Page 34 of The Seven Year Slip

Somehow, I didn’t believe him. I ruined SpaghettiOs in the microwave, so I didn’t have a lot of confidence that I could whip anything. He grabbed my aunt’s hummingbird oven mitts and took the pie out of the oven. The scent of lemons exploded into the apartment, warm and gooey and citrusy. He popped it in the quick-freeze and pulled me over to a bowl, and dashed in the ingredientsin rapid succession—he had everything premeasured in the refrigerator and chilled, and told me to keep whisking the ingredients until stiff peaks formed. I just nodded and did as I was told, and apparently my whipped cream peaks were beautiful.

“I have no idea what that means,” I replied, my arms feeling like Jell-O, as he checked on the pie in the quick-freeze, and he took out the cream, spreading it over the pie.

He grinned, “It means you’re a natural.”

“At whipping? Or the cream?”

“What is that, a sense ofhumor?”

I laughed and elbowed him in the side. “Shut up.”

But he just kept grinning as he took the pie over to the table, and I followed with two plates from the cabinet and two forks. We sat down and I handed him one, and we clinked them together in a sort of cheers.

“You first,” he decided, motioning to the pie. “The suspense is killing me. In this recipe, I substitute meringue with whipped cream. It’s a twist on key lime, with lemons obviously, with a graham-cracker crust. Simple, really. Arguably too simple, especially without the meringue.”

“Why no meringue?”

He shrugged. “The whipped cream has hints of lemon. It’s close enough.”

“...Can you not make meringue?”

“Alas,” he sighed, and set his head on his hand, “my only enemy. To be fair, I didn’t make the whipped cream, either. You did.”

“So, youaren’tperfect?” I mock gasped, reeling away.

He rolled his eyes. “I’d be boring if I was perfect. I’ve always been bad at meringue, ever since culinary school. The peaks never peaked and I’m wholly impatient. My biggest downfall.”

“That’syour biggest downfall?”

He honest-to-god thought about it for a moment before nodding. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Huh.” Because I was very sure if he found out the laundry list of my flaws, he’d be running for the hills. I twirled my fork around in my fingers and stabbed it into the pie.

Then I scooped up a forkful and tasted it. The warm, gooey acidity of the pie, along with the grittiness of the graham cracker, the sweetness of the whipped cream, with a pinch of lemon zest—it was such a lovely bouquet of flavors and textures. It reminded me of a lemon grove.

He waited patiently. Then, as if true to his word, a bit impatiently. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Shifted in his seat.

Gave a huff.

Finally, he asked, “...Well?”

I bit the tines of the fork between my teeth, looking from him to the pie, and then to him again. He reallywasimpatient, wasn’t he?

His face fell. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I messed up. I forgot an ingredient. I—”

“You should be ashamed,” I interrupted, pointing my fork at him.

In alarm, he grabbed it and took a bite.

“We ate pizza when we could have been havingthisthe whole time?” I finished, as he chewed and sank back into his chair, swallowing his bite. “For future reference, I am perfectly okay with dessert for dinner.”

He gave me a morose look. “You really had me going there, Lemon.” He sighed in relief, and then realized—“So you’ll have dinner with me again? In the future?”

“Of course. I’m still waiting for that split-pea soup,” I repliednobly, and took another bite. “Why were you so nervous this wouldn’t be good?”

“It was my grandfather’s recipe—which isn’t really a recipe at all,” he replied, handing the fork back to me, “so it’s a bit different every time.”

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