Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,26
each word she spoke. “That brings us back to my question, though.”
It took a full three seconds for Hannah to realize that her aunt expected an answer. “What question?”
“Dietary needs?”
“You want to know if I’m on a diet?” She folded her arms over tummy.
“Or have allergies or have any special restrictions, preferences or dislikes. Not just you, but the whole family. If I am going to be cooking for you I need to know.”
“Cooking?” She unfolded her arms and dropped her feet to the floor with a thud.
It boggled the mind to imagine what exotic dishes Aunt Phiz might concoct. And how her family might react to them. What if they actually liked Aunt Phiz’s Roasted Rack of Yak or Cream of Octopus Soup? Hannah couldn’t even flip a decent flapjack, much less start off each morning serving up crêpes flamingo flambé. Hannah didn’t even know where to get a flamingo in Ohio!
“That’s so sweet of you to offer, Aunt Phiz, but I think we should stick with my brand of simple but nourishing style of cooking for the family.”
“I’ve seen your handiwork.” Even partially obscured by soft, crinkly skin, the older woman’s eyes still sparkled.
Hannah raised her head. “I manage.”
“And your family? They like these cakes with spackling for frosting?”
“No. They like…” They liked eating out. In fact they vastly preferred it to Hannah’s effort in the kitchen. “Look, Aunt Phiz, I know I’m not the world’s best cook but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn, that I don’t want to get better at it.”
The senior tented her plump fingers over her chest and leaned forward. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve waited so long for the chance to do just that, to take care of my very own family.” Hannah gazed into her secondhand mug and swirled the dregs of her coffee around. “Surely you understand?”
Her aunt lifted her teacup and sipped her aromatic, anise-flavored tea. Her eyes searched Hannah’s face for a moment before she set the cup back on its saucer with a decisive click. “Not only do I understand, but I think I know precisely how to help you realize that very thing.”
“Help?” she asked weakly, when deep down inside she wanted to fling open a window and scream it. Help! Help!
“Never fear, Hannah, my darling. Aunt Phiz is here, and she is going to teach you to become a first-class gourmet cook!”
Cooking lessons. She guessed she could squeeze those in, somewhere between mothering, writing, running the nursery and…
Aunt Phiz pushed up from the oversize floral wingback. Everything from her hair to her boot laces swung into the action as she waddled off to the kitchen, her precious teacup in hand. “Get the kids ready. We are going shopping!”
Who knew?
All these years everyone teased her for being a lousy cook when they should have teased her for being a lousy shopper!
Okay, it wasn’t quite that simple, but standing in her own kitchen now piled high with a shiny new collection of pots, pans and gadgets filled Hannah with a soaring sense of unlimited potential.
She could study the recipes in her new cookbook.
She could listen and learn and do her aunt Phiz proud.
She could make…meat loaf!
“Turkey meat loaf.” Aunt Phiz waved her hand over the ingredients strewn along the cluttered countertop.
“Turkey? You sure about this?”
“Considered a healthier alternative by some.”
“Some as in someone whose name rhymes with Shyllis Shamaryllis?”
“Humor me.” She slapped the meat, wrapped in bright white paper, into Hannah’s palm. “And get cooking. We’re burning daylight.”
“Okay, but do me a favor. Don’t use the words cooking and burning in the same breath around here.”
“You’ll do fine. Just follow my instructions.”
8
Subject: Nacho Mama’s House column
Last week the hardest questions I had to answer were:
“How do you know when the meat loaf is done?”
“Do you want extra cheese on that pizza, lady?”
And “Why, when Aunt Phiz said she came here to help us, do we have to wait on her?”
The answers:
“You can always tell when my meat loaf is done by the sound of the kitchen smoke alarm going off.”
“You’re asking Nacho Mama if she wants extra cheese?”
And—
“Because, son, your foster mommy is a wimp.”
Oh, for those simpler times when the only thing anyone expected from me concerned the Aunt Phiz factor and the proper way to dispose of flaming turkey meat loaf. I’m afraid those days are long gone.
The days of the DIY-Namic Duo have begun.
Sort of.
Let’s just say that they’ve begun to begin.
We’ve moved the cribs and rockers and toys into the fellowship hall. It’s