Off the Menu Read online

  “Good, guys, what else?” I’m so proud of how far they have come in the past weeks, and so sad that this is my last class with them, since Kai is completely healed and finally has his energy back. It took him five weeks instead of three, and while I was sad for him and his slow recovery, I was selfishly glad for me, since working with these kids has been one of the most rewarding things in my entire career.

  “We learned that the most important thing in a dish is balance of sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and savory, and that if you taste something and you don’t know what it needs, you can go down that list and see if all those flavors are there,” Juan says, getting the words out quickly. He has been a surprise superstar. I had written him off as a jock who was just going to be a little lost without the team, but his sports experience has made him a natural leader in the kitchen, and I can easily see him leading a brigade on the line. I gave him a copy of Gordon Ramsay’s autobiography, since he also turned to cooking after an injury cut short a professional soccer career, and Juan read it in one week.

  “We learned that Aretha makes the best macaroni and cheese on the planet,” Clara gushes about her new BFF.

  “And that Joseph can make an omelet in under two minutes,” Helena says about her already ex-boyfriend. The whirlwind courtship flamed hard and fizzled quickly, luckily without much drama for the rest of us. He nods and winks at her, so maybe things aren’t as off as I think they are.

  “I learned that I am really going to miss Chef Alana,” says Little Mari, pouting.

  “Yeah, why you have to go, Chef?” Renaldo says.

  “Aw, guys, I’ll be back. But trust me; you are going to love Chef Kai. He’s like a rock star. I was only ever a substitute teacher here. And I will be paying very close attention to each and every one of you as the semester goes on.”

  “We brought you something, Chef,” Max says, offering up a wrapped package.

  The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. “Aw, you guys …”

  “Open it, open it!” Aretha says, impatient.

  I carefully remove the paper to reveal a lovely linen binder. I open it up and it has eight sections, each labeled with the name of one of the students. When I flip to those sections I can see that each of them has written me a letter, included a picture, and several recipes from their families or of their own creation.

  “It’s a custom cookbook from all of us,” Mari says.

  “You guys, this is, without a doubt, the single best present anyone has ever given me. Thank you all so much. I love you guys.” We end up in an awkward group hug. Finally from the middle of the pack, Joseph’s voice.

  “Damn, does it have to be all Dangerous Minds up in here?”

  We all laugh, since the running joke these past weeks has involved all the classic “White Teacher Makes a Difference in the Ghetto” movies.

  “Hey, Chef,” Clara says. “What is your boyfriend doing for you for Valentine’s this weekend, hmm?”

  I blush. “He is making me dinner. And let that be a lesson to all of you, cooking for someone is an act of love.”

  “Don’t you want him to take you out? Go somewhere nice for a fancy dinner?” Aretha says.

  “All I care about is that we are together. And going out for a fancy dinner is not nearly as personal as the fact that he wants to cook for me.”

  “That’s cool, I guess,” Juan says.

  “I think so. And I think each and every one of you has plenty of love to put on plates. So I want you to come next week knowing that I am passing you off to a truly amazing chef, and give him total respect. I’m going to be back in a few weeks when Patrick Conlon is doing his master class.”

  I give each of them a hug and a personal thank-you as they leave. I watch out the window to be sure their van is gone before I dissolve in tears.

  The next afternoon, after a brutally slow workday where I can’t focus on anything except the clock, RJ picks me and Dumpling up to drive out to the cabin for the weekend. It’s our first whole weekend away, and I’m excited to show him my place and have a relaxing and romantic time. And I’m hoping that Dumpling will behave himself. It’s been a couple of weeks since he did anything overtly awful, mostly he just tries to get between us when we are hanging out on the couch, and we still have to lock him out of the bedroom.

  Well, he did eat RJ’s laptop charging cord a couple of days ago, but that was hopefully just a little slipup.

  We’re halfway there when a smell that can only be described as the foulest stench on the planet wafts up into the front seat and slams my head back. Goddamnit.

