Page 53 of Deja New
TWENTY-SIX
“No!”
“Just once. Just to see if you like it.”
“I don’t have to eat mud to know I won’t like the taste.”
“But it’s not mud,” Paul pointed out. “It’s salted caramel brownies. Look, I’m not saying your original recipe is bad...”
“Better not be. Because one, my original recipe is sublime, and two, there are several sharp knives within my reach. And you’re not wearing a cup.”
“Your recipe is transcendent! But maybe you could... just... kind of... mix it up a little?”
“Listen, you barbarian Horde of one, I have never jumped on a bandwagon in my life and I won’t start now.”
“You’re wearing Crocs to cook! How is that anything but bandwagoning?”
“Bandwagon isn’t a verb! And Crocs are classic! They’re ancient, like the high-heeled shoe, Crocs’ve been around—”
Archer leaned forward, the better to murmur. “Prepare to feel ancient,” he warned Angela and Leah.
“—since 2002!”
“Ouch.” From Leah.
“Yeah, that one smarts,” Angela said, then adding, “Paul, stop trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”
“Salted caramel frosting. Salted caramel cake. Salted caramel cupcakes. Salted caramel cheesecake. Salted caramel marshmallows. Salted caramel puppy chow.” Jack threw up his hands. “Salted caramel bark! Salted caramel frappés! Salted caramel martinis! Salted caramel roasted almonds. Salted caramel candles. Salted caramel caramel. Boring, boring, boring!”
“See, you were droning on, but all those things sounded great,” Paul said. He was in his usual Saturday midday attire: sweatpants, a faded green too-tight sweatshirt, bare feet, the red tape measure dangling over one shoulder (he occasionally used it as a belt). “Even the candle.”
“No salted caramel in this kitchen! Unless you make it yourself. In which case, I will yield territory long enough for you to be a salted caramelsheep. Following along with the salted caramelherd.And God help you if you leave me a sink full of caramel-coated dirty dishes. God. Help. You.”
Leah shook her head. “You guys ever notice that when someone repeats the same phrase over and over, the words lose their meaning pretty quickly?”
Archer was already shaking his head. “Leah, hon, all I heard, honest to God, the only thing I heard you say just now was ‘salted caramel, salted caramel, salted caramel, salted caramel.’”
Angela swallowed a giggle. “And, of course, now we’re all craving salted goddamned caramel.”
“Not my problem,” Jack snapped, turning back to his cookbook shelf with a huff. The brouhaha du jour had begun when he was flipping through his cookbooks to seek inspiration for a new dessert. Which, unfathomably, was Paul’s internal cue to make the horrific, misguided suggestion that rather than try something new, Jack should jazz up an old recipe.
They were seated around the turtle table—most of them, anyway; Mitchell and Jordan were at work. Emma Drake was at the other end of the house, having completed her daily chore (the mail) and now doing who knew what. She tended to break her fast early, before most of them were up, preferring toast and coffee because anything else slowed her down. “If I eat all that, I’ll get logy and just slouch around the house all day,” she explained. Which was terrifying to think of.
Jack had prepared a breakfast (as was his wont) that was delicious but (as wasn’t his wont) lacked his usual perfectionist/gourmet tendencies. Scrambled eggs but no dill. Bacon, but not thick-cut... the precooked kind you could zap in a microwave. Muffins, but not from scratch. Milk, but no lattes. Juice, but not fresh-squeezed.
Jesus. We really take this kid for granted. He’s phoning it in and it’sstilla terrific meal.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said brightly, then drained her glass. “It’s all delicious as usual.”
“Goes without saying,” Archer said, his mouth full. He swallowed and added, “Leah, this kid, you wouldn’t believe it, he’s been good at this since he wasfive.”
“It shows,” she replied, smacking his hand when he went forthe last of the bacon, then wolfing it down herself. Every Drake in the room had the same simultaneous thought:She’s perfect for us! Uh, Archer. Perfect for Archer.
Then. The fatal error. Archer, as he often did, kept talking. And, as often happened when Archer talked, disaster followed: “Jack, even on an off day your grub is outstanding.”
Angela froze. Leah glared at the father of her child. Paul quietly backed out of the kitchen. Everything seemed to slow down and simultaneously get sharper and louder.
Jack sloooowly turned away from the cookbooks. “‘Off day’?” he asked with deceptive pleasantness.
