“So, you’ll be my partner this morning,” I state. “We’ll do this together. And it’s going to be fine.”
When he looks up, his sight line focused over my shoulder, I see a calm that filters back to me.
I smile sincerely. “We are a team.”
“Okay. Teams are nice.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Teams are nice. Avoiding humiliation is also nice,” I say emphatically.
After I set him up on one side of the small island and make sure that he is grating potatoes only and not fingers, I start chopping vegetables. It’s slow going, as I haven’t used a knife much, but eventually, I have a bowl of frittata ingredients. Probably way more than I need, so I beat more eggs, in case. Next, I slice the strawberries and sprinkle them with a bit of sugar. Apparently, they’ll do something calledmacerate, which sounds bad, but evidently, it means they’ll release juice and become more delicious, and then I’ll add sliced bananas right before serving.
It feels as though there are a thousand things to keep in my head. Cook the vegetables and then mix them up with beaten eggs and cheese and then bake the frittatas until only barely set and still jiggly. Finish prepping the potatoes and then brown them off in a cast iron pan. Brew more coffee and find sugar and milk containers. Put out dishes and silverware…
This is a lot, but I think I can remember what to do
A bit later, when I’m feeling okay, the doorbell rings, and my stomach clenches.
This brunch thing is happening.
“Alex, do you mind seeing who’s here?” I’m in the middle of squeezing starch out of the potatoes, and I’ve got to stir my sautéing veggies in about a minute.
“I am busy. I am slicing bananas to your exact specifications,” he states. “Answering the door would not only be inconvenient, but it might also upset my preciseness.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” I mutter as I wipe my hands on a dishcloth. I shake the stovetop pan before I go to the door.
“So cool that you wanted to host this brunch thing.” Danny is all smiles and waving around a bottle of Bloody Mary mix. Then, he sees my expression. “Oh.”
“Yep.”
“You didn’t take the warning seriously.”
“I did not.”
Danny shuts the door behind him. “Are you okay? What can I do?”
“I’m fine. Mostly. I’m more worried about Alex. Things got weird for a bit, but I think we’re okay.”
He frowns with concern. “What do you mean?”
“It’s totally my fault, but Alex got stressed because I got stressed. I feel horrible, although he seems to be in a rhythm now.”
“Ah. I understand.” Danny’s smile is comforting. “I’ve been there with him. We’ve all been there. It takes a bit to figure him out. What can I do now?”
My sigh is not subtle. “Want a list? Because I’m about to mix up these frittatas and pray that I don’t overbake them. And there’s a hash-browns situation that I’m not feeling confident about.” I take the Bloody Mary mix from his hand and pivot toward the kitchen. “How do you feel about watching a few YouTube cooking tutorials? There’s supposedly something important about getting a sear on the grated potatoes that shall be hash browns before you start stirring them around. I dunno.”
He laughs. “I’ll become a fan.”
“If you can also find yet another cast iron pan, you’ll be my hero,” I mutter. “The cooking people say it’s crucial for making hash browns.”
Danny does turn out to be my hero, and I pour frittata batter into skillets and try not to devolve into a ball of sweat.
Every time I hear the front door open and close, I cringe, and so I continue to hide in the kitchen and hover, doing my best not to open the oven too often to peer at what I’m about to serve to this group of people I barely know. Danny enlists Alex to set the table while he takes charge of the hash browns.
“It was a smart idea to have two pans going,” Danny says. “These potatoes never would have fit in one.”
“I was damn happy that you found two cast iron skillets.” I’m pacing, checking my iPhone timer over and over. “Shit! Juice glasses!”
“What?”
