Page 42 of Stuck on the Slopes

“I’m sure it’ll be fantastic,” she said with a warm smile. I should have been paying more attention to the mac and cheese, but it couldn’t have been anything too complicated, so I let myself watch her. Her bottom lip found its way between her teeth as she put in some extra elbow grease when mashing some potatoes. The muscles on her arms flexed, still soft but undeniably strong. “My dad taught us how to cook, but my mom’s baking is unrivaled. She’s where the pecan pie recipe comes from.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “My great-grandparents brought all their recipes over when they immigrated to the States in the late thirties. They fled Poland when the Nazis started invading. It was one of their few belongings and it’s been passed down ever since. My grandmother had it turned into a cookbook.”

“That’s really special.”

One little cookbook held so much history. I wanted to sit with her and go through every page, to ask her more about her family, where they come from, who she looked like, and if they had a happy ending. As I lazily arranged the cheese in the baking dish with the cooked noodles, a part of me yearned to know everything I could about Rachel—things I had no right to know.

“Yeah, it is. It’s still at my mom’s, but I have most of the recipes memorized by heart at this point.” As I put the macaroni and cheese, which seemed done, into the oven to bake and let the cheese melt, she asked, “Your family couldn’t make it?”

As I closed the oven door with my left hip, I winced. “Actually, I didn’t invite them. They didn’t invite me, either.”

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s fine.” I grabbed the boxed stuffing and got to work over the stovetop, not bothering with homemade this year. “I actually prefer it that way.”

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m all ears. But we can drop it if you’d prefer.”

An unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest as I felt the desire to hug her, to wrap my arms around her, and bury my face in her hair as she embraced me and told me everything was okay now. It was as if she was winning a game of tug-of-war even though she wasn’t aware we were playing, pulling on a rope that brought me closer to her.

“We’ll cross that bridge one of these days. But I’ll spare the Ocean Spray cans for now.”

She laughed. “Alright, fair deal.”

Once the macaroni and cheese was done, I took a small spoonful and nearly choked on the overwhelming flavor. I covered my mouth with my hand as Rachel’s back was to me, giving Sasquatch another cookie. Instead of tasting the savory cheeses and buttery noodles, there was an overwhelmingly sweet, gritty taste left behind on my tongue.

I must have swapped an ingredient when I was distracted. That’s what I get for checking her out instead of paying attention.

I moved to the garbage can, quickly lifted the lid, and spit out the chewed-up macaroni before Rachel could turn back around. After chugging some water, I sighed, finally feeling most of it washed from my tongue. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is garbage,” I said, pointing to the pan. “Taste if you dare.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Rachel grabbed the spoon from my hand to scoop a piece out. I watched as it reached her lips, moved to her mouth, and then her eyes widened with surprise. She swallowed it as if it hurt and then said, “Holy shit, Juniper.”

I couldn’t stop the nervous laugh. “I think I may have swapped the sugar and salt.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure you’re just living for this right now.”

“Not at all. I’ve got to eat this too. But hey, no worries!” She set the fork down and began sifting through the ingredients on the counter, surveying each label. “No sense kvetching over it when I think we can salvage this.”

“I’ll give you a raise if you can.”

She barked a laugh. “Challenge accepted.”

“You seriously think you can, huh?”

“While I know Florida isn’t technically part of the Deep South, we do make a mean mac and cheese like the rest of the southern states. So, you bet your ass I can.”

After we finally got the chance to sit down with our food, Rachel’s phone buzzed on the table with a FaceTime call from her mom. Since my mouth was full, I nodded when she glanced at me, seeking approval. With a grin by way of reply, she took the call.

“Hey, Ima! Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Chamuda! Did I catch you at dinner? I keep forgetting you’re two hours behind us.”

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