Page 4 of Lilies in Autumn

Now that is my kind of girl. I take a closer look at her: tousled dark blonde hair falling to her shoulders, petite frame, and golden skin that hints at a Hispanic heritage; she is stunning.

And young. How old is this girl that she is hosting a table at a college event?

The three look over to us, and while both boys offer well-rehearsed smiles, the girl grimaces. “I’m so sorry you heard that. My name is Serena. I’m the secretary of the English Honor Society. I was just explaining to these idiots that I won’t give them my old assignments for Poetry II with Dr. Rembach as “reference material.” She air quotes for emphasis. “Which translates to plagiarism because these lazy morons won’t bother doing the work themselves.”

I look over at CeCe, watching her eyes narrow and mouth pucker in evident disgust. “That doesn’t seem very literary of you.” To CeCe, claiming someone’s writing as your own was akin to homicide, genocide, and the puppy commercials with Martina McBride. These guys are definitely bros—egotistical, self-important, and not used to hearing the word no.

“Baby, we’re on the lacrosse team. We work on the field, not for professors that think poetry will help us in the real world.” Bro One speaks directly to my boobs, not bothering to make eye contact with CeCe when replying. Bro Two holds up his fist, offering a, “That’s right, bro.”

Like I said, total bros. Though they were both good-looking in the blonde hair, blue-eyed, all-American, apple pie kind of way, I can tell that every word out of their mouths will just piss me off.

“John, you are one concussion away from never playing lacrosse again. You need to take your coursework seriously,” Serena chides him. “I won’t continue to tutor you if you’re just going to waste my time and expect me to do your work.”

Clearing her throat, CeCe jumps in. “So my name is Celeste, and this is Ava. We’re freshmen and super interested in joining Sigma Tau Delta. What are the membership requirements?”

Smooth transition, CeCe,supersmooth.

Serena startles. “Oh, well, you have to have at least fourteen credits completed and a GPA of 3.5 or above.” Leaning over John, or Bro One, Serena picks up a pamphlet. “This lists some of the events we host this semester. If you’re into poetry, we do an event at the local coffee shop and donate all proceeds to the children’s center at the local library.”

Bro Two snickers. “If you like a group of depressed hipsters crying about climate change and cows, you’ll be happy.”

Serena huffs. “Please, ignore John and Liam. They’re here for extra credit and to make my life a living hell.”

I let out a laugh. “Don’t apologize, especially not on their behalf. By the way, how old are you?”

“Ava, you can’t ask strangers their age!” CeCe growls at me, sounding like a demon is crawling its way out of her.

“I’m sorry, Serena. I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem closer to our age rather than an upperclassman.”

Serena smiles. “It’s okay, I get that a lot. I’m eighteen. I skipped a few grades when I was younger. I’m a junior and an English major.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Your parents must be so proud of you,” I say.

Serena ducks her head and nods.

I turn toward CeCe, and she looks one step away from beheading me and putting my head on a pyre. “Right so, like CeCe said, very interested in STD.”

CeCe and Serena let out groans while the bros laugh. But honestly, who the fuck thought of this name?

“We’re having an event on Saturday at the coffee shop I mentioned, Beans & Things. Are you both English majors?”

Celeste smiles. “I am; I’m concentrating on creative writing. Ava is in the culinary arts program.”

All three of the STD’s eyebrows raise at the mention of my major. Serena looks at me with a warm smile. “That’s awesome. What do you plan to do with that?”

I’m used to this question; every time someone learns about my major, they ask one of two things: what am I going to do with a culinary arts degree and when can I cook for them? It surprised my parents when I told them about my culinary dreams, given my hang-ups with food. I may have a love-hate relationship with calories and eating, but watching people eat food that I’ve prepared is one of the most rewarding experiences that I can indulge in. There’s something so incredibly satisfying about cooking a meal and listening to the appreciative moans that accompany the first bite.

When I was eight, the same year that the concession stand became my confessional, my maternal grandmother taught me how to cook Sunday sauce. I spent hours in the kitchen with her every Sunday morning after church, rolling meatballs and lacing twine around thin steaks rolled with breadcrumbs and cheese. I remember squeezing the meatball mixture in my fingers, memorizing the texture and feel of the meat, while my grandmother watched over me. “Ava Maria, the difference between Italians and everyone else is that we live to eat, the others eat to live.” She ingrained those words into my soul, cementing food as love, comfort, and survival.

In between cooking for our household, which included both of my mother’s parents, my parents, two younger sisters, Seraphina and Bianca, and my younger brother, Rafael, my grandmother would take me out into the garden to forage our ingredients. Basil, parsley, and other herbs grew wild in our little garden, tucked far away from my mother’s landscaping because God forbid the neighbors saw our tomato plants from the street.

“Ava Maria,” my grandmother would say, always using my first and middle name. “Don’t step on my squash flowers, or I’ll hit you with my spoon.” My grandmother, like all Italian women, had a collection of wooden spoons that were tools for both deliciousness and viciousness. Poor Rafael had permanent welts on his ass from all the swats she gave him for stealing the cigarettes she thought she hid so well.

She was a very loving woman.

That time spent working at our kitchen counters and in our garden became the catalyst for my dream of owning my farm-to-table restaurant. My culinary arts degree was the first step to achieving that dream.

“I’m going to open an Italian farm-to-table restaurant. I’m double majoring in hospitality, so I’ll have all my bases covered between front of house and back of house.” I even had the name picked out: Maureen’s, an homage to the woman that taught me everything I knew about food, and a way to continue her legacy after her death five years ago.

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