Page 2 of Can't Kiss the Chef

My parents saw at a young age that I had a love for animals. I always tried to bring my friends’ pets home, saying that ourdog, Mickey, needed a friend. I was promised if I stopped trying to steal other people’s pets, they would sign me up for horseback riding lessons. It quickly became a passion of mine, and when I went to college my freshman year, I brought my horse Cookie with me, and she has come back every year since.

“Yeah. I can’t wait to get to Westvale,” he doesn’t look up from the final steps of securing the trailer.

Oliver is about to start his freshman year at Westvale University. He snagged a scholarship because he’s a badass hockey goalie.

I became close with the team last year. It’s kind of hard not to when both of your roommates are dating guys on the team. I almost got roped into that hockey girlfriend life, when I got kind of close to this one guy on the team but things fizzled out when we went home for the summer.

“Have you spoken to Penny since she left?” My older sister is a second-year medical student at Yale. We have never been super close. She is the perfect daughter, gets perfect grades, dates all the right boys, has never gotten a tattoo. My sweet angel of a brother has tried to keep the peace between the two of us since he could talk, wanting us to foster a relationship like he has with both of his sisters.

“Yeah, I texted her to make sure she got to school safely. She told me she’d call this week.” I do love my sister and want to have a better relationship with her. I think she wants that, too. We call each other, but the conversations are always surface-level. I’d never tell Penny this because she idolizes our parents, but I blame them for our disconnection. They always made it feel like we were competing against each other. We are now stuck in this weird rivalry that isn’t healthy for sisters who were born less than two years apart.

Oliver glances over at me, a smile tugging on his lips, happy his sisters are getting along. He shakes the trailer to ensure that everything is attached correctly.

“We are all set for tomorrow,” he wipes sweat from his forehead. “What time do I have to be up?”

“We have to get Cookie by eight, and then we have a two-hour drive to school. You have to be at your dorm by eleven to get your key and start orientation.”

He nods before heading to the shower. He’s writing the first chapter of his college experience as I’m getting ready to write my last.

By eight the following morning, I have worked out, showered, packed the last of my toiletries and made myself and Oliver coffee to go. I take great pride in perfecting the art of spending the least amount of time at home as possible.

The silence of the morning is interrupted by bare feet slapping against the hardwood. The steps even out, becoming soft as they make their way to the kitchen.

“Honey, please just promise me no more of these silly little tattoos while you are gone. They make you look so hard, and you have such a pretty face,” my Mom says in a tone that oozes disdain. She rubs her hand down my right arm like she has the power to erase the ink with a simple touch.

Placing the sponge in the sink I’m free to roll my eyes out of view from the most judgmental person I know.

With our heart-shaped faces and dark green eyes, my mom and I could be mistaken as twins, but the little pictures scatteredover my skin—predominantly my right arm—show how different we truly are.

“I’ll see what I can do Mom.” We both know that there is a high probability I’ll come home for Thanksgiving with a new tattoo or two.

My relationship with my parents wasn’t always like this. I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point, the opinions of their strong-willed second daughter diverged from theirs.

Our relationship has been downward spiraling since.

At times I crave the easy-going conversations my siblings are able to have with them. Every once in a while we have conversations where I feel like that little girl they supported no matter what. That is until they find a reason to remind me of all the ways that I don’t fit into the perfect suburban family mold.

My childhood wasn’t all passive-aggressive comments and disappointed glares. My parents sparked my love for travel at a young age. We took weekend trips to New York or the beach. I’ve spent a month exploring Australia. That’s actually the trip that inspired my first tattoo. They’ve become my own personal passport stamps. A reminder of all the places I’ve seen. The recipes I’ve learned. I believe no matter the language spoken, we can all understand the love that goes into a good meal.

“I can’t believe my last baby is going to college. I’ll be coming up a lot more to visit now to watch your brother’s games. Maybe we can try and spend some time together, just the two of us.”

Just an Italian mother gushing over her only son, nothing new to see here.

“I’d like that, Mom.”

This version of Sandra Adams shows up every once in a while. It’s what keeps my hope going that we can stitch our relationship back together.

“Is Oliver up? We have to get to the barn to get Cookie so we don’t miss his move-in window.”

“He went upstairs to get the last of his things a few minutes ago. He should be back down any second.”

She says nothing else, pouring herself a cup of coffee and going on with her morning routine.

Something I respect about my mom is that she always tries to send me off on a positive note, making me feel like we have made progress in our relationship. It always gives me hope that this time the cease-fire will last.

My equilibrium is thrown off when I pick up the tote bag I got during our family trip to Spain this summer. Gathering myself I throw it over my shoulder before turning toward the door that leads to the garage.

“Will you tell Oliver I’ll be in the car and that I have his coffee ready for him?”

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