Page 39 of When Lemons Give You Life

With a nod, the boy scurries outside with two black garbage bags.

I bring the coffee to my lips and take a long gulp. The liquid is electrifying. My eyes shoot open, and I feel almost human again.

“You want to get changed in the office?” asks Nishan, pointing to the clean chef whites I forgot I was holding.

“Uh, sure . . .”

I head into the office and remove the shit-raz-soaked uniform and long four-way apron. Shit-a-brick! I forgot what I’m wearing underneath!

I look down at my old novelty nightgown, like the kind Ebenezer Scrooge would wear—only worse, due to the fact that it’s covered in fluffy yellow ducklings. Beau gave it to me one Christmas during the summer I discovered Fluffy Duck cocktails. I was obsessed and made the creamy advocaat and white rum drinks each night for weeks. Beau thought it was hilarious. It was never meant to come to the nursing home with me, but it wasn’t me who’d done the packing. The staff took great joy in seeing me in it as often as possible—sometimes I think they took my other pj’s to the laundry, so I’d have to wear it despite my grumbles. I rub the soft fabric between my fingers and picture Beau, who is making me smile, even now. There were ways I could have got rid of it, but it reminded me too much of him.

“Oops, sorry! Didn’t know you were in here, sir.” Scotty blushes and begins to turn away, but his eyes remain glued to my outfit. If he is trying to hide his surprise, he’s not doing very well. I politely beg the hole puncher on the desk to punch a hole in the floor that I can jump into. It does not.

Scotty’s mouth remains agape.

“I, um . . . find that wearing a, uh, nightgown—man-gown if you will—is, um, better for circulation. It’s loose.” I grit my teeth, what the hell does that mean? “Uh, I mean better for cooking, you know?”

“Riiight,” says Scotty, but there’s still no judgment in his voice.

I finish dressing and soon all my ducks are in a row, or at least in hiding.

“Here,” he says, passing me a face mask and putting one on himself. “We still have to wear these—extra precaution with flu and Covid doing the rounds and all.”

I take it without a word and follow him back to the kitchen.

“So, chef.” Nishan narrows his eyes, hands on hips. “What are we making for breakfast? We heard you were putting together a new menu, though I don’t see the point. And we couldn’t find it anywhere.”

How I’ve missed being called “chef.” I’ve been called a lot of names in my life: Griff, Greg, Mr. Barlow, Ratbag, “the grumpy bugger in room nineteen,” among others so nauseating I can’t repeat.

I stare at him for a moment, considering my options. I glance at the spotless countertops, the waiting pans, the two blokes who need a leader. Stuff it! The real Martin will likely rock up soon, but he’s not here yet. May as well command a kitchen while I’ve got the chance. I clap my hands twice, and the men stand to attention. I feel important, capable even.

Croissants would be too ambitious, so I settle on the classic bacon and eggs.

“Did you already start on the bacon, chef?” Scotty asks. “I can smell something amazing but can’t quite place it.”

My eyes dart to the side. My precious goddess. I hope they don’t find . . .

“Pork crackling! For breakfast?” Nishan tuts as he peeks inside the aluminum foil treasure box.

“NO! I mean . . . that’s a bad batch. Here, give it to me.” I make a show of heading for the bin, then when their backs are turned, I slip into the office, stash the crackling in the top drawer, and return to the kitchen like I’m absolutely not keeping it for later. “Okay, remind me how many residents we have.”

“Forty-two.” Nishan shows me a list. “Eight puréed, three celiac, one dairy-free, two vegetarians, one diabetic and one puréed celiac, dairy-free, low-fodmap.” Poor old bugger.

At my restaurant, Lorraine, we sat forty diners, so I’m confident with the quantity. I ask Nishan to fetch the ingredients. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s caged eggs and bulk low-quality bacon with more fat than meat. Scotty follows behind with a packet of frozen white bread doing its best impression of something edible. I glance at my watch, fighting the urge to make fresh ciabatta. There’s not time.

It isn’t my first time making something out of nothing. I recall my days as a kitchenhand in the Irish pub, peeling semi-squishy potatoes and making the crispiest hashbrowns imaginable. That’s it! Who needs horrid white bread when you’ve got hashbrowns! Many people think love is the answer to the world’s problems; few know it’s actually potato.

“Throw that rubbish out,” I command, pointing at the frosty bags of sliced cardboard. “Not today, Satan!”

The two exchange confused glances.

“We’re doing hash browns.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll see if we have any left in the freezer.” Scotty turns back.

“No. We’re going to make them.”

They stare at me with frowns so deep I may as well have asked them to construct a croquembouche.