“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s rolling her eyes. It’s not a mystery where I get some of my mannerisms from. “Come help me in the kitchen.”
I was already heading in that direction, and when I walk in, my heart squeezes at the familiar sight. Almost every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen is wide open. She’s standing in front of a counter covered with a plethora of ingredients I doubt she even needs. In a mystery I’ll never solve, flour is scattered all over her arms and throughout her hair, yet her apron is spotless. Dad’s sitting in his recliner in the living room and Jeopardy! is playing on the TV.
“Oh! I know this one!” My mom shouts like if she’s loud enough, the contestants can hear her. “What is Manarola, Italy?”
I haven’t watched the trivia show since I moved out. It’s a jarring sign of time passed to see the new host in Alex Trebek’s place. He confirms my mom’s random but extensive geography knowledge.
“Impressive!” I lift my hand in the air, forgetting about her flour-covered state until she slaps my hand and a puff of powder explodes around us.
“Thank you very much.” She points to the folded apron in the open drawer by the fridge. “But come on and help me out, will ya?”
I don’t hesitate to take her up on that offer. She’s a chaotic baker, but we always have so much fun in the kitchen. Plus, added bonus, the results aren’t always a total disaster.
“What are we making this time?” I look at all the ingredients on the counter, but I can’t figure it out.
“Lemon cake.” She lifts up a bowl of liquid I’m guessing is lemon juice. “I almost did a strawberry shortcake, but then I got a hankering for cream cheese frosting and had to pivot.”
“A hankering?” I laugh. “What a wild word choice.”
I wish I had my phone to add it to the list of words I have saved in my notes. Every time I hear a word that I don’t think is used enough, I add it to the list and keep it nearby when I’m writing scripts. Hankering is definitely list-worthy.
She smirks and hands me a spatula. “I thought you’d like that one.”
Beyond all the Bible apps on her phone, once I told her about my list, she downloaded a word-of-the-day app. She tries to weave them into our conversations or texts every day—some with more success than others. Let’s just say there’s no way to drop anthropomorphic into casual conversation.
My mom straightens her glasses and props her phone in front of her as she reads the recipe. We fall into a comfortable rhythm with her measuring the ingredients while I pour and take charge of the mint-green KitchenAid she got last Christmas.
She checks on the cream cheese to make sure it’s at an acceptable frosting temperature as I begin to distribute the batter to the pans evenly.
“Four layers?” My hands stay steady as I hold the heavy bowl. When I was a kid, she was strictly a sheet cake and cupcake girlie. “Your cake-making skills are getting better and better.”
“Oh no. Definitely not four layers. I tried that once before and it looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa after I frosted it.” She laughs at the memory. “We’re making two cakes. One for us and one for Nate. I’ve been thinking of him since he stopped by that day, and then seeing you two in the parade, I thought this would be nice. Remember how much he liked those lemonade cupcakes I used to make?”
I forget the task at hand and stare at her. This has to be a joke, right?
“Did Ruby call you?” Maybe she snuck off to give my mom a heads-up when I was trying on the hamburger leggings.
“What? No. Why would she call me?” She takes off her reading glasses and focuses her attention on me. “Keep pouring. We need to wash the bowl so I can make the frosting in it.”
I resume my cake job, but my mind is still racing. What are the chances that tonight, of all nights, my mom randomly decides to send me marching to Nate’s house? I don’t know if I want to laugh or break out into a cold sweat. Even though I grew up in a very Christian home, I’m still figuring out what I believe. But right at this moment, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like some outside force was pushing me toward the khaki-wearing man down the street.
After we put the cakes in the oven, my mom settles in on her spot on the couch to watch the legal drama my parents have been streaming and I head upstairs. Everything in my mind feels scrambled. Each time I think I have some kind of plan, something else happens that leaves me feeling like I don’t know what’s up or down. It’s almost as if the constant whiplash of the last few months is just now beginning to hit me. I’m always on edge, waiting for the next shoe to drop.
I sit down on my bed and open my computer because if there’s one thing that always grounds me, it’s writing.
I chose my career because I love storytelling. I love sitting in front of the television and letting the rest of the world fall away as I’m transported into the lives of the characters on my screen for thirty minutes. Having the opportunity to create something that could provide someone else with an escape was all I ever wanted. But, like many people living the constant hustle and trying to find their path in the glitz and glamour of Los Angeles, I became more obsessed with being successful than I was with the work.
I had a vision board next to my bed so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up. It was filled with all the typical “girl boss” quotes. There were pictures of designer bags and houses in the hills, all the crap that would prove to anyone who saw me that I was somebody. I was worth their time and attention. But in chasing the things that, when I really think about it, I don’t even want, I lost the reason I started writing in the first place. I stopped writing what called to me and began writing what I thought the market wanted.
Writing became a chore instead of what I loved to do.
I’m not at the point where I can look back at what happened and laugh—that’s going to take a while. But as I sit on my childhood bed and open my computer, I can feel grateful that the joy and peace I feel as I tap away on my keyboard has returned.
The stress of what could be and conversations to be had falls away as I lose myself in my script. My main character is arguing with her opponent in front of an elementary school as small children abandon their kickball and games of tag to watch two adults fight. I work hankering into Nate’s . . . I mean Jack’s dialogue and my laughter rings loud inside my quiet bedroom.
“What are you laughing about?” My dad sticks his head into my room.
I look up from my computer and set it to the side to wave him in.
“My new script. It’s loosely based on me running against Nate for the HOA crap.” It sounds just as ridiculous now as it did when I decided to run.
“I still can’t believe you’re doing it.” His long legs make quick work of my room. He sits down next to me and looks comically large on my tiny bed. “All of my friends are voting for you, you know. I brag about you all the time so they were sold the second they heard your name.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I bump my shoulder against his. “One more thing to add to all the reasons you’re the best.”