Dex (3 page)

“Oh, sorry,” Nan said flatly. “So, are you here to satisfy the debt today?”

“Well I suppose that would depend on how much you’d be satisfied with,” Golda chuckled.

Nan responded by laughing loudly and snorting multiple times.

“Of course,” she resumed, “Let me jot down that amount for you.”

Nan handed Golda a slip of paper.

“Here is the current balance.”

Golda looked at the paper and sighed heavily.

“Oh dear,” she said, “I don’t think you’re going to be satisfied at all.”

Golda slumped back in her chair.

“You know,” Golda defended, “my late husband was a wonderful man, but he didn’t know much about managing a business. He managed a little league team, and we didn’t even have a son. He managed most of our shopping, and all our family reunions. He even managed to drive me crazy for almost fifty years. But he could never seem to manage our money.”

Nan moistened her lips and took a sip of coffee from a large white mug sporting a pair of open pink lips with a green dollar sign painted over them that read, ‘Money Talks.’

“Ralph never wanted to worry me,” Golda continued, “I didn’t even know things had gotten so bad until he was gone and I started getting bills from all kinds of creditors.” Golda wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

“I am truly sorry for your difficulty, Mrs. Marino,” Nan said, back to blinking. “But without payment, the bank will be forced to repossess the property. Perhaps you should consider selling.”

“Sell? I can’t do that to my family,” Golda cried getting up to leave, “I told them I was closing to renovate.”

“Well Mrs. Marino, I suppose our little meeting is over.” Nan rose and gave her a weak handshake. “Should you require further assistance I’m here Monday through Friday, nine to five.”

Golda left the bank so deep in thought she didn’t even feel the morning drizzle sprinkling on her uncovered head. She looked up at the gray sky and sighed, “anything else you haven’t mentioned dear husband?”

CHAPTER
threE

Poppy’s Kitchen:  1985

“Okay, this is the power switch and this red one must be to record. So many buttons.” Poppy looks away from the video camera he has set so carefully on the shelf above the kitchen counter.  He shrugs his strong shoulders and reties his sage green apron, the one he swears is his magical tool for making his secret pesto come to life. He shoots a quick look at the camera. Then he mutters,

"Ugh, it’s still too low.”

Poppy looks around for a moment, spies a giant-sized tomato can on a nearby shelf and, groaning with effort, he hoists it and lumbers toward the camera, continuing to regard it with great suspicion.

“I hope this can helps, but I don’t want to see it
too well or I’ll get stage fright. Mamma mia, the things I do for the people I care about.”

Poppy wedges the camera strategically between two cartons of pasta.

“Ah, this looks good. Like I would spend twenty dollars on a tripod when I have my tomato cans. Hah!”

After moving the camera into place, he shuffles along the white tiled kitchen floor to a counter brimming with ingredients.

He smiles and takes his oversized stirring spoon off its hook, taking care not to disturb his array of whisks, slotted spoons, spatulas, pizza slicers, giant forks, and pasta rollers. Each of these precious tools hangs on the wall in two neat rows, surrounded by a cherry wood frame. Poppy and his wife Golda put up the frame together earlier that year. It was an anniversary gift from their friends, Ruthie and Stuie, who knew Poppy treated his tools like treasured friends and thought they deserved a royal portrait. But right now, his pesto sauce was about to become king, the framed friends and ingredients its loyal subjects. Poppy runs his thick, stubby fingers through his salt and peppery hair and starts his proclamation:

“Alright, here goes. This is my going-away gift to you, because after all these years of pestering me, I’m finally giving in. This is Poppy’s Pesto.”

He puts a finger over his mouth and lowers his voice.

“Shhh. Remember…It’s a secret.”

He crosses over to the camera to see if it’s working, then cheers with satisfaction when he sees all the right buttons are lit.

“To truly create food worth eating, you have to prepare it with passion,” he says, holding
a bunch of parsley to his nose and inhaling deeply.

“The sauce,” he continues, “is like a person. To get the most from it you have to treat it with respect and love it with all your heart.”

