Page 29 of When Lemons Give You Life

She sticks her misshapen fingers into the flour and butter and shudders with delight, working deftly. “Now we need milk, sugar, eggs, and vanilla.”

I hand her each item, taken aback by the fact that there are still things that can surprise me in the kitchen—I’ve never seen pastry quite like this before. She adds the extra ingredients one by one, separating the eggs with the precision of a chef with twenty-twenty vision, and soon brings it into a ball. “Pop it in the fridge now. It needs a rest, like me.”

She has no idea she’s instructing a Michelin-star chef on how to make pastry, but for once I don’t mind not being in charge and do as I’m told.

“Now for a treat,” she says. “You know what I used to do while I was waiting?”

“What’s that?”

“I’d murder a can of VB! What I wouldn’t do for a cold one. You know,” she adds, stroking her chin, “I overheard the staff say the grog is stored in a pantry in the kitchen office.”

I don’t need to be asked twice. Stepping into the back room, I spy a door in the far corner. Locked. A quick rummage through the desk drawers turns up a set of keys, and the second one I try does the trick. I open the door, see the VB straightaway and grab a couple of cans. They never bother to chill the bloody things for happy hour. Do they think we have lost our sense of temperature along with our taste?

“It’s not cold, madam, but might be better than nothing.” Emphasis on the word “might.”

The can hisses open. She brings it to her lips and takes a long drink. “Ahhh. That’s the stuff. They don’t even offer me grog here, you know. They think because I’m disabled and old, I don’t drink, but I’ve been known to throw a few back in my day, let me tell you!” She takes another swig, and her whole body jiggles. “I’m so grateful for this, chef, thanks.”

“Cheers.” I tap my can against hers and drink too. The smell brings an unwelcome memory, but I swat it away. It’s definitely not my beverage of choice, and my first reaction would usually be to complain about the temperature, but I can’t put a dampener on Gladys’s joy. So I keep my mouth shut and, surprisingly, it feels better than the complaining would have.

We chug them down, and she lets out a juicy belch. “Excuse me!” she chortles. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages!”

“Me too!” I burp in reply, dropping my posh persona and sending her into fits of giggles.

Once the dough has rested, I hand her the “rolling pin.”

“Geez, some fancy equipment you’ve got here,” she says, running her fingers over the length of it. “I’ve never seen a rolling pin this long. C’mon now! It’s time to rock and roll! See what I did there with the roll?” She cackles, and I begrudgingly let a smile creep onto my face.

I don’t want to admit it, but I’m glad I hung around for this. Seeing the joy on a blind woman’s face while she rolls out dough with part of a walking frame wasn’t exactly on my actual bucket list, but somewhere between the mixing bowl and Gladys’s crooked grin, a thin thread of joy slips in through a crack I thought was sealed shut.

“You know, I was wondering what to get my youngest daughter, Tina, for her birthday. I reckon a whizz-bang rolling pin like this would be just the ticket! Where do you reckon they get ’em from, chef?”

My cheeks warm. “I’m not sure, sorry, madam.”

“I don’t suppose I could have this one, could I?”

I consider it a moment, my gut clenching. “Ah, no. But I can have a look online for you for something similar.” Something that ideally isn’t a mobility apparatus.

“Oh really? That’d be great. She’s trying to get her girls into baking, which would be so good for ’em, I reckon.”

“Yes,” I say, recollecting the cooking from my childhood—my safe place that I protected fiercely.

She feels out the dough with her fingertips then slices it into two rectangles with a butter knife. “Now if I’m not wrong, that should be precisely the right size to line a standard twenty-three by thirty-three rectangular baking tin. Put it in front of me, dear.”

I place one next to her, and she taps her fingers over it, then rolls up the pastry on the cylinder, expertly unrolling it into the pan.

The old girl could have worked in my kitchen. “You’re spot on, Gladys.”

She beams as her fingertips lightly press the dough. “It’s amazing, you know, what people assume. People think you can’t, so you don’t. Memories aren’t just up here, though,” she says, tapping the side of her head, “we have them down here, too.” She scrunches her arthritic fingers in and out. “This—baking tarts—it’s muscle memory. And, boy, does it feel good!” Her face lights up with so much joy that I half expect her to burst into song.

“Are you going to blind bake that?” I instantly regret my choice of words, but she only laughs.

“Nah, we don’t need to with this. And not just because I’m too blind to bake that. Ha! See what I did there? You core and chop the apples and put them in the saucepan. Small pieces, okay?”

“Yes, chef.” The satisfying slice of the knife through crisp green skin sends a tingle up my arm as I dice the apples into precise one-centimeter cubes.

There’s a kind of camaraderie here I’ve never felt in any kitchen before. Professionally, I was feared—sharp, exacting, a chef whose silence cut deeper than his knives. That’s how I was made.

Those rigorous years of training were brutal. Long hours, burnt fingers, no room for vulnerability. You kept your countertop spotless and learned fast or you were gone. So I became precise, cold, clean. Respect was survival, and fear was the tool that built it. Even at home, I kept the kitchen door shut—sometimes slammed it. I thought that was how kitchens worked. How life worked. Keep it tidy, contained, closed. Truth was, I was guarding the sole space in my head Brent couldn’t reach: a little world that belonged to me and was free of his sneers and fists. Lisa never knew that. She just thought I’d shut her out. She was right. She was collateral damage, and I hated that about myself. Maybe I should’ve left the door ajar.