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“Do you know how to do that?”
“You saidyou’dcook.”
“I will. But I’ve never made oven-baked fries. I’ve never made regular fries. What the hell is the difference?”
I grab a couple of potatoes. “For God’s sake. Get the damned burgers on the grill. I’m too hungry to wait for fries. I’ll put these in the microwave, and we’ll have baked potatoes. Do you at least have butter or sour cream?”
Without waiting for a response, I open the refrigerator again. No sour cream, but he does have butter. I suppose it’s too much to hope that he has salt and pepper too.
I turn. He’s standing there, gawking at me.
“What are you waiting for? Put the damned burgers on the grill.”
He nods then, takes the plate of burgers from the counter where I assume they’ve been thawing, and walks out to the deck.
I scrub the potatoes and look for some olive oil, but when I don’t find any, I rub bacon grease on them, cut tiny slits in the top, and then set them on a plate to microwave for five minutes.
They won’t be as good as oven-baked potatoes, but they’ll do.
Since Brock has nothing green in his refrigerator, I resort to the pantry again.
I find a few Mason jars filled with peaches. I grab one. I assume these are Steel peaches from the orchard. Marjorie probably canned them. I can’t imagine that Brock did. After searching through several drawers, I find a jar opener and pull the seal off the peaches. The glorious orchard-fresh peach smell wafts up to me.
For a moment, it’s August, and the peaches are ripe on the trees.
Hamburgers, baked potatoes, and canned peaches.
Good old comfort food.
I grab some ketchup and mustard out of the fridge, but since there are no greens, there will be no lettuce on the burgers. The shredded cheese will have to do, along with a few slices of onion that I quickly cut from an onion I find in the pantry.
I slice open the buns—from Ava’s bakery, of course—that I find in the breadbox.
There. All set for when the burgers are done.
Except for drinks.
I pour two glasses of water, add ice, and set them on the table.
Will Brock want something else to drink? Will he wonder why I’m not drinking alcohol?
I absently touch my abdomen.
I won’t know for another week at least.
Until then, I can’t drink.
I’ll do a preemptive strike. I grab a bottle of Fat Tire out of the refrigerator—seriously, he has beer but no greens—and set it at his place. When he asks me why I’m not having one, I’ll just say I’m not in the mood.
Simple enough.
A few moments later, when Brock hasn’t returned, I walk onto the deck—
“Brock!” The scent of charred beef hits my nose with a vengeance. “What are you doing?” I run to the grill, open the lid, and flip the burgers. Flames erupt.
“Shit,” he says.
“Where’s your mind today? These are ruined.”