Poppy puts his fingers to his lips and gives them a kiss.

“If you don’t, you’ll end up with a bitter tasting mess and people politely telling you they had a big lunch and can’t eat another thing. Believe me, if it’s good, they’ll find room.”

“Let’s begin,” he says as he lightly salts a cutting board.

“First, fresh basil. Nothing wilted or slimy.”

He raises his knife in the air like a scepter and chops the herb into a fine chiffonade in seconds.

“Pignoli nuts.”

He grabs a big handful and sets them in a small frying pan on top of the range.

“Lightly toasted,” he explains, “to bring out the richness of the flavor.”

“Extra virgin olive oil,” he continues and hugs the gallon-sized container like a baby.

“Canned bean liquid,” Poppy says in a hush, almost afraid to disclose the importance of this key, untraditional ingredient. “I know, I know, sounds crazy, but, one day when I was low on oil and heavy on the lunch crowd, I had to think of something that could add creaminess without overpowering the delicate balance of flavor.”

“It was when I was stirring the beans into my pot of minestrone soup that the idea hit me. I could hear the leftover, starchy liquid singing to me from the cans. Everyone raved and better still, no one has ever been able to figure out the method to my madness. The name of this pesto could be called accidental magic, but Poppy’s Pesto has a better ring to it. You know, I’m going to write all this down while I do it, so there’s no confusion later on!”

He goes into a small drawer and pulls out a pad and a pen.

As Poppy finishes writing down the last ingredient, the phone rings from outside the kitchen. He quickly tops the sauce with a final sprinkle of cannellini bean liquid, and then tastes it. His face lights up and he lets out a satisfied ‘Humph!’ He notices a drop of sauce on the recipe, gives it a quick wipe, then leaves to answer the still clamoring phone.

CHAPTER four

“What time tonight?” Liza asked while getting off the bus.

“Um…,” said Dex, preoccupied. Did his grandmother even get his text? “Like 7:30?” he said, unsure how the evening would go.

“Okay. Sounds good,” Liza said, walking through the double doors of the school. “Yeah, I wouldn’t miss that cake for anything,” Kyle said from behind her, and then added, “Well maybe not anything, but, you know, most things.”

He waved goodbye with his math notes and disappeared into the sea of students rushing to class.

Liza and Dex continued to walk down the wide hall. The popular kids were hanging out by the vending machine next to the cafeteria and Dex still couldn’t figure out what made spring water and
Skittles
so appealing.

“Should I bring anything?” Liza mumbled, applying a thick layer of coconut Chap Stick.

“Nah, I’m good,” Dex assured, “Geema’s picking me up after school and we’re going shopping for everything I need.”

Dex was grateful he had Liza in the same homeroom so they could walk there together in the morning. She made him feel less alone in the big, unfamiliar middle school building he was still trying to get used to. When school first started, Dex could tell some kids thought he and Liza were a couple. They would nod, smile, or ‘high five’ their approval at them.  Liza thought it was funny and would occasionally put her arm around Dex just to promote the comments and gossip. She insisted it made them cooler if people were talking about them.

They had a good laugh for a couple of weeks, but decided to give it a rest when Kyle had asked them if they were going out and keeping it a secret from him. Even though he’d said he hadn’t thought the rumors were true, he’d sounded relieved when they told him it had all been for show. “In middle school,” Kyle had said, “you can’t be too sure about anything unless you hear it straight from the source. And unfortunately, even that isn’t always reliable.”

What was reliable was the massive attack of butterflies that would invade Dex’s stomach whenever he’d see Sarah. It was unavoidable and it was happening now. She was standing at her locker, brushing her long, dark hair into a ponytail. Dex let out a little nervous cough to take the edge off hoping Liza wouldn’t pick up on anything. It was too embarrassing to have a thing for a girl who—Dex watched as Hunter came up behind Sarah and put his hands over her eyes--liked someone else.

