Page 14 of Cooking Up My Comeback
The question is whether I’m ready to find out what that reason might look like.
And whether Amber Bennett might be interested in helping me figure it out.
FIVE
AMBER
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open to another page of job postings that might as well be written in a foreign language.Experienced line cook needed—check.Flexible schedule required—double check.Must be willing to work weekends, holidays, and every moment of personal time you once held dear—well, they don’t say that last part, but it’s implied.
The unemployment paperwork creates a paper mountain next to my coffee mug. Mason’s at the counter building what he calls a “sandwich castle”—three slices of bread, peanut butter applied with the precision of an architect, and enough jelly to feed a small village.
“Mama, why do your eyebrows look angry?” Mason asks, not pausing in his construction project.
“My eyebrows aren’t angry, buddy. Just focused.”
Ellen, here for a playdate, looks up from stringing beads with surgical concentration. “Focused looks like angry.”
Four-year-olds. Brutal honesty wrapped in innocence.
“I’m looking for work, sweethearts.”
“Work is boring,” Mason declares with the authority of someone who’s clearly given this extensive thought. “You should just make your special mac and cheese for people. Then they’d pay you lots of money.”
If only it were that simple. Though Mason’s not wrong about my mac and cheese—I’ve been perfecting Grandma’s recipe for years, adding my own touches. Three different cheeses, a hint of mustard powder, and breadcrumbs that actually have flavor instead of being sad yellow dust.
My phone buzzes.
Michelle: Hey, would you be interested in some part-time shifts? I know you’re looking and could really use the help.
I stare at the message. Part-time coffee shop wages versus mortgage payments and feeding three growing children. It’s like trying to fill a bucket with a thimble. But it’s work. And part-time work beats the nothing I’m currently bringing home.
Me: Definitely interested. When can we talk?
Her response comes immediately:How about tomorrow morning around 9:30? Coffee’s on me.
“Ellen, your mama will be here soon,” I call out, checking the time.
“Can I stay for dinner? Mason said you’re making magic spaghetti.”
I laugh. “Magic spaghetti is just regular spaghetti with a good sauce.”
“But yours tastes different,” Ellen says with the seriousness of a food critic. “Better.”
These kids are going to be the death of me with their sweetness.
When Hazel arrives, she looks like she’s either had the best day or the worst day. With wedding planning, it’s impossible to tell which.
“How’s the bride-to-be surviving?” I ask with a cheerful smile, because someone needs to inject positivity into whatever chaos she’s been dealing with.
“Barely. Did you know there are seventeen different shades of white flowers, and choosing wrong will apparently ruin everything?” She runs her hand through her hair like she’s considering pulling it out by the roots. “Jack keeps suggesting Vegas. An Elvis chapel is starting to sound reasonable.”
“Wedding planning that fun?”
“It’s like organizing a small army, except with more opinions and higher stakes. Plus Ellen keeps asking if she can wear her tutu to the ceremony because ‘fancy dresses need fancy dancing.’”
I grin. “That sounds absolutely perfect, actually. Tutus make everything better.”
After Ellen leaves with her latest bead creation and enough excitement to power the house for a week, I spend the evening making my resume sound impressive.Managed kitchen operations under pressure while maintaining food safety standardssounds much better thankept everyone from food poisoning while the owner cut corners on everything.
