Dahlia taped one box shut and moved on to another that was half full. She could fit her immersion blender in there, some ladles and wooden spoons.
Something caught her eye as she riffled through it, trying to rearrange things for optimal space utilization. She reached into the corner to pull it out, its cover soft and smooth against her fingertips.
Dahlia’s heart gave a small flutter.
Had she really tossed this in a box without a second thought earlier this morning? Or maybe her mom had.
The notebook was bigger and fancier than the small notepad she’d always used on set. Dahlia ran to her bedroom, suddenly wanting that one, too. It was on her dresser, where she’d tossed it her first night back, untouched since.
Back in the kitchen, she pushed aside boxes and newspaper on the counter to make room. She stood, hands on hips, studying both notebooks in front of her.
The smaller one was messier, prone to more spillage during the frantic timed cooking stints on the show. The larger, neater Moleskine she’d just unearthed from the box had lived in her own kitchen, where she could take her time—hours, most nights—to figure things out. To practice, to experiment, to taste and try again.
Her mom came to stand next to her.
“I sense these are important?” she ventured.
Dahlia handed her the Moleskine. Her mom opened it, turning carefully through the pages.
“The first half are recipes I found online or in cookbooks. I only copied them in there when I had adjustments I’d figured out that I wanted to remember.” When she had replaced an ingredient, or altered the seasoning, or added something new to the mix.
“The last half,” Dahlia told her mom, “are my own.”
Nothing compared to that first recipe, about halfway through the notebook, that she had made herself.
It had been exceedingly simple, just a rice dish with random ingredients thrown in, a casserole essentially, but Dahlia had still felt nervous while she was making it. Choosing all of her building blocks, on her own, for the first time. Certain it would be a mess.
But then it had tasted good. Really good.
Tanner Tavish’s voice popped into her head.
This is a dish for moms on Pinterest.
She laughed silently to herself now, that he thought this was such an insult.
Moms on Pinterest made some delicious food.
An idea burst into Dahlia’s mind, refreshing and bright, like a crocus after a long winter.
“Hey, Mom, do you mind if I pop over to Food Lion?”
Her mom looked up from the Moleskine.
“Want me to come with you?” she asked.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll make us lunch when I get back.”
Dahlia rustled through her bag for her keys. This might be one of the last times she drove her old clunker before she sold it. She already had some decent offers online; it would help offset the cost of the U-Haul.
“Sounds good,” her mom said, her face turned back toward Dahlia’s notebook.
Dahlia might not have a car or an apartment soon, but as she grabbed the few ingredients she needed at the store, she knew she had those two notebooks. Those notebooks were her, sloppy and real and full of failures and successes. A testament that Dahlia Woodson could learn new things, by herself, just because she wanted to.
Handing that Moleskine over to her mother to look through had been another attempt to make up for things. It had felt like handing over her heart.
Dahlia laid the ingredients out on the counter when she got back. On the show, she’d gutted and pureed an actual sugar pumpkin, but she didn’t need to be that fancy now. She would have soaked her own black beans overnight too, if she was a proper chef, but oh well. Dahlia had no shame in the canned food before her.
Her mom helped her find the things she’d already packed that she needed: her good pot, spices, some olive oil.
“Can I help?” her mom asked, almost hopefully.
Dahlia studied her ingredients and shook her head, but she smiled.
“No, I’m good. You can just relax. It won’t take long.”
Dahlia put on some music, and she got to work.
The movement of her hands, the smell of spices filling the air. The rhythm of stirring, the patience of waiting, the magic of ingredients melding themselves together all on their own.
For the first time in days, Dahlia felt right in her body. She almost cried at the relief of it.
Once the flavors had simmered enough, she brought two steaming bowls over to the couch.
Her mom smiled after she took her first sip. Dahlia did, too. It was both sweet and spicy, warm and comforting in her belly, full of the promises of turning leaves and golden light. It would be September soon, and Dahlia was glad. It would be easier, somehow, she thought, to be sad in the fall.