Page 34 of Riding the Curve

The water begins to boil quietly on the stove as I turn around and lean back against the counter, taking in the small kitchen where I discovered my love for cooking.

As far back as I can remember, I sat on the counter or the stool of the butcher block counter. Mom gave me small tasks at first, like shelling the peas or whisking some mixture in a bowl. As my eagerness continued to grow, she began to help me chop the vegetables. Soon I was able to do it on my own.

I loved our time in the kitchen together. She’d put on music, changing it from genre to genre as we’d dance around using our spoons as microphones while we cooked.

I’m a lot like Mom in that sense. I’ve always been eclectic about my music. Sometimes country, sometimes rock, and when the time calls for me to bust a move you better bet that I have Nelly playing at full blast. Each melody soothes the chaos of my mind. When the emotions feel entirely too much, I slip on my headphones and get lost in each song.

Music has inspired a lot of my favorite recipes. Even after a long day in culinary school, I’d use what little money I’d saved from my waitressing job and buy just enough groceries to experiment. With my headphones blaring my favorite tunes, I’d pretend to create recipes for the future restaurant that I thought I would have one day.

When I’m creating in the kitchen, I feel alive.

Cooking has always been about more than just food to me. My passion for it always stemmed from the way it makes others feel. There’s nothing greater than seeing someone take the first bite of your labor of love, watching the pure joy melt over their features. I’ve always believed there’s a perfect dish for every problem, a comfort for every moment and celebration of your life.

The ceiling creaks above me. Lyla must be having a hard time going down for a nap. I stroll over to the walk-in pantry, looking for some cookies to go with our tea. My breath hitches at the sight of the dark green apron with the floral embroidery hanging next to the door. My keepsake from the other woman who inspired my love of baking, Autumn Lane.

I trace my fingers over the embroidered daisies and swallow down the emotion that bubbles to the surface. Leaning my forehead against the door, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, trying to keep the tears at bay from the memory that flashes through my brain.

“That smells heavenly,” Mrs. Lane had said eagerly while leaning forward to examine our latest bake.

“Only because you walked me through it step by step.” I winked.

Mrs. Lane adjusted her beanie and pulled the blanket tighter around her body. This last round of chemo had hit her hard. Her hair fell out faster than the other times before, so she finally convinced Mr. Lane to shave it off. My heart pinched. She had been so happy she was able to grow it back into a short bob after her last remission.

“You exceeded my baking talent years ago, Hen. This is all you.”

She reached across the counter to dip her finger into the lemon icing, and I swatted it away. Her shock made me laugh out loud. I slid her the bowl of leftover icing and a spoon, and her eyes glittered with excitement. Mama Lane—the nickname Ryleigh and I lovingly bestowed upon her—dipped the spoon into the bowl and placed the dollop of frosting into her mouth with glee. Seeing her filled with joy made my horrible day fade behind me.

“What’s wrong? You’ve been more reserved than usual today.” She placed the spoon down and patted the stool beside her.

With a heavy sigh, I slugged around the counter and took a seat. My hands fidgeted in my apron, too embarrassed to share the events of my day. She placed her palm over mine, and I raised my gaze.

“It’s just me, sweetie. Tell me what happened.”

I nodded, taking a deep inhale.

“After PE, I walked into the locker room to change and found my Converse missing. I panicked and began searching all over the place until I stumbled into a conversation of a group of my classmates.” I paused, my hands beginning to tremble beneath hers. My thoughts took hold once more like they did on the walk home.

“Keep going,” she whispered, squeezing my hand. “The best way to get over it, is to power through it.”

“They were all laughing about how they had thrown my shoes in the trash.”

Mama Lane shook her head and motioned for me to keep going.

“I should have left then, but my feet were frozen in place. As I listened, they picked apart every bit of me. They said I was a gangly geek who focused more on school than caring about the way I looked. That my green shoes were completely ridiculous and deserved to be taken out with the trash, just like me.

“Then they went on to talk about my hair. I tried something new with my hair today . . . tried to curl some of the unruly waves in my hair. I had thought—well, I thought it had turned out nice. I guess they had a different opinion.”

Her hand smoothed over the top of my hair and through my waves. “You are beautiful, you know that right?”

My lashes flutter to the floor as I shook my head.

“You have something they will never have. Your beauty lies not only on the outside, but deep inside here.” She tapped her fingers over my heart. “Don’t let them dull your light, Henley.”

As the tears fell freely, I leaned over and pulled her in a hug, careful not to squeeze her body too tightly. “You always know the right thing to say to make my dark days a little brighter.”

“You too, Hen,” she whispered, pressing a kiss into the top of my head.

The high-pitched screech of the kettle yells behind me as I wipe away my tears. I turn to take it off the stove when I meet my mom’s gentle eyes. She slides it off the stove, then opens her arms wide. Not hesitating at all, I dive right into them.