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“Of course, but she’s in Puerto Rico visiting family. She has a touch of the ChristmasGrinch-itis, too.”
“Oh, because of your brother.”
“Yep.”
“And what about your dad?”
“He’s probably in front of the TV watching football with a drink and a bowl of beer nuts.”
“He didn’t want to go to Puerto Rico with your mom?”
I try chopping the celery as finely as humanly possible with the only dull knife we own.
“My parents aren’t together. They fell apart after Jake’s death. I guess my parents’ marriage couldn’t survive it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Honestly, it’s amazing to me that your parents were married as long as they were. I wouldn’t even know anything about that. Raised by a single mom over here.”
“Um, have you ever cut celery before?” He asks curiously.
“Am I doing it wrong?”
“It’s just that it’s turning into mush,” he chuckles. “Let me show you.”
The kitchen is small and not really meant for two people, or at least a person of his size, and someone else to cook at the same time, which is why I guess he turns and stands behind me. I take a quick inhalation as he grabs my hands with his and shows me how to “correctly” chop the celery.
“The knife is definitely dull, but you can still get it done. Just hold it at an angle like this.”
“Okay,” is all I manage to utter, his body dangerously close to mine.
“You got it now?”
“Yep.”
He releases my hands and goes back to prepping the chicken. Carefully seasoning it with what looks like spices he brought from home.
Once we’ve finished stuffing the chicken and placing it in the oven, he orders me to take a seat and play some music while he preps the macaroni and cheese.
“Why can’t I help with that?”
“You can’t have too many cooks in the macaroni and cheese. It won’t come out right.”
“Uh, I grew up on it. I think I know my way around a pan of macaroni.”
“Do you make a cheese sauce or cut up the cheese in chunks?”
“Sauce.”
“Bonk!” He makes the sound of an annoying game show buzzer. “You cut up the cheese.”
“Whatever,” I smile.
“And how many cheeses do you use?”
I remember how my mom and my grandmother used to make it. Simple and southern style.
“Three cheeses!”
“Bonk!” He makes the sound again. “You’re not doing it right if you don’t have five.”
