Just Desserts

“I hate cooking.”

“That’s your own fault.”

“I know.”

“Then why complain?”

“Because I’m frustrated. Stupid eggs.”

“I did tell you to make them fluffy, not—“

“I know. You don’t have to rub it in.”

If you haven’t already guessed from the above exchange with my mother, I hate to cook. Yet my mom, who once claimed that she should have been the star of one of those PBS cooking shows, insists that I don't. Perhaps my hatred stems from an instinctive desire not to become my mother, but whatever the reason, I have never found the art of making food appealing. Show me a recipe for meringue pie and a calculus problem side by side, and I will go for the calculus without a second thought. Never mind the fact that I've never taken calculus.

It's not that I don't like food, far from it. In fact, I was the only girl to beat Big Boy Bill at the annual Eat-Pies-for-Charity contest my senior year of high school. Sometimes I wish I was more culinary inclined; after all, two of the girls in my campus apartment cook wonderful smelling dinners for their boyfriends all the time. Of course, I suppose it helps that they are culinary arts majors. But that can’t be the only thing, right? Well, in any case, I knew two things before Christmas Break: one, my circle of single friends was diminishing and two, I was twenty-one, a senior in college, and I had absolutely no prospects for that state known as marital bliss.

I had enjoyed being single for most of my college life. Without the burden of a boyfriend to entertain, my evenings were free to finish up homework and have quality girl-time on the weekends. I had heard all the sermons and read all the devotionals about God having Mr. Right in mind and the virtues of patience in accordance to God’s Will, etc, etc, etc. For a long time I was content; sometimes too content. Looking back, I can recall with a cringe how I pitied the poor girls whose desperation for a boyfriend made them go to extremes I thought I would never even think of doing.

What a joke I was.

Mid-Christmas break I received a call from a good friend.

“Hello?”

“Meg?”

“Hey, Nell, what’s up? How’s your break going?”

A squeal of excitement answered my question followed by a long stream of babble that was impossible to decipher. Eventually I got her to slow down.

“Greg proposed! I’m getting married!”

I made the appropriate replies: incoherent sounds of shock, praise for both the future bride and groom, mutual shrieks of delight, a few dozen questions about the wedding and a promise to see the ring once school started again. All the while, a sinking feeling in my stomach started to grow and I wished that Nell would stop. Surprisingly enough, my wish was granted.

“Meg, I hate to go, but I want to call everyone else. See you soon! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry—“ She hung up.

I sat at the table a moment, drumming my fingers, and dialed my best friend’s number.

“Hello?”

“Amy? Oh my gosh, Nell just called me—“

“Me too.”

“Can you believe it? I mean they’ve been dating for, what, only a few months?”

“A year.”

“A year? Has it been that long?”

“Yeah.”

I paused.

“Amy, you know what that means?”

“No. What?”

“We’re the only ones left!” My voice trailed dangerously upwards. I swallowed. “Amy you’ve got to promise me that you won’t get engaged for… well, for a long time.”

No reply.

“Amy? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A sniffle. “Lee’s been acting really weird around me lately. I think—“ She started to cry.

“Amy!” I was stunned into momentary silence by embarrassment and shock. “I—I didn’t know you two were having problems.”

“I didn’t think we were either… he’s just been acting really strange this week… I’m going to have to confront him about it but I don’t want to.” A pause. “I guess I’ll be able to keep that promise, Meg.”

“Amy, you know I didn’t mean it—“

“Yeah, but it may happen just the same. Pray for me, okay?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Thanks. Look, I have go do some stuff for my mom. I’ll call you after I talk to Lee.”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, hang in there, okay?”

“I’ll try. Thanks Meg.”

“No problem.”

“Bye.”

Feeling an odd mixture of depression and guilty relief, I grabbed a few cookies from my mom’s stash of fresh baked Christmas goodies and went back to work on a design project due the day after break ended.

****
Christmas came and went. Amy did not call. I assumed something bad had happened, and didn’t want to push her. So I waited. And waited. Soon I was pulling into a parking spot near my campus apartment at AI, an institution of higher learning dedicated specifically to the visual arts like my major, Graphic Design, and, randomly it seemed, the culinary arts as well. I looked for Amy’s blue Honda but didn’t spot it among the other early arrivers. I shrugged and unloaded my car.

