Page 83 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Tally’s beside me, arranging dollops of fresh whipped cream with the precision of a girl who’s beenwatching too many Food Network shows. She’s been obsessed with pastry techniques ever since she realized that cooking might actually be her calling, not just something she has to do to help me keep our family fed.
“Mom, you’re being too cautious with the cream,” she says, demonstrating a perfect quenelle technique that makes my amateur dollops look like sad little clouds. “See? It’s all about the confidence in the movement.”
“Since when did you become the whipped cream expert?”
“Since I started watching every episode ofThe Great British Bake Offever made. Did you know there’s a whole science to cream consistency? It’s about fat content and temperature and?—”
“Tally,” I interrupt gently, “you’re seventeen. You’re supposed to be obsessing over boys and makeup tutorials, not butterfat percentages.”
She shrugs, but there’s pride in her smile. “Maybe I’m just built different.”
Watching her work in the kitchen these past few months has been like witnessing a person discovering their superpower. The way she tastes everything with focused intensity, how she instinctively knows when something needs more acid or salt or heat. It’s the same intuition I have with kids—you just know.
The kitchen is wonderfully loud in that post-Christmas-morning way. Ellen’s spinning around in her newsparkly princess dress that she absolutely had to wear immediately after unwrapping, because what’s the point of a sparkly dress if you can’t spin in it? Mason’s building some kind of elaborate fortress out of Lego sets under the kitchen island, making sound effects that I’m pretty sure aren’t architecturally necessary but are definitely enthusiastic.
Crew’s at the kitchen table with Kira, both of them hunched over what appears to be a very serious experiment involving the ribbon from our gift boxes and Hazel’s salt and pepper shakers.
“We’re making fishing weights,” Crew announces when he notices me watching. “If the ribbon can hold up the salt shaker, it’s strong enough for my tackle box.”
I love how his brain works. Everything is either a fishing technique or a potential improvement to his tackle box or a really good excuse to test theories with household items. He’s nine years old and already thinking like he’s going to revolutionize angling with the right combination of science and determination.
Hazel bustles in from the living room, her arms full of wrapping paper that apparently tried to escape during cleanup. Her cheeks are flushed from wrestling with what I’m pretty sure was a twelve-foot Christmas tree that Jack probably cut down himself.
“Okay, I’ve officially given up on making the living room look civilized,” she announces. “There’s glitter on every surface, ribbon in places that defy physics, andScout is wearing a bow that Ellen insisted would make him ‘more festive.’”
“How’s he handling the bow situation?”
“With the dignity of a dog who knows he’s deeply loved but slightly embarrassed,” she says, washing her hands and eyeing my pie setup. “Oh my goodness, that looks incredible. Just like your grandmother used to make.”
My chest gets tight in that good way, the way it does when someone remembers the people who shaped you. Grandma Pearl’s been gone for five years now, but every Christmas I make her apple cranberry pie, and every year it tastes a little more like home.
“Tally did most of the work,” I say, watching my daughter blush with pride. “She’s got the magic touch.”
“I just followed the recipe,” Tally says, but she’s glowing. “Though I did add a tiny bit more vanilla and a pinch of cardamom. Grandma’s notes mentioned experimenting with spices, so I thought...”
“You thought right,” Hazel says, already reaching for a fork to sneak a taste. “This is restaurant-quality, Tally. Seriously.”
And that’s when it hits me. Watching Tally beam under Hazel’s praise, seeing the way she handled the kitchen this morning with such natural confidence—maybe the restaurant isn’t just about me building something for my family. Maybe it’s about building something my family can grow into.
“You know,” I say carefully, “we’re going to need pastry help when the restaurant opens. An employee who understands desserts and isn’t afraid to experiment.”
Tally’s eyes go wide. “Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you an opportunity to learn from the ground up. If you want it. School comes first, obviously, but weekends and summers...”
“Mom.” She sets down her piping tool and looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Serious and hopeful and maybe a little scared. “Are you saying I could actually be part of the restaurant? Like, really part of it?”
“I’m saying you’ve got talent, baby. Real talent. And if cooking makes you happy the way it makes me happy, then maybe we figure out how to build something together.”
Tally throws her arms around me so hard I nearly knock over the pie, and I can feel her excitement vibrating through her whole body. Over her shoulder, I catch Hazel wiping her eyes with a dish towel and trying to pretend she’s not crying over my kitchen counter family moment.
“This is the best Christmas ever,” Tally whispers against my shoulder.
And it might be. This morning started with Mason trying to eat his Christmas orange like an apple, peel and all, because “pirates aren’t picky about fruit preparation.” Ellen opened her art supplies and immediatelystarted drawing on the wrapping paper because “it’s too pretty to throw away.” Chaotic? Yes. Perfect? Absolutely.
Now we’re here in Hazel’s beautiful kitchen, surrounded by the people who’ve become our chosen family, sharing Grandma’s pie recipe and watching my daughter discover she might want to follow in my footsteps. Not because she has to, but because she wants to.
Jack wanders in looking like he’s been wrestling with Christmas morning cleanup and losing. There’s tinsel in his hair and what might be cookie crumbs on his shirt, but he’s grinning like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
