Page 41 of Call It Serendipity

The disappointment in his eyes dissipates, leaving them warm and glowing once more. “I love dessert.”

23

Ibelieve that there is nothing more nostalgic than going back to one’s family home and stepping into the kitchen. It’s the center of every memory, weaved into the fabric of who I’ve become.

And maybe it’s because nothing changes here. The pale blue cabinets are the same from my childhood, with that same pastel floral wallpaper surrounding them. I remember being infinitely proud as an eight-year-old when Mom let me help pick the pattern out.

I walk about the island and lift the lid of a misshapen ceramic cookie jar beside the microwave, painted to look like black and white cow spots. It’s one of the first art pieces I ever made. And it’s never actually housed cookies.

Instead, I withdraw a Bigelow Orange & Spice tea bag. Reaching into the cabinet above for a mug next, I hear Mom step into the kitchen behind me.

“You’re early, what a nice surprise,” she says, clasping her hands together.

I don’t tell her that I arrived a bit early with the hope to leave a bit early. I have too much guilt about it to admit such a thing.

“Morning, Mom,” I say instead, allowing her to take the mug and tea bag from me.

She ushers me onto a stool at the island as she starts preparing my tea for me. It would be useless to remind her I can make it myself. That I do it all the time.

This is her kitchen, and I’m here to follow orders as her assistant baker.

“What all are we making today?”

“List is on the fridge,” she calls over her shoulder as she sets a kettle on the stovetop.

Spinning around, I locate the stationary stuck to the fridge with a banana magnet. Across the top, Autumn Treats is written out in her elegant cursive. It’s a tradition we started when I was a teenager. For one Saturday every October, we jump into the kitchen and bake a myriad of fall-themed, seasonal treats, just the two of us.

At the top of the list is my personal favorite: pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. After that is a classic apple pie, a cinnamon sugar custard pie, maple shortbread cookies, and a pumpkin cream cheese roll.

“Ambitious,” I say, turning back and raising an eyebrow at her. “And what’s this new custard thing?”

“Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? It’s supposed to be like an apple butter custard; I got the recipe from Alice the other day.”

The kettle whistles, and after passing me the steaming mug of tea, my mother quickly shifts to gathering all our preparations. She drops an apron over my head, then one over her own. Then she pulls out the recipe cards we’ll need today, lining them up in a neat row.

“You get the wet ingredients out, I’ll tackle the pantry,” she instructs.

Soon, the island is littered with the likes of flour, brown sugar, pumpkin puree, butter, and more. When Mom isn’t looking, I lift the lid off the brown sugar and steal a clump, popping it in my mouth.

“We’ll start with the pies; they’ll need time to cool.” She turns around, catches me reaching back into the tin, and swats my hand away. “Now stop that, it’s too early in the day to be eating sugar straight from the container.”

“I’ve been up awhile, actually,” I say, switching to reach for a handful of chocolate chips instead. “I wanted to get the sunrise in my painting.”

She freezes, a measuring cup full of flour balancing in her hand. “You’re painting again?”

With my mouth full of chocolate, I manage a close-lipped smile and nod. With a gulp, I say, “I started back up a few weeks ago.”

Abandoning the measuring cup, my mother hurries around the island to hug me. It’s one of those surprisingly forceful hugs that somehow still manages to feel comforting. “That is wonderful to hear, your dad and I have been so worried.”

“Me too,” I admit quietly. “For a while, I thought I was going to have to call the gallery and break our contract.”

“You are just so talented. I don’t think we ever really understood why you stopped making art.”

“I wouldn’t say I stopped, it was more like I froze. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get myself in the studio to create.”

She pulls back and studies me with a pinched expression. “Too much pressure?”

“Self-imposed pressure, yeah. And maybe I was just trying to force something that wasn’t meant to be—stylistically.”