#

It made sense that Dex’s favorite class was International Cooking. It was an elective and the only other choice that would have fit into his schedule was ballroom dancing. Admittedly, he could have used some instruction in how to do more than rock and kick someone’s ankles, but there was no way he’d allow himself to look that lame in public. No, he belonged exactly where he was, especially now, since Sarah had just walked into his class with a new schedule having switched from another
International Cooking
class. She was directed to a seat a few away from his where he could stare at her striking profile as much as he wanted.

“We’re going to continue our unit on International Breads,” said Mrs. Baker, looking a little less attractive to Dex since praising Hunter in his dream. “Today we’re ready to knock back our halla dough for the second kneading.”

Dex saw Sarah cringe and raise her hand.

“Excuse me Mrs. Baker.”

“Yes, Sarah?”

“It’s CH-allah,” Sarah said, correcting her. “From the back of your throat.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you for bringing that to our attention,” answered Mrs. Baker with a scowl that Dex wasn’t sure anyone else detected. “Anyway, that should get all the air out and make it easy to shape. If you work quickly, I think we may have time to get them in the oven by the end of the period.

Some of his classmates looked puzzled, but he was sure that was because Sarah was Chinese and they couldn’t understand how she would know anything about the Jewish bread called
challah
.

Mrs. Baker demonstrated how to handle the dough and added that since the class was small they would work in assigned pairs. Dex began to pray Mrs. Baker would make him and Sarah partners. It would only be fair. After the dream, she did kind of owe him.

“Dex, why don’t you work with Sarah,” Mrs. Baker said as the butterflies in Dex’s stomach mounted in a quivering frenzy.

Dex breathed deeply as he and Sarah walked over to their table. Don’t puke, don’t puke, became his silent prayer, because if he did, she would never have anything to do with him. He offered her a nervous smile and said he would be happy to get whatever they needed from the prep kitchen. She shrugged an ‘okay’ and took out a small mirror from her pocketbook.

Dex tried to look nimble and athletic as he juggled the oil they needed to grease the baking sheets, the eggs for the egg wash to glaze the challah, and the large baking trays to set the breads on. He thought of Rachael Ray, one of his favorite celebrity chefs who always challenged herself to get everything to her work area in one shot. She usually did and he was glad that this time he had too.

“So we have eggs, oil and baking sheets,” Dex said, trying to impress her with how much he had been able to carry.

Sarah shrugged again and wiped something from under her shiny bottom lip. Unsure of what to say, Dex started making the dough while Sarah scanned the room offering mini waves of her hand to a few people she knew. He tried to figure out something to say that would get her attention, but he didn’t have to.

“Sarah,” Mrs. Baker said, nearing their table, “two people, two challahs,” she said, making an effort to pronounce the word as Sarah had suggested was correct. “Get to work.”

Great, Dex thought, now Sarah was forced to acknowledge him and he still didn’t have anything intelligent to say. He divided the ball of dough in half and placed a mound in front of her. She gave him a look that said ‘thanks…I guess’ and began kneading the dough as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

Dex was in awe of her method, but more importantly, he finally had something to say to her. “That’s a really nice ring,” he said, looking down at her finger.

“I know,” she answered, lifting the dough with her fist, “I picked it out. Early bat- mitzvah present.”

She continued to work the dough in silence.

Dex thought about asking her where she got it, just to keep the conversation going, but decided that would have sounded too desperate, even for him. He was taking out his frustration on the dough when Mrs. Baker announced that class would be ending shortly.

Sarah looked at the clock and deftly began braiding the dough.

“You’re really good at that,” Dex heard himself say without having thought about it. He
was beating an egg to brush over the top of his bread.

“I should be. I help my Bubbe finish making
challah
every Friday when I get home from school,” she shared.

“My grandmother makes it too. But she can also make foccacia. I’m a pizza bagel, actually. Italian and Jewish.”

He let out a little chuckle. Sarah didn’t respond. They continued working until Sarah let out a small gasp.

“Hey!”

“Yeah?” Dex asked, excited.

“Have you seen my ring?” Sarah was frantically searching the table.

