Page 37 of Challenged By You
Running my hand softly over her hair, I whisper, “I hope eventually you’ll let me in enough to help you with that.”
Much to my surprise, she reaches up and captures my hand against her head. “If I wasn’t willing to do that, I wouldn’t have invited you today. Now, come with me while I go whip up some noodles. Chris is going to be up soon. And trust me, Annie’s a gem next to him.”
Taking her for her word, I follow her back into the kitchen. “Will Annie be all right?” I worry.
Trina stops, pauses, and gives me a head-to-toe perusal. “You really did take on the whole package, didn’t you?”
“And for a look like that, I’d even stay on a food budget for another thirty days,” I mutter.
“I heard that!” Trina laughs.
“I hoped you didn’t.” But I can’t help glancing at the tiny little girl playing with two bears and wondering what kind of asshole Trina was involved with before.
And I’d be lying if I wasn’t a little grateful to the stupid son of a bitch.
* * *
“Explain the attraction to this stuff,”I beg a half hour later.
Trina hums but inspects the cooked noodles in the pot on the stove. “Do you mind getting the milk and butter out of the fridge?” is all she says.
“This is making me rethink a bunch of things,” I grumble as I comply.
“Oh? Like what?” Without measuring, she adds them to the packet of orangey powder and begins to stir over low heat.
“Like the fact you have a culinary degree.” I cringe when scoops of the mess are put aside into a storage container. “That’s un-American,” I declare.
The woman I kissed senseless is gone. In her place is the mother who blatantly laughs in my face. “What America are you living in, Jonas? Not every child is raised on five-star dining and chateaubriand. Most of the country sits down to meals just like this.”
“That might account for other issues this country has,” I debate.
“Different conversation. Do you think one in seven households want to be wondering where their next meal is coming from?” While my jaw drops upon hearing that, Trina continues to blow me away. “I may not be able to afford steak every night, but to give my kids what I can, there’s a trick. It’s to find places to shop where fruit is an incentive for children, not cookies. The trick is to mix what they so desperately love with healthy, fun things they need. And to make all of it fit within the budget I have so they have not only what they need now, but later.”
I walk up and place my hands on her tense shoulders. I didn’t mean to offend her in any way, it’s just— “The smell of that cooking brings back some pretty hard memories for me to face,” I admit.
Incredulousness etches her features when she spins around to face me holding a spoon at mouth level. “Mac’n’cheese?”
“It doesn’t fall into the same category as apples.” I lean forward to take a nip of the overly salted processed-cheese noodles. “But same category.”
“I could whip up…”
I press a finger against the soft mouth I’m already dying to taste again. “You’ll do no such thing. Let’s see how you can improve on mac’n’crap. Maybe you’re the one to cure me of all my childhood demons,” I say lightly.
With a dubious look, Trina reaches for the sauté pan of canned tomatoes, bites of steamed broccoli, and chicken. “I’m a chef, not a miracle worker.” She upends the pan right into the mac’n’cheese.
“What are you doing?” This was not what I was expecting at all.
“Just because I can’t afford to make macaroni and cheese from scratch at home doesn’t mean I don’t augment it. Do I look like I’m completely insane?” The orangey goo begins to take on more of an eerie sunset glow as do the tiny bites of chicken Trina diced meticulously earlier.
“Will Annie and Chris actually eat that?” I ask in wonder.
She turns off the heat and scoops up the fortified mac’n’crap into four bowls. It might be my imagination, but I notice there’s more in the one she shoves at me. “They will if they want dessert,” she declares grimly.
“Which is?” I sniff the air over the bowl much like I do when I’m about to critique a restaurant. “Maybe next time fresh tomatoes,” I offer.
There’s a sound that comes from deep in her chest. I catch her hand before she reaches for the chef’s knife. “Or this. This is great. So, what’s for dessert?” I try to divert her attention.
“Bananas with a little sugar flamed over the top. So, eat up, Jonas. Otherwise, you might not get to see me play with fire.”