She arrived later when I was curled up with a bowl of Ramen noodles on the ratty couch in our living room, watching cartoon reruns. I stabbed the mute button and looked up at her.

“Well?”

Amy smiled, a slow, radiant smile that made me nervous.

“You’re going to hate me,” she said and held out her hand: her left one. A large diamond sparkled against her chocolate colored skin.

I managed to smile and say congrats but my voice faltered and Amy noticed.

“Please, Meg. Can’t you try to be happy for me?”

I poked my sodden noodles. “I thought that Lee was—“

“I know. I’m more surprised than you are. The reason he was acting so weird was because he was trying to figure out the right way to ask.”

My pasted-on smile felt as limp as my noodles and I mumbled something in reply, turning back to the TV that became curiously blurred after a moment. Amy went up to her room.

I am content, I told myself. I don’t need a boyfriend, or a fiancé for that matter, to show myself that I’m loved. I mentally named all the good things in my life, and normally this exercise helped, but tonight all I could think of was the ring on Amy’s finger, the joy in Nell’s voice, and the mocking hiss inside me that said I would never have either.

It was late when I went to bed, so I entered the room I shared with Amy quietly and didn’t turn on the lights. I had just crawled under the covers when I heard her voice, tinged with sadness, from across the room.

“You don’t have to be alone, Meg. You could make an effort, you know.”

I rolled over with a sigh. Sure, I might make an effort, but how? I wasn’t particularly pretty. I was talented in my area of study, but so were hundreds of other girls; girls more pretty than I was, girls more outgoing. There were plenty of places and times to meet guys with all the parties scheduled that invited the general population, but I wasn’t fond of parties. More often than not they turned into drunken excuses to make out with someone who you had never met. I didn’t want a shallow relationship like that, though, and I didn’t understand how people could want it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Amy continued, “I’ve seen those devotional books you read. God has a plan for bringing Mr. Right into your life, blah, blah, blah… But, Meg, don’t you think that God needs a little help once in a while?”

“What?” She had finally provoked a response. I felt the smile in her voice, though I couldn’t see her face.

“God does the work of bringing this guy to your door, but don’t you think that you’d better open it when he comes knocking?”

“Amy, you’re weird. Go to sleep.”

“No, Meg. I’m serious!”

“So am I.” I turned to face the wall and closed my eyes.

“Meg—“

“Look, Amy, I’m happy for you, I really am, and I’m sorry that I don’t seem to show it. But you have it easier than me. You’re a good-looking, wonderful person with a great personality, and you’re talented at everything you do.” I paused for a breath. “I’m not saying that I have no chance, but I know it’s going to be harder for me than it was for you.” I pulled a blanket up to my chin. “Good night.”

“Meg—“

“Good night, Amy.”

There was a long pause.

“Good night.”

****
The next morning, I studied my reflection in the mirror as I dried my hair. My features at best could be called friendly, but certainly not pretty. Physically I was thin enough to count among the waifs that floated around campus in Brittney Spears get-up but my enjoyment of kickboxing ensured that, not anorexia. I neglected my ordinary brown hair with a carelessness that Amy found shocking but it never looked bad; I just never took the time to make it look spectacular. I squared my shoulders resolutely. With the depressing thoughts from the previous night seeming far away, I convinced myself that I would go on as before, single and content to be so, as long as necessary.

I didn’t fool Amy. Heck, if I was honest, I didn’t even fool myself.

Later that day, after a demanding routine of morning classes, I studied the bulletin board near the café for anything interesting. Sometimes an artistically challenged culinary arts major needed help with something, like cover art for their own cookbook and stuff like that. I spied something that might be promising and pulled it out from under a wad of ads offering photography lessons for teenagers.

It wasn’t a want ad for art, but something possibly more interesting. It proclaimed:

Basket Social!
Saturday, January 11 at 6:00 pm, the stud muffins from the Desserts Club
will be bidding on baskets made by YOU! So get cooking, ladies! (Culinary Arts majors are not allowed to enter)

Underneath was a lined area to sign up where a few scrawled signatures waited.

“What’s a basket social?” I wondered out loud.

“It’s when the girl makes up a meal, puts it in a box or basket and decorates it. They’re auctioned off and the girl who made the basket gets to go on a date with the highest bidder.”

