Page 86 of Challenged By You
She nods. “Yes, Paxton. And I found it rather enlightening. Now everyone get comfortable.”
I grab onto the worktable behind me as the world around me spins. I nod, as if Mia Palazzo needs my permission to continue. But this unstoppable woman must take it as a sign, because she continues.
I’ve hijacked my brother’s column for the day not to gossip about anyone else but to tell you all about myself.
There’s a pivotal moment when your life intersects with that one person and it changes the course of everything that’s to come. For me, that moment happened after I witnessed an unpleasant altercation between Chef Trina Paxton and another individual (who shall remain nameless) after I wrote a review about the restaurant Seduction New York a little over a month ago.
After all, how does your life not change when a strong woman slams into you with enough fire radiating from her, you’re immediately singed?
I was at that place, that moment, to apologize to Chef Paxton because of an editorial mistake and found she challenged me on many levels I never expected.
She’s remarkably devoted. She’s determined to succeed under conditions I’ve watched people with a lesser heart go off course. I began to admire her greatly on a personal level.
Then, I found out Trina enjoys serving her guests processed food, an intriguing concept for her being a professional chef. I began to fear for her sanity as well as my own. How could I be falling for a woman who frequently ate food like this?
To be fair, I can’t entirely blame that travesty entirely on her. Her children frequently plead with her to eat a dish I’ve dubbed “mac’n’crap” on a frequent basis, and she indulges them to a ridiculous degree. I would too, considering they won me over somewhere between the first and second time I met them.
But even subjecting her guests to endure culinary torture within the confines of her own home, Chef Paxton hasn’t left my thoughts since the day I met her not only because of the fact she might be one of the most remarkable pastry chefs in the country, but because of the fact she healed something I didn’t know was broken.
My heart.
My brother and I grew up in a loving family that didn’t include my mother; she died when we were both young. And the last image I have of her before hearing a car wreck took her from us is her asking if I wanted an apple.
I blamed the apple. I blamed the driver, my uncle, hell, myself, for my mother dying. I don’t think I realized that until I saw Trina with her children that a mother will do anything for her children including enduring relationships that hurt her emotionally or struggling daily with a job because she wants to be certain she can put food on the table.
Because moms love their kids that much.
My mother came to my mind a lot when I was with Trina. I thought about her when I reintroduced Chef Paxton to the wonders of New York outside of the kitchen. I reminded her about free general admission to the Bronx Zoo on Wednesdays. In return she showed me the best farmer’s market in the Bronx. Of course, I had to take her family on the Circle Line. And they took me to breakfast at a diner I swore I’d never reveal the name of.
This supremely talented chef endured endless questions about her life, but to be fair, she asked me just as many in return. And when I sat down—frustrated as hell—to write my interview about her, I realized I had a whole lot of nothing I could write except about one thing.
My feelings.
This isn’t just about telling all of New York about my fortune in finding a good woman, a great chef, and a wonderful mother, it’s about setting the record straight. I owe her an enormous apology for my recent behavior. As my feelings grew, I knew there was no way I could be objective without some outside assistance. I didn’t want anything to hurt her—hurt her reputation. To avoid that conflict, I elected to respond by contacting the owners of the restaurant she works at and asking them to create a menu of the foods I was renowned for despising the most—including apples.
And I forced Chef Paxton to use them in her dessert.
Why would I do something so utterly cruel? Because I had little doubt if anyone could get me past those feelings, it would be Trina. After all, I was welcomed in her home. I understood she could turn misfortune into the warmest place I’ve stood in since my mother lived. I held her against me when her own family antagonized her about trying to find happiness. I saw her eyes tear under the pain of injury.
And then I stupidly walked away because of my own fears.
If I’m forgiven, I know for the rest of my life I’ll be challenged every day by something new that comes out of my relationship with Trina. She said I couldn’t live her life for thirty days; now I don’t know how to live without it.
I take that back. I can live with anything but her walking away.
So here, now, for everyone to see, I want to issue another challenge to Chef Trina Paxton: take a chance on me. I know it is way too soon for more than that, but together we can build on this—us. We can make it into something more.
Like you turned apples into something magnificent.
Chef Palazzo finishes reading. Turning toward me, she places the new papers into my hands. I curl my fingers tightly around the edges, uncaring if I end up with paper cuts. “He’s waiting for you in the dining room,” she informs me gently.
“Thank you, Chef,” I whisper.
“There’s no need to thank me, Chef. You earned those accolades you received.” And standing back, she begins to applaud me. Soon, everyone in the kitchen joins in. But I don’t pay much attention as I’m pushing my way through the throng of my coworkers to get to Jonas.
And after I shove the swinging door open, I find him leaning against the wine bar just like he was when I first met him. His hair is dark, perfectly combed. Once, I thought he looked untouchable. Now, I think his hair is begging for Chris’s fingers or Annie’s lips to muss him up because that’s when the Jonas I’m falling for starts to emerge.
The door swooshes behind me, signaling my presence. His head swivels my way as I get closer, and everything he wrote is mirrored on his face: respect, admiration, and the dare to see where this thing is supposed to go.