  “What. The. Hell. Is. THAT?” RJ says, opening his window, despite the freezing mid-February air.

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Dumpling, um, juiced.”

  “It smells like a thousand dead crabs just washed up in this car. What the hell is juicing?”

  Sigh. There is nothing sexy about this sentence. “Sometimes his anal glands relax and release their liquid. It usually happens when he is either excited or nervous. I’m so sorry. I’ll find a pet store.” I frantically search with my iPhone for something close by.

  “Don’t we just need a gas station?”

  “It’s better if we can pick up this enzyme stuff.” I check my iPhone. “There’s a Petco just off the next exit.”

  We head for the store, and I pick up a bottle of cleaner and a roll of paper towels, and proceed to de-funk RJ’s backseat, grateful that at least he has leather interior. Fabric would have been done for. We get quickly back on the road.

  “I gotta say, that is about the nastiest thing I have ever smelled. I feel like it’s in my clothes.”

  “I know, it’s just beyond awful. Luckily it doesn’t happen that often.”

  “I guess. Is there anything to be done about it?”

  “Well, he can go to the vet to have his glands expressed regularly.”

  “I’m in. I’ll pay for it. How often? Once a month? Once a week? I don’t care. Whatever the cost, it will be my treat.”

  “Aww, honey. You don’t have to do that.”

  “If I’m going to live with that dog, I think I do.”

  In the past couple of weeks, RJ and I have admitted to each other that we both feel that we have found the person we are supposed to be with, and have started to refer to the life we want to make together as a thing that will happen instead of something that might happen. The biggest issue is that RJ loves his little bungalow, and his lovely neighborhood, and is getting his head around the idea of leaving them both to move into my place. It’s only two and a half miles away, but for RJ it is something of a chasm. He recognizes that the space is an issue, and knows that if his place was as large as mine, I would be happy to live there, but I can’t downsize at this point. He is, as he likes to say, getting his head around it.

  “Tell you what, when you move in, I’ll pay for the glandexpressing program.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  And I know we will.

  We get to the cabin and I give him the tour. It’s a simple place: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and one large room that encompasses kitchen, dining area and living room. A small screened-in porch, and a back deck that leads to the Puddle. I have six acres of woods, a little creek, and a shed for storing equipment and the outdoor furniture. We drop our bags in the master bedroom, and unload the groceries for the weekend. I’m unpacking the cooler when I see a card with my name on it.

  “What is this?”

  “Maybe a little Valentine.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “You may.”

  I open the card, which has a picture of French fries on it and the words My heart … my life … and one, maybe two of my French fries … and on the inside, All yours.

  “Awwww,” I say as I start to read what he has written.

  Alana—

  By the time you read this we will be spending our first Valentine’s Day together. Hopefully the first of many. While I know we both pooh-poohed the Hallmark holiday, I can�
�t let a day that signifies how important one person can be in one’s life go by without notice. No one has ever touched me at my core the way you have. I love being on this road with you, and I’m glad you finally caught up to me! I’ve never before felt that I was truly pointed in the same direction like I am with you. You had me at pamplemousse.

  With all the love and like and admiration I could ever muster in this or any other life, writ large and amplified with the world’s hugest megaphone.

  Yours,

  RJ

  I throw my arms around him, wetting his cheek with my tears of pure joy.

  “That is the sweetest, most wonderful Valentine ever, and I love you very much.”

  “I love you, baby. Thank you for making me the happiest man in the world.”

  Damn, that man is a good kisser. We abandon the kitchen for the bedroom, leaving Dumpling to his own devices in the front room.

  After a post-romp nap, we emerge in bathrobes to a pouting dog and ravenous appetites. RJ gets to work in the kitchen on the dinner he is preparing, allowing me to sous chef. He seasons duck breasts with salt, pepper, coriander, and orange zest. Puts a pot of wild rice on to cook, asks me to top and tail some green beans. We open a bottle of Riesling, sipping while we cook, and I light a fire. The place gets cozy, full of delicious smells and the crackling fire. We ignore the dining table in favor of sitting on the floor in front of the fire, and tuck in.