I turned. A tall, lanky male with mischievous brown eyes and disheveled hair grinned at me. I smiled. “Hey Jake. How was your Christmas?”

Jake shrugged. “Good. Got a Nikon F100 from Dad.” He flashed a grin. “How was yours?”

“Good but my mom was driving me crazy, so I was glad to get back.”

“What’d she do?”

“Mom stuff. Nagging me about grades and my not producing grandchildren for her yet.”

Jake made a face. “You’re kidding, right? You’re only twenty-one.”

I laughed, hiding the hurt that surfaced when remembering my mother’s accusing words. “My mom was married when she was twenty. She thinks I’m slacking.” I shrugged and dismissed the topic.

“I got a lot of good responses about your picture in The Way, right before break. People really liked it.”

I was an art editor at a student-run magazine, and Jake had contributed a few pictures with my encouragement after I saw his work from a project we had collaborated on in a class.

We talked a little more about the magazine for a while until he brought up the basket social again.

“So, are you going to enter a basket?” he asked, gesturing at the ad still in my hand.

“I’m not a good cook,” I admitted, “I don’t like to cook either.” I pinned the ad back on the board.

“Is that all that’s holding you back?” he asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

“I guess so. Why?”

He shrugged and scratched the side of his angular nose. “If you want, I can teach you how to make a basic meal like this thing calls for.”

“You? But you’re a photography major,” I protested, even as hope flared.

“Yeah, but my dad was a cook in the army. I know how to make some good stuff.”

So that’s where he got that old ratty Army coat, I mused silently.

“Why?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “’Cause I need the money. Between tuition and monthly car payments I’m running thin. Think I get film for my cameras for free? No way. My normal job isn’t giving me enough. I need to supplement.”

“How much?” I mentally checked the contents of my bank account and winced.

“We won’t discuss price until we see how successful I’ve been. Don’t worry; you can afford it. Besides,” he continued in a sly voice, “I know a certain someone who is in the Desserts Club.”

I blushed but kept my mouth shut. My crush on Nick Roberts was no secret to my friends, but I hoped it was still a secret to him. I knew very well that I had no chance with Nick, but that was what crushes were for, right?

“I’ll meet you in the Culinary Complex, let’s say, at four-ish?”

“Sounds good to me.”

He handed me a pen and I signed my name on the ad with a flourish.

****
Our first day he started me out with something simple, a brownie box-mix. Under his critical eye, I followed the instructions as exactly as possible and after I thought enough time had passed (I forgot to set the timer), delivered a steaming, surprisingly good-smelling brownie to his hand. He gave me a long serious look.

“Now if I die after eating this, will you tell my mom—“

“Shut up and just eat it,” I said, swatting him with the oven mitt.

He grinned and put it in his mouth.
“Ouch!”

“Too hot?”

“Ow! No…” He spit out the bite and fingered his jaw. “I think I chipped a tooth.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, I’m serious! It hurts.”

Well, it wasn’t a chipped tooth but he had lost a filling (I helped pay for its replacement). Jake was much more cautious in eating my creations from then on.

****
With my longtime hatred of cooking, I expected the following days to be torturous but they weren’t. I had forgotten how much fun Jake could be when working with him on a project. Although a lot of my laughter was at my own expense, I did manage to avenge myself one day when making piecrust (I had discovered from Amy’s gossip chain that Nick loved apple dumplings and I was determined to have one in my basket). We emerged from the kitchen, laughing, coughing, and white from head to toe from the flour fight that had started.

Not all days were fun, of course. The day of the basket social got closer but my cooking became no better. I think Jake was frustrated with me a lot. Many times I caught him staring at me, an unreadable expression on his face. I tried, I honestly did, but I suppose that some people just weren’t meant to cook.

The frustration caved in on me a few days into my lessons. I had been fighting the sniffles since the day after school started and now it had turned into a full-blown head cold (no pun intended). Miserable and slightly feverish, I skipped my classes and stayed curled up on the couch, wrapped in blankets that weren’t keeping me warm enough. I popped The Shop Around the Corner in the VCR and settled the tissue box within easy reach of my nest. I figured if the sight of a young Jimmy Stewart wouldn’t cheer me up, nothing would.

