Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,19
was going to make a list of specials. The trouble was, she never got past the Number One. So there it sat at the top of the menu, alone, all by itself.
The Number One:
Chicken fried steak with cream gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans cooked in bacon fat, one buttermilk biscuit, and a slice of pecan pie
With Brad’s words ringing in my head about my vague culinary vision, I decide to make the Number One for tonight’s supper. After leaving the salon, I drive to various farm stands, grocery stores, and butchers. I handpick the top-round steak with care, choose fresh eggs one by one, and feel an immense sense of home as I pull Mom’s cast-iron skillet from the depths of Merry Carole’s cabinets. My happiest memories involve me walking into whatever house we were staying in at the time to the sounds and smells of chicken fried steak sizzling away in that skillet. This dish is at the very epicenter of who I am. If my culinary roots start anywhere, it’s with the Number One.
As I tenderize the beef, my mind is clear and I’m happy. I haven’t cooked like this—my recipes for me and the people I love—in far too long. If ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. I’m happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I haven’t a care in the world. Being in Merry Carole’s kitchen has washed away everything I left in New York, along with everything that’s happened in the whirlwind of being back in North Star. Laurel’s little tantrum at the salon is a distant memory. However dramatic and ridiculous she is, she also gets to go home to the man I’ve loved since I was in kindergarten. I focus back on the cooking. It’s almost time for supper. The front door opens and closes.
Merry Carole walks into the kitchen with a bouquet of Texas yellow bells. I can see the emotion on her face as she approaches me. With everything warming in the oven, the last thing to do before the guests arrive is fry this steak.
“I know,” I say, taking her hand.
“I can’t believe you’re cooking the Number One. I haven’t . . . I haven’t walked into a house with that smell in years. It smells exactly the same.” Merry Carole dabs at her mascara.
“Let’s face it, toward the end there I was in that kitchen more than she was,” I say, lifting the steak out of the skillet.
“The kitchen is a lot cleaner than I thought it was going to be,” Merry Carole says, scanning the already set dining room table and spotless kitchen.
“I guess that’s the one positive by-product of working in all those fancy kitchens. If you don’t have a clean workspace, there’s hell to pay,” I say, quickly swiping at the counter.
“It’s like you were shipped off to the culinary army,” Merry Carole says, setting the flowers on the counter and pulling a vase down from one of the upper cabinets. She arranges them quickly and sets them in the middle of the table.
“That’s certainly what it felt like,” I say, pulling my arm away from the splattering lard. The front door opens and slams.
“Whatever that is I smell, bless you,” Cal yells as he walks through the front room.
“Chicken fried steak, my dear. Now go take a quick shower and put on something presentable. We’re having company,” Merry Carole says, reaching up to fuss with his bangs. She continues, “I wish you would let me cut these. Just a touch . . . You have such pretty eyes, sweetness and light.” Merry Carole calling her varsity-football-playing son sweetness and light damn near melts my heart.
“Is that—” Cal stops. I’m sure he’s heard the stories. Merry Carole sighs and drags her gaze away from Cal’s overgrown bangs.
“It is, in fact, the Number One. You’re in for a treat,” I say, turning away from the stovetop briefly.
“I didn’t think it really existed,” Cal says, gazing into the kitchen.
“Oh, it exists, but if you don’t shower up, it’ll become a myth,” Merry Carole says, pushing him toward the bathroom. He obliges, his gait quickening as he realizes what’s in store.
“Tired, my ass. That boy is amazing,” Merry Carole says, her voice breaking.
“She was deliberately messing with you,” I say, taking the last chicken fried steak from the lard.
“West Ackerman is the pride of North Star,” Merry Carole mimics.