Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,73

as I finish, the house still so quiet. As I flip the pages, rereading my work, I feel a surge of emotion. I’m proud of myself. My attention to detail and the respect I have for the food of Texas catches me off guard. I didn’t even consider changing these recipes or evolving them. It never occurred to me to reimagine the fried chicken or think of a new way to prepare chess pie. No. Those recipes are bigger than me. As I relive my last meeting with Brad in New York, I’m proud that I’ve at least learned one lesson since I’ve been back in North Star: it’s one thing to have an ego about one’s cooking, but it’s a whole other to have an ego about oneself as a chef. Reclaiming those magnificent black-and-white moments of our past can only work if I am true to the recipes. True to their history by making them just as Texans have been doing for hundreds of years. Just as my family has been making them for hundreds of years.

I think about opening up my own little place. Cooking this kind of food. I never wanted my own place before. My dream was to be the executive chef in someone else’s kitchen. What does that say about me? But now? With these recipes, my family recipes, pinballing around in my head, I can’t shut off the idea of my own place. My own kitchen. Maybe even ask the Dent boys to work there (when they get out prison, that is). I could find a place in Austin, maybe do one of those food trucks, maybe look a bit into something in California. I close the notebook and tuck it back into my luggage. The quiet of Merry Carole’s house settles around me. I smile. There must be a part of me that takes pride in being a Texan after all. The part that loves a good brisket.

I think about the black hole that our plot of land has become. Could I open up my own place there? Could I exorcise the demons and start fresh?

I crawl into bed, finally realizing how exhausted I am.

And I lay there.

I close my eyes. They open. Wide open. My eyes adjust and I can begin to make out the shadows of the dark room. I toss and turn but can’t get comfortable. I lick my lips and taste bourbon and Hudson. How different he was from Everett. Playful. Fun. Light. I turn onto my side, punching at my pillow. I close my eyes again. Triple murderer. Fried chicken. What about that ranch dressing? Should I always include it? Could I have done better? I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. A plot of land and a notebook filled with recipes. My own kitchen. It’s no use. I flip off my bedding and walk out into the hall. I look down toward Merry Carole’s room. Her door is cracked just a bit. I take this as a sign that she wants me to come in. I creak down the hallway, past Cal’s room, and push Merry Carole’s bedroom door open.

“You awake?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. I hear Merry Carole shift in her bed.

“I am now,” Merry Carole says.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Come on then,” Merry Carole says, flipping the blankets back and making a space for me. I walk over and crawl into Merry Carole’s bed. Just like when we were kids. I fidget and situate. She continues with a sigh, “Working at that prison has made you jumpy.”

“Probably,” I say, now on my side facing her in the dim light of her bedroom.

“So?” Merry Carole asks.

“It was phenomenally weird,” I say, still unable to put today’s experience into words.

“Phenomenally weird,” Merry Carole repeats.

“I love working in that kitchen. It’s all kinds of wrong, but I love it. I get to make this perfect meal, and I’ve just never felt so at home,” I say.

“I can understand that.”

“But . . .”

“But . . . ,” Merry Carole repeats.

“And that’s the part I’m having trouble digesting. The ‘but.’ ”

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, her sentence trailing off.

“I tried not knowing, but that just made it worse.”

“That feels like a whole new level of denial to me.”

“It absolutely was.”

“So how do you continue to do this then?” Merry Carole sits up and rests her head on her hand.

“I guess I know what I have to know,” I say, my words as confused as my