I was at the part where Alfred Kralik, played by Jimmy Stewart, goes to the restaurant to meet the mystery woman whom he has been conversing with by letter, when someone knocked at the door. I jabbed the pause button.

“Come in,” I said with considerable irritation. My face was partially hidden by a tissue when Jake stuck his head around the door.

“How ya doing? I heard you were sick.”

I gaped at him, tissue still in my hand. “What are you doing here? Go away, you’ve interrupted a good part.” Later, I felt bad at being so rude, but I tend to be bear-ish when I’m sick.

He didn’t go away. Instead, he grinned at me, told me to go back to my movie and went to the small kitchen area of our apartment with a Tupperware container. I stared at his back for a moment but when he didn’t return, I shrugged and made the movie play again.

Jake soon emerged from the kitchen with a steaming bowl that he pressed into my hands. Slightly tipsy from cheap cold medicine I had taken earlier, I stared at it a moment without comprehension.

“Uh, thanks… what is it?”

“Potato soup; my dad’s recipe. He always made it for me when I was sick.”

I took a cautious sip. It was delicious. Creamy and smooth, the warmness soothed my sore throat while the finely chopped onions cleared my sinuses a little.

“Do you like it?”

“Mmmmm….”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He smiled again, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn Army coat. He glanced at the screen. “What are you watching?”

I felt embarrassed suddenly and realized what my hair must look like, not to mention my Rudolph red nose and the pile of tissues beside the couch.

“Um, just a movie. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Hey, is that Margaret Sullivan?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Hey! This is The Shop Around the Corner; I haven’t seen this movie in forever!”

I could do nothing but stare as he pushed my blankets aside and perched his lanky frame on the far end of the couch.

“You… like movies like this?”

“Yeah,” he replied glancing at me, “I’m really into the old black and white stuff. Some of the best movies were made back then. Have you ever seen Twelve Angry Men with Henry Fonda? That’s one of the best movies of all time.”

“Uh, no.”

“Really?” Jake pretended to be shocked. “Well, you’ll have to watch it then and soon. I’ll bring it over this weekend.”

“Before or after the basket social?”

Jake’s expression drooped. “Oh, I forgot about that… Well, after then, if Nick doesn’t take you out that night.”

I laughed. “Jake, we both know that Nick Roberts will never bid on my basket. With my cooking skills, I’ll be lucky to get any bids at all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate your confidence in my teaching ability.”

“Jake—“

He cut me off. “Meg, I can guarantee that your basket will be bid on.”

“Right. And tomorrow God will make the sun stop moving.”

Jake’s face turned serious. “God already did that, Meg. He can even bring together two people who you think might never have a chance.”

I turned away, my lips set in a stubborn pout. I had already given up on Nick, so why was Jake so intent on giving me false hope?

“Read Joshua chapter ten. God does the impossible.” Jake stood, smiled at me and left.

****
“No, Meg. Fold the batter, don’t stir! Look at the instructions!”

“I did.”

“Well, you’re not folding.”

“Well, I don’t know what folding is! What do you want me to do, take it out of the bowl and wrap it up in a blanket?” I set the spoon down with a thwack, splattering batter on both of us.

“No,” Jake said, calmer now that I had stopped stirring. “Here, I’ll show you.” He picked up the spoon, put it back in my hand and covered that hand with his. A funny feeling started in my stomach and worked its way upward until I realized I hadn’t heard a word he said.

“Um, could you repeat that please?” My voice cracked. He smiled and his face was close enough to mine that I saw a small spot of batter on the tip of his nose.

“I said, watch and learn.” With my hand in his, he pantomimed folding the cake batter in the proper way. “There,” he said, letting go of my hand and stepping back. I felt a brief flash of disappointment. To hide my confusion, I focused on reading the next part of the recipe. Jake, meanwhile, turned the oven to pre-heat.

The rest of the lesson went on as usual, but something was different. An awkwardness was there that hadn’t existed before. I kept expecting to hear him crack a joke at the mushiness of the cake but he was uncharacteristically silent.

Afterwards, I sat at my desk, staring at my computer screen without seeing it, wondering what was wrong. Something had changed, but what?

