twenty-one
The taste of coffee shouldn’t be affected by where you drink it, but I suspect it is. Docks, even broken ones, probably infuse flavor. My morning ritual of drinking coffee and obsessing over recipe videos on my dock is a much-needed new normal. I watch tutorials that teach me how to chop, mince, sauté, steam, blanch, broil, puree, and on and on, and then I whip out pans and challenge myself over and over until I nail all of these. Granted, I toss lots of unused veggies, but it’s impossible to deny that I’m becoming a good cook, and I want to continue to improve.
Even with a larger group, last Sunday’s brunch was another success.
Once I’d realized that doing some things the day before would make things easier, I’d baked up a large batch of raspberry scones on Saturday to go with the deep-dish quiche—filled with bacon, shallots, Swiss chard, and tons of various cheeses—that I made Sunday morning. Yes, I cheated and used premade phyllo for the crust, but I was still happy with it.
Alex was in charge of making smoothies, and as he blended bananas, blackberries, blueberries, honey, and more, he announced numerous times, “I do like this! This is satisfying!”
I agreed with him.
So much is now satisfying. And coffee in the morning has never tasted so damn perfect. It’s very different to wake up full of hope for what the day might bring and not full of dread for what might knock me over.
When I’m high on caffeine and emotion, I take a quick shower and jump into sweats and a tank top before bounding out to the car. The Pathfinder starts up instantly, and I smile. Danny made this happen. I put the SUV into reverse when I notice that my BMW rental is gone at last.
I call Danny, and he answers groggily, “Oh, hello, lake girl.”
“Oh, hello, Schroeder.” I let him yawn before I say anything else. “Did ya perchance arrange to get rid of the hated BMW rental because I kept forgetting?”
“Isperchancestill a word we say?”
“It is not. But I’m here for it today.”
“Then, okay, I did. A few calls went a long way.”
“I should have done it days ago.”
I shift into drive and barrel onto the dirt road.
“I’m driving! I’m driving his car!” I exclaim stupidly, but I want to share this moment with him after all he selflessly did to make it happen. And then a few moments later, I nearly lose my voice. “I’m driving my dad’s car, Danny.”
“Yes,” he acknowledges in the warmest way. “You are.”
There has to be music to accompany my joy, so I stab madly at the panel, wanting anything to play. When a song starts blasting, I laugh and feel better.
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
“Is that Rick Springfield?”
“You know it. Don’t talk to strangers, Danny,” I warn.
“I should have been an ’80s kid,” he says in his morning voice. “I dig it all.”
My aimless drive is feeling comfortable, and I take an unfamiliar turn and amble this SUV over some fun bumps and under low-hanging foliage.
“Where are you going on this drive?” he asks.
“Anywhere. I’m not sure,” I admit. “It wouldn’t hurt to pick up sandwich stuff at the market. I had a lunch idea for something to make for you guys.”
“You know, you don’t have to feed us every day. I mean, we love it, and you’re crazy talented, but none of us wants you to feel as though it’s an obligation.” His voice is very sweet, and his words are really kind.
I press down harder on the gas pedal. “I’m only learning. It’s nothing. So, would you want to come with me? How do I get to you? Even if I had your actual address, it turns out that Google maps and Waze aren’t up on Wake.”
“Of course I want you to pick me up.” Danny laughs as he keeps me on the phone and talks me through the drive to reach him.
“I like cooking for all of you,” I whisper as I take a turn closer to his house.
“Then, we’ll keep eating. I’m going to get ready, so let yourself in.”
