Page 62 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Crap,” I mutter, shoving a hand through my hair and promptly showering myself in flour.
When I woke up this morning, far earlier than I wanted to because I was worried about Faye and how she slept and if she had nightmares and if so, was she awake, I knew there was