Page 60 of Salty Pickle

“Oh. Am I staying here, then?”

“Until some farm thing is over. They filled up a lot of the spots you would have liked. The goat is limiting.” He lifts his hands. “Not that she’s a problem.”

I smile inwardly. He’s acting differently this morning. A lot less salty. Almost… concerned.

“There’s a farm expo this weekend. Caroline mentioned it.”

“Right. That must be the holdup. Will you be okay if I head to the office? I didn’t want to leave until you were up and about.”

“I’m okay. We’ll be fine.”

“Good, good. Like I said, Maggie will be here later, so don’t be alarmed when she comes in. And I’m a phone call away.”

“Did you get your car back?”

“It’ll come today. They’re driving it here and taking back their car. Devin arranged it.”

“Okay, good.” The apple has made me even more hungry, but I don’t want to devour half his refrigerator contents in front of him.

He takes a few steps back. This entire exchange has been awkward and different.

“Are you okay, Court?”

“I’m good,” he says. “I’ll check in with you later.” Then he practically bolts out of the kitchen.

I sit at the table and listen as his front door opens, then clicks shut. His apartment is eerily silent and immaculate. The kitchen is cappuccino colored, dark cabinets, light countertops, marbled tile. You could do a cooking show in it with the double ovens, wide steel sinks, and industrial-sized fridge.

A central island has the stove, a griddle, and a cutting board. Pristine pans hang above it in an artful display.

But even so, it doesn’t compare to Grandma BeeBee’s kitchen, always smelling of garlic and earthy potatoes and something baking all the time. Her cabinets were cluttered with cloth-covered bowls and jars ready for canning or pickling. There was always fruit in baskets and fresh cookies on a plate.

This kitchen is pretty and expensive and clean, a lot like my parents’ had been. But it isn’t full of life. It isn’t home.

I could fix this, but I won’t be here longer than a few days.

Even so, maybe I could soften the edges. A bowl of oranges in the corner. A few potatoes in a basket. Maybe a jar with cookies. I wonder if he has ingredients.

A quick look through the cabinets and inside an expansive pantry tells me that Court has never cooked a day in his life. There’s no flour, no oils, no spices of any kind.

He has the utensils, including oven mitts with the tags on them, and all the accessories.

But everything is pre-made, packaged, or ready to eat. I’m guessing he has takeout often.

But I do have milk, butter, and eggs and every vegetable under the sun. He’s bought bread and peanut butter.

Peanut butter cookies! I can make those with nothing but egg and a sweetener. I dig into the fridge. Yes, there are dates! I can make date-sweetened peanut butter cookies!

I preheat the oven and hum to myself as I set to chopping and mixing, pausing to cut an avocado in half and scoop the inside directly into my mouth with a spoon.

Soon, the cookies are scooped onto the inaugural use of the nonstick pan and possibly the first pre-heating of the oven.

I mash the second half of the avocado with sprouts and scoop it into celery. I’m eating better than I have since I gave up my yoga job.

My phone buzzes. It’s Summer, asking how I’m doing.

Me: I had to leave the farm. They were using goats for meat!

Summer: Oh no!

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