Page 8 of Spicy Nick

Even knowing that she’ll be back tomorrow, barring any unforeseen circumstances, has me feeling anxious, impatient, unable to sleep. I wish I could sprout wings and fly to her side. I can’t, of course. So, instead, I do what I always do when I need to distract myself. Once Cole is tucked in once again, I head down to the kitchen.

Christmas is only a few days away. There’s a whole lot of holiday cooking to be done.

Two

It used to be that we—me, my daughter Kate, Scout and Cole—would eat Christmas Eve dinner here at home. Just the four of us. And since, when we were first married, Scout didn’t cook, I was always in charge of producing the feast. Scout had claimed she lacked the experience, the interest or the aptitude for the task. As it turns out, however, only the first of those claims was true. But more about that later.

Then on Christmas Day (as with most holidays) we would all make the trek across town to Lucy’s house, and eat dinner there.

But things have changed in the last few years. Our extended “family” has expanded and grown. Eventually, we all came to the realization that it made more sense to hold the big event here. So now, Lucy makes dinner for her family and mine on Christmas Eve. And Scout and I share cooking duties on the day itself.

I’ve loved watching my wife come into her own as a cook. I’ll admit that it gave me pause at first, but now I love the spark of competition that flares between us, the rush I get whenever that spark bursts into flame. Working together as a team…well, that’s been nothing short of amazing. But, if I’m honest…I still kind of miss those quiet, intimate Christmas Eves we used to have here.I miss having Scout just hanging out in the kitchen with me while I cook—sipping a glass of wine, telling me about her day, asking me about mine; both of us relaxed and content, not a care in the world.

And I also miss being the sole provider of sustenance for my family. Is that weird? It was more than a habit; it was almost a ritual. A way to decompress after a long day at work. An act of service. A way to show my family how much I care. Of course, it’s still all of those things, obviously. But…I dunno. Maybe it’s a control issue. Maybe I just like being in charge, calling the shots.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had those charge laid at my door.

Our kitchen is amazing,too, by the way. Large and bright with high ceilings, and an abundance of storage in the form of cabinets, closets, and shelves. Apparently, Scout’s stepmother was an accomplished cook and foodie with enough money to afford the best of everything. And it shows. The countertops are marble. The farmhouse sink is massive. The integrated refrigerator is hidden behind cabinet doors.

There’s a dinette table tucked into one of the bow windows that overlook the backyard. And a large central island, with stools along one side for extra seating, and more storage beneath.

And then there’s the AGA. It’s a classic; with brass knobs and handles, five burners, two ovensanda separate broiler. Located in its own alcove, where I’m sure the original, cast-iron stove once stood, it dominates the room.

I set it to pre-heat, then get to work making gingerbread—extra spicy, the way my wife likes it.

It’s one of the things I started doing shortly after our marriage, one of our traditions, if you will. Each year, Ibake a big, gingerbread house resembling our real one, and individual cookies shaped like all the people—big and little—and the animals that make up our extended family. And then we decorate them all, as a family, on Christmas Eve. And when I say “as a family” I mean that it’s mostly the kids—mine and Lucy’s—doing the heavy lifting at this point, with only an occasional assist from the adults.

But the older kids are almost adults now, themselves, and losing interest fast. Last year was really the first time Cole participated and I had envisioned it becoming something that he and I would end up doing together after everyone else dropped out—our own private tradition, if you will. But, if Lucy’s right…in another few years I might have a new helper.

Which would not be the worst thing in the world.

I’m still thinking about that when Kate gets home from her pre-Christmas get-together with her mother who’ll be out of town for the holidays.

“How was dinner?” I ask, as she takes a seat at the island. My ex-wife, Lauren, is not much of a cook. And I know what you’re thinking. There must be a reason that I keep marrying these women who can’t cook—right? Yeah, well…you’re not completely wrong about that.

“It was all right,” Kate replies with a shrug. She reaches for the tray of gingerbread, picks up a cookie and asks, “You’re still making these? How come?”

This takes me by surprise, until I realize the cookie in question is shaped like a dog. And we no longer have one. “Huh. Good question.” It’s averygood question, actually. Where is my head? We lost Sara earlier this year. We put flowers and dog biscuits on our Day of the Dead altar just last month. It’s not like I forgot she was dead. So why am I still making dog-shaped cookies?

My gaze strays involuntarily toward the space on the floor where we used to keep her bowls. “I guess I didn’t really think about it,” I say, feeling sad, now that I have. She was a good dog. She deserves better than to be forgotten so easily. Not that she is, really. I miss her every time I leave the house for one of my morning runs. Sure, she’d slowed down noticeably in the last few months as her age caught up with her. And, towards the end, I’d actually begun to leave her home any time I wanted a real workout. But, even so, mornings just aren’t the same without her.

“Sorry,” Kate says, still flipping the cookie between her fingers. “Didn’t mean to harsh your vibe. I think it’s…nice…that you’re still thinking of her.”

“Yeah, well… It is what it is,” I tell her, but before she can put the cookie in her mouth, I slide a plate of broken pieces in front of her. “Here. Eat these. Let’s save the rest are for Christmas Eve. Okay?”

“Mm. These are good. Spicy,” she murmurs approvingly, scarfing down one of the pieces and immediately reaching for another.

I nod in acknowledgment—they really are. I grate fresh ginger into the batter—in addition to the standard dried ginger-cinnamon-nutmeg-allspice-clove spice blend. And then I add a generous measure of both black and cayenne pepper. And no, you can’t have the recipe. My family’s weirdly obsessed with keeping those things secret.

“So, does this mean Scout’s back?” Kate asks, a logical leap since, as previously mentioned, my wife likes the spice.

“Not ’til tomorrow,” I reply and then, noticing the way Kate’s gaze keeps drifting back toward the cookies, I make my own logical leap as to the quality of her dinner, and suggest, “There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge. Want me to heat it up for you?”

“Yes, please,” she responds instantly. She brushes the crumbs from her hands and gets up to get herself a drink while I slide what’s left of the pie into the second oven.

“So, she asks,” once we’re both seated at the island with our drinks and our pizza. “When do you plan on expanding the family?”

“What?” I stare at her in alarm. “Who’ve you been talking to? Did you see Lucy tonight, or Mandy? Did one of them say something to you about this?”

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