Thank you, God.
“Let me grab the bag I left at the door.” I’m going to need energy for this conversation.
As I suspected, Mom was in the middle of some elaborate food preparation for tonight’s dinner. She’s already started the meat lasagna made from scratch—including the fresh pasta. Nonna Ludovica’s recipe is so outstanding, it deserves five Michelin stars.
“Those were amazing.” Mom pushes her plate away. “I doubt I’ll be hungry for lunch.”
“Same here.”
“Can you buy Jewish bagels in Summerville?”
I shake my head. “There are a few authentic Jewish bagel delis in Texas, but none in the small town I live in.”
“Another reason that makes New York the best city in the world.”
She’s revving up her engine.
“The diversity of food is unparalleled. Everything is better in New York.”
As usual, she’s campaigning for the Big Apple with more fervor than the mayor.
And everything is bigger in Texas.
I respond with a tight smile.
The Bialetti burbles on the stovetop.
Mom’s gaze swings to it before locking her eyes onto mine. “More coffee?”
Saved by the stainless steel stovetop coffee maker.“Yes, please.”
She gets up, heads to the stove, pours coffee and frothed milk in our cups, and returns to the table.
I tap my fingers on the table, willing my nerves to settle.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing a cup from her.
She sits down. “I’m glad you came early. We have time to catch up. Things are so frantic at the restaurants,” she says in between sips.
“That’s what I thought. Sitting like this and enjoying a cup of coffee with you is such a treat.”
“I agree,” she says. “So tomorrow our little girl becomes a star for the second time.” She reaches out for my hand. She gives it a good squeeze and we smile wide at each other. “You have no idea how proud Daddy and I are.”
I squeeze back. “Thanks. I’m pretty excited.”
“I told everyone at church and every customer I’ve come across at the restaurants. Can you imagine? The New York Times wants to feature my cupcake. Few ladies at church are able to say their child has celebrity status. It was one thing when you could ride Riley’s coattail, but now you can stand on your own.” She chokes up.
“Mom. You can’t keep crying like this.”
“I can’t help it. It seems like just yesterday you were a tiny adorable baby.”
“Twenty-four years ago?”
We both laugh.
“You’re soon on your way to be bigger than Riley. A mother knows,” she says, tapping the tip of her nose.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