  “This is amazing,” I tell him, blown away by the duck, perfectly medium-rare and succulent, with crispy, fully rendered skin. “Really, honey, it couldn’t be better.”

  “Thank you, baby. That’s a major compliment. And I have to say, I love cooking with you.”

  “I love cooking with you.” And I did. I never once felt like I wanted to jump in or make a change, or suggest a different choice. I followed him as I would have followed any chef, and the results of trusting him are completely delicious, literally and figuratively.

  We devour the dinner, demolish the wine, and lounge happily in front of the fire.

  “I have something for you,” I say, getting up to get his present.

  “And I for you,” he says.

  I hand him a small bag, stuffed with tissue. He opens it and pulls out the book.

  “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay! It’s our book! Thank you, sweetie.”

  “Open it.”

  He opens the front cover to reveal the inscription.

  To RJ

  Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m glad to have had some small part in helping your soul mate find you. Here’s to a lifetime of wonder and adventure together.

  Michael Chabon

  “How did you … ?”

  “Emily knows his wife. Six degrees of writer separation. She helped me.”

  “That is amazing, sweetheart. Thank you so much.”

  We kiss. And when we part, there is a tiny bag in my hand. “And what is this?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  I open the bag to discover a beautiful pair of earrings, little round hammered white-gold drops with one tiny diamond embedded slightly off center. They are simple and subtle, and just the perfect thing. “I love them.”

  “I went to that store you were telling me about, Virtu on Damen? The owner helped me; she said she knew this was a designer you like.”

  “They’re perfect. Thank you so much. This is the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  We head back to the bedroom and snuggle in. RJ falls asleep quickly, and I realize I have a powerful thirst and have forgotten to fill my water bottle. I always keep a bottle of water next to my bed. A bottle, not a glass, since I have an irrational fear of a bug falling into an open glass and drinking it in the night. I never said I wasn’t a crazy person.

  I sneak out of bed and tiptoe down the hall, filling my bottle from the cooler in the kitchen. I can feel that the jug is almost empty and make a mental note to return it for a full one tomorrow when RJ and I are running around. I want to take him to this cool place full of rugs and textiles and interesting furniture, and maybe some antiquing in Richmond. And tomorrow night we are going for all-you-can-eat broasted chicken at Crandall’s. Sunday there will be a hearty country breakfast at a local diner before heading back to the city. I drink half of my bottle of water, refill it to the brim, and tiptoe back to bed. I drink a little more water, and fall asleep.

  I wake somewhat suddenly, and check the clock. It is only seven. But I need to get up. My stomach is churning. With all my stomach issues and the reflux and the whole ex- gallbladder thing, sometimes I get very nauseated. Usually it means I’m hungry. Sometimes it means I have to poop. Often it means both. I leave RJ sleeping, and since I don’t think I have to poop, I sneak out to the kitchen, and eat half a banana. While I’m up, I throw a load of laundry in. The banana should settle things down, so I try to go back to sleep. But about twenty minutes later, I feel a terrible urge to go to the bathroom. Guess I chose wrong. I go to the other bathroom, so as not to pollute the one in my bedroom, grateful that RJ is such a sound sleeper. Terrific. Couldn’t my bowels just be normal for our first weekend getaway? I’m pissed. And from what happens in the bathroom, it is going to be a long morning. I go out to grab some Imodium from my purse; I’m always prepared for this circumstance, and eat the other half of the banana. Then I go back to bed. But twenty minutes later, I need the bathroom again, and this time it is no longer lower digestive.

  There is nothing in the world I hate more than throwing up. I would rather be in pain. Or bleeding—I have no problem with bleeding. But puking is just the worst thing on the planet. And nothing could make vomiting worse than trying to do it quietly up the hall from your fabulous sleeping boyfriend on Valentine’s weekend. Unfortunately, this is the position I find myself in. On my knees, head in the toilet, trying desperately to throw up in the quietest manner possible and praying that I can manage it without crapping my pants at the same time.