Dex searched with her for a moment then grabbed a toothpick from the counter. He delicately poked into her loaf of braided dough. It was tricky. All the raising and resting was about getting the yeast to make air bubbles in the dough. Poking at it before it was baked could make the challah collapse like a pricked balloon. After a few seconds, he extracted the ring. Sarah's braided miracle still stood proudly on the sheet pan, ready for its final rise.

Dex handed the ring to Sarah, waiting for her thanks and praise.

“Thank God,” she said, quickly snatching the ring from him just as the bell rang.

#

The cafeteria was getting more crowded as kids who had gone on a morning field trip returned in time for lunch. Dex, Kyle, Liza, and now Jordy, were sitting at a half-empty table of their own, having agreed weeks ago that it was better than sitting with a bunch of perfect-looking people or obvious losers. Dex wasn’t sure they really felt that way, or if they said they did to make themselves feel better. They were good-looking too, though. Weren’t they?

“A toothpick?” exclaimed Liza.

“It was all I could find!” Dex defended.

“It’s not like he used his-- fiiiiiiiger!” Kyle burped, scarfing down the last of his sandwich, and taking out a butterscotch pudding cup.

“You didn’t have no dental berries on that pick-stick did’ya?” Jordy asked, with a smirk.

“Gross. No!” Dex was annoyed, but proud of himself for figuring out what Jordy meant. “You guys weren’t there. You should’ve seen how great she braided the dough.”

“And you just loved playing her doughboy, didn’t you?” Liza teased, and gave Dex’s cheeks a little pinch.

She and Kyle laughed.

“Shut up!” Dex’s face was getting red. “Both of you.”

“Yeah. Leave da sucka alone. Bad ‘nuff he all love-thumped wit a who-dat,” Jordy noted, leaving everyone perplexed.

After a few silent moments Kyle finally asked, “I give. What’s a ‘who-dat?’”

Jordy eyed the group, sure someone would understand, but the silence remained. “Duh, it’s a chick dat don’t even know you breathin’! You know,” he said, raising his voice to a squeaky screech and imitating a girl, “Who-dat?”

And with that Jordy got up and stretched, holding onto one side of his pants to be sure they didn’t fall down again.

“Sarah knows I breathe,” Dex mumbled.

“No, she don’t,” Jordy cackled.

“Sorry Dex, but I think Jordy’s right,” Liza admitted, playing with the cap from her water bottle. “Sarah is all about Sarah. She was in my dads’ salon yesterday getting tips and scheduling her bat-mitzvah tans. That girl is really into ‘Fake and Bake.’”

“A butt-what? What she tanning her butt for?” asked Jordy.

“Not butt, baht! Bat-mitzvah,” Dex corrected. “It’s this thing when a Jewish girl turns twelve or thirteen. She says some blessings in temple and usually there’s a big party to celebrate her becoming a woman.”

“I’ve seen Sarah. She don’t look like no woman to me.”

Jordy’s scanned the room, his eyes landing on a girl with a sizable chest. “Now that girl,” he pointed with his chin, “is ready for a bat-mitzvah.”

Kyle nodded in agreement.

“It’s a symbolic thing,” explained Dex.

“Do guys get one too?”

“Yeah. That’s called a bar-mitzvah.”

“Cool. What you get to drink?”

“It’s not that kind of bar,” Dex sighed.

“You become an adult and you don’t get to drink. Damn.”

“We don’t become real adults. It’s not like we start paying taxes or anything.”

“No, but Sarah got to buy some awesome make-up,” Liza grumbled.

“Who caaaaares anyway,” Kyle broke in as he relieved himself of another burp. “It’s not like we’re invited.”

“That’s cause you a who-dat. Laytah gaytahs, gotta go slit a worm.” Jordy shuffled out of the cafeteria.

Before they had the chance to start talking again, an extremely awkward kid, Jerry, from Dex’s math class, timidly approached their table just as Dex noticed Sarah walk into the cafeteria holding hands with Hunter. Dex’s eyes were squarely on Sarah who stood with her back towards him as she and Hunter talked to another ‘popular’ couple.