Mary Ann makes a fun show of slow-crawling out of the water, flipping her hair, and loosely wrapping a towel around her waist as she intentionally does not look up at Slowski. “I’m going to hell,” she whispers. “Feminist hell.”
“You’re a goddess. Own it!” I’m much less suave and way clumsier as I climb out of the water before throwing on my wrap, but I’m okay with being me. “Snacks for all coming up soon!” I scream.
Inside, after we’ve changed into dry clothing, I begin grabbing bowls, pots, and skillets, and I ask Mary Ann to pull eggs and cilantro from the fridge.
“What’s happening here?” she asks.
“Just…I don’t know. I mean, I do, but can you help me?” I beg, slightly panicked.
“Of course.”
My new friend proves to be excellent at taking instructions. She can tell that whatever I’m doing is not easy for me.
While water with a hint of white vinegar heats in a large pot, we both crack a total of five eggs into individual bowls.
Then, I hear Paul’s truck pull up. “One more egg!”
I might hesitate a few times, but finally, I swirl the hot water, creating a vortex before gently pouring in the egg. I wait three minutes before lifting it with a slotted spoon—surely, my dad’s—and setting it aside. I’m realizing now that I didn’t read about whether or not I could do a bunch of eggs at once, but this one looks right, so I’m sticking to this one-at-a-time method. And the boys’ meals can be delayed and maybe even cold. I mean, I’m not a restaurant.
When I ask, Mary Ann cuts slices of the beautiful bread and rubs it with butter while I smash up avocados to make guacamole. This is one of the few things I have made many times, and the mix of avocado, cilantro, red onion, lime, jalapeño, and salt never fails.
She begins grilling the bread over medium heat, and I nod when I think it’s ready to flip.
The golden color is perfect.
She nudges me. “Told you. Team Callie.”
Together, we make our way through six eggs and six grilled bread slices.
While she calls in the boys and situates them at the table, I slather guacamole over hot toast and top each piece with a poached egg, a hit of salt and pepper, and a shot of hot sauce.
“What’s all this?” Danny asks as I set down the last plate.
“Retribution. Or vindication. Or winning. Something.” I stand at the head of the table, nervously crossing my arms and then resting a hand on my cheek. “I don’t know. But this is a version of avocado toast, a California staple that you laughed about, and it’s not shitty. I mean,myversion might be, but it’s not shitty usually.”
Paul stomps in, surveys the scene, and grabs a seat. “Lay it on us!”
All I can do is retreat to the kitchen and wait because I can’t watch. Why I care so much about how a snack is received is still beyond me. Failures have been routine in my life.
My hands are gripping the sink when I hear Danny call out, “Fine, you win. That avocado toast about brought us all to our knees. It’s not exactly a Vermont staple, but it’ll have to be now. Or it will at least have to be a Wake staple.”
Matteo adds, “Why the avocado things be so small? I like another. Or another two. Is possible?”
Having a full-blooded Italian god who likely grew up on delectable local cuisine ask me for more is not too shabby.
I turn slowly, and I cannot think of a single thing to say. I’ll take this win.
Danny makes it even more okay when he continues talking to me from the other room. “This afternoon, I’m going to finish work on the Pathfinder while Slowski and Matteo finish scraping off the roof,” he says through his last bite. “By tomorrow, you’ll have a car and a naked roof.”
I find my way to the entry to the dining area. “Let’s hope my roof isn’t modest.”