  Yes, I am that talented, and no, you don’t want to know the details, but let’s just say I owe a hotel in Turkey a bath mat.

  I am somewhat grateful for the fact that banana pretty much tastes the same in either direction.

  I’m rinsing my mouth out with the Listerine from the medicine cabinet, when RJ appears behind me.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  I look at him. I shake my head. “I appear to be sick. How do you feel?”

  “Poor baby. I feel fine. How sick are you?”

  “If you don’t close that door, you will find out.” He obliges by closing the door, and I lose it again. Ugh.

  I rinse again and when I think I have at least some time before the next wave, I head out to the front room. RJ has dressed in a flash.

  “Okay, what do you need? Gatorade? Saltines?”

  “Probably both. I’m so sorry, honey. What a stupid thing to have happen. Are you sure you are feeling okay? This doesn’t feel flu-ish; this feels more like food poisoning.”

  “Really, I feel totally fine. And we ate exactly the same things. Did you have anything I didn’t have?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aw, sweetheart, that’s just the worst. Want a glass of water?”

  “Please.”

  He walks over and grabs a glass, and starts to fill it from the cooler and then stops. “Hey, I’m pretty sure your water isn’t supposed to be this color.”

  I turn and look at the glass he is holding up. It is a pale green.

  “I think your water has gone off. When was the last time you were out here?”

  It’s been a couple of months since I was able to get here, and there were only a couple of inches left in the water bottle. That part of the kitchen gets some sun from the skylight, algae or mold or something must have grown in the bottle. Which I drank happily from last night. Oh, no.

  I bolt for the bathroom, throw up, and then immediately have explosive diarrhea. Fantastic. I have given myself water poisoning.

  I come back out,
carrying the deadly water bottle from the bedroom.

  “Oh no, did you drink from there?” RJ says. I nod miserably. “Okay, here’s some water from the tap.” He offers me a glass that is blissfully clear, cool, and refreshing.

  I flop onto the couch, and RJ tucks a throw blanket around me, and places the water on the table beside me.

  “I’m going to make a list of what you need and then go out and get it, okay, honey?”

  I nod. “I’m just mortified.”

  “Don’t. You can’t help getting sick. It’s not like you did it on purpose. Let me take care of you.”

  “Okay. Um, Gatorade, something citrusy, and nothing blue or purple. Saltines. Maybe some chicken broth. Imodium. If you take a right at the head of the road and go straight about two miles you’ll run right into a Walgreens.”

  “You got it. Will you be okay here for a little bit?”

  “Yep. Thank you, honey.”

  Below me, an insistent bark. “Does he need to be fed?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “C’mon, boy, how about breakfast?” Dumpling follows RJ to the kitchen, and I can hear kibble hitting bowl and dog hitting kibble. The buzzer goes off in the laundry room. I can hear RJ opening the door, and the unmistakable sound of wet laundry heading into the dryer.

  “You don’t have to …” I want to tell him he doesn’t have to do my laundry, but unfortunately, I have to run to the bathroom again.

  When I come back to the front room, I can see RJ out in the back with Dumpling. They are playing, and the sight warms my heart. I settle back onto the couch, and sip more of the water RJ left for me. They come back in, RJ carrying a blue bag. “Where do you drop these?”

  “There’s a can outside next to the front door.”

  He walks by, kissing my forehead. “I’m going to go get supplies and be right back. Dumpling, you take care of Mommy while I’m gone, okay, boy?” Dumpling jumps up on the couch next to me, and puts one paw on my thigh as if to say, I’ve got her, Captain.

  “Thank you.” I hate the tone in my voice. I sound so miserable and weak.

  “I’ll be back soon.” And he is gone.

  And that is when I start to weep. Because nothing makes me more miserable than being sick. But being sick with someone to take care of me for the first time in fifteen years, that is the best feeling in the world, and as miserable as I feel, I am also so very grateful to be able to let someone wonderful take care of me.