) I knew that Prince Charming only existed in the movies, but what did I give up on? Where did I compromise?

As the night wore on, I thought about the road that lay
ahead. Robert Frost said, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by …” Okay, so moving to NYC had not been so original, but I was determined to make my own path in this world from here on out. Although, as I felt myself getting sleepy, my current concern became finding my way back to my new apartment. What was my address again? Two roads diverged … and I was lost. The bar door opened to the sticky August night and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. But then the girls beckoned me back to do another shot at the end of the bar. Tara had her arm around Syd's neck—was it a friendly buddy gesture or a you-will-drink wrestling hold? There was a change in the air, like the wind shift in
Mary Pop-pins
. I looked at the dark sky and hoped for sunshine the next day. For the moment though, I was content to step back inside and bask in the amber glow (kind of like sunshine) of the numerous Amstel Light bottles lined up before us as we bonded.

Ever So Creamy Cheesecake

Easy Crust

Filling

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Mix the cream cheese, ¾ cup of the sugar, 2 teaspoons of the vanilla, and the egg yolks together. Pour the filling into the crust and bake for 17 minutes.

Take the cake out of the oven and let it stand for 10 minutes to cool. Raise oven temperature to 450°F.

Mix together the sour cream, and the remaining ¼ cup of sugar and 1 teaspoon of vanilla. Spread this mixture on top of the cheesecake. Return to the oven and bake for 5 minutes. Be sure not to let the top brown.