Page 57 of Sweet and Salty
Granted, two of those were weekend days, but now it’s Tuesday. Even if the mystery lady had been off for a three-day weekend to celebrate June, shouldn’t she be back by now? Shouldn’t she have sent the form?
I slam the roll of cinnamon roll dough on my workbench, unleashing a fine spray of cinnamon-scented flour.
“What did that dough do to you?” Mom says, walking through the back door of my bakery. She has on a light blue sleeveless top and a pair of white pedal pushers, her Day Off outfit.
“Hi, Mom.” I lean in as she kisses my cheek.
“Mhm.” She perches on one stool beside the work table and sets her voluminous purse on another chair. One time when we had gotten drunk at Christmas about five years ago, Frannie and I had looked through Mom’s bag to see what she possibly carries in there. It was surprisingly unexciting. There were a lot of pens, but the vast majority was bandage supplies and portable CPR face shields.
My computer taunts me from across the way, but Mom’s here and she never shows up without a reason. “How are things?” I ask. I roll the cinnamon roll dough out into a massive rectangle. I’d prefer to beat it into submission, but there are some things a mom shouldn’t have to see.
“Not too bad. Fish Fry was fun, wasn’t it?”
Oh, Mom. All faux innocence. “It was great. Everyone had a good time.”
“Mhm,” Mom repeats. I spread a generous amount of softened butter over my rectangle of dough and take out my tub of cinnamon sugar. “Everyone?”
“Yes, everyone.”
“Is Jesse everyone?”
My cheeks flush. I roll the rectangle of dough toward me with infinite care. “Yes. Jesse had a great time.”
“Good.” Mom settles onto her stool and doodles in the fallen cinnamon sugar. “He’s a nice man. You look happy.” She pauses. “Happier, anyway.”
A piece of dough near the ends tears in a Grand Canyon-shaped gash. Fudge nuts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom tucks a curl of my hair behind my ear, securing it beneath my bandana. I’ve gone for full-out 70s tie dye today, with large flower-print earrings to match.
“I don’t know why, but not a one of you ever thinks I see what’s going on with you.” Mom sighs loudly, and her doodle in the sugar resembles a galaxy of heart-shaped planets. “I notice.”
“I never said you didn’t.”
“But you never told me the Drydens turned down your liquor license application. Or that you’re auditioning forAmerica Bakes!”
“That’s not true.” I take out my packet of baking floss. That’s a lie. It’s unscented, unflavored dental floss, but it’s the world’s best tool to cut cinnamon rolls.
“Which part isn’t true? You don’t want to audition? It’s a genius idea. You’ll be fabulous on that show.” Mom examines her fingernails closely then cleans a microscopic piece of dirt from one of them. She’s never painted her nails my whole life. “Or the Drydens didn’t turn you down?”
The floss sticks in the cinnamon roll dough. I work to fix it without ruining the sweet bun.
Mom sighs. “Close your mouth, hon. You’ll catch flies that way.”
My mouth claps shut and I fetch a baking tray for the cut rolls. They clatter loudly as I gather three trays.
Mom washes her hands then joins me at the workbench, taking cut rolls and placing them neatly on the baking trays. “Are you going to re-apply?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Yes, it is.” Mom finishes one tray and moves to a second. “I know how much it hurts to dream and have that dream never happen.”
I cover the trays with reusable wrap and set them in the proofing zone of the kitchen. “But all your dreams came true, Mom. You found the love of your life, you became a nurse, you have a grandson.”
“I have that now, but did you forget how difficult it was to get here?” Mom washes her hands again at the sink then returns to her perch on the stool. She pats the one beside her, and like the obedient daughter I am, I sit. I have a million and one things to do, but I’ll sit.
“Of course not,” I say, realizing she’s waiting for me. “I never forget everything you and Ma did for us.”
Mom plays with one of my curls. “You probably don’t remember the really early years, back when you were under five. We were still trying to find our footing in this town. Before they passed, my parents tried to help, but for the most part, Allison and I pretended we were just best friends, raising kids together. As much as we loved you all, it was no easy task, pretending. Talk about stress.”