I thought about the week and the fun we had amid the seriousness of helping me try to make something edible. Jake smiling, Jake with a streak of flour across his face, Jake using his thumb to wipe a splotch of pudding from my nose, Jake making soup for me when I was sick, and Jake, his hand over mine just over an hour before… The answer hit me like a tsunami.

I groaned.

“What’s wrong, Meg?” asked Amy from her bed where she was reading.

“Amy, I must be the blindest girl to ever walk this earth.”

****
Saturday arrived. The kitchen where I was preparing my meal was silent. I was too busy concentrating on getting my apple dumpling out of the oven at the right moment to notice that Jake had arrived with the cheap wicker basket I had purchased at the Dollar General. I turned to put my finished, and miraculously unburned apple dumpling on a rack to cool and noticed it.

“Oh! Thanks, Jake. I’d forgotten about decorating it in the hurry of this past week.”

“No problem.” He’d somehow woven silk flowers into the handle and although it wasn’t quite what I had imagined, I liked it.

He helped me load and arrange my sorry looking meal: Fried chicken that was too peppery thanks to my misreading of the recipe, watery coleslaw, biscuits that were burnt on the edges, limp green beans, a flat apple dumpling, and, to top it off, my less than sugary lemonade that was sure to pucker a few lips, but not in the way I’d hoped for.

We walked to the Common Room of the Culinary Complex in silence. My basket was assigned the number six, then set on a table with the other entries. Jake mumbled something about having homework to do and he disappeared before I could protest. Biting my lip, I wandered over to the corner of the room where the other entrants had gathered but I couldn’t stay still. I eventually settled for wandering around the Complex, waiting for the rest of the guys to arrive so the auctioneer could do his work. When I got back to the table, light refreshments had been set out and I started nibbling on a carrot to hide my anxiety. The other girls were chatting and laughing. How could they be so calm? I was a nervous wreck and I told myself that I shouldn’t be. But what if Nick does bid on your basket? asked an annoying voice inside me. I picked up another carrot and chewed furiously.

The guys arrived en masse, a blur of blue jeans and winter coats, laughing and crowding as only a group of males can. I avoided looking at their faces and clustered at the back of the room with the other entrants, who were trying hard not to look at their baskets. The auctioneer prepared himself and the guys settled down in the chairs facing the baskets until all my eye could see was a field of brown, dyed blond, and the occasional blue or green for variety. I wished for another carrot.

The bidding started. The first basket was heavily decorated and fetched a high price. The next did as well and, too soon, it was my basket’s turn. I turned away, unable to watch and not wanting to hear the dead silence that would meet the auctioneer’s starting bid of a dollar. To my complete surprise, however, two voices rose up in an effort to outbid the other. I couldn’t see who was bidding from where I stood but I didn’t want to. One voice I recognized as a skinny little freshman that I’d been avoiding all year and the other…. My heart jumped with the crack of the gavel as the auctioneer sold my basket for fifteen dollars.

After it was over, the organizer called us all up to the front to hold our cards so we could meet the guy who successfully won our baskets. I followed the twittering girls on leaden feet but I tried to smile as I stood in line, hoping that it didn’t look like a grimace. One by one, the guys approached their lady and my eyes widened as I saw Nick Roberts stand from a chair, smiling and striding toward the front of the room. I gulped. Nick caught my eye… and looked away, grinning at girl number two, a petite blond who I vaguely recognized from a class. I was so busy staring at them, a mixture of conflicting feelings assaulting me that I didn’t notice the light touch on my arm.

I turned.

Jake grinned.

I grinned. Stupidly.

Say something! My brain shouted at me.

“You bid on my basket.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Jake’s smile widened. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“No… I… well, I hoped it would be you… but… I didn’t see how you could… I didn’t know you were in the Desserts Club.” I looked down, finding the toes of my scuffed shoes very interesting at that moment.

“I wasn’t, until a few days ago,” he confessed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his Army coat. He ran a hand through his wild mop of hair, messing it up further.

“So… do you want to go on a picnic?”

I laughed. “No, Jake, I won’t subject you to my cooking again. That’ll be your job from now on. I hereby retire from cooking, now and forevermore.”

“I hope that means I’ll have a lot of opportunities to cook for you.” His voice was uncharacteristically shy.

I blushed but managed to face him. “Yes, I suppose it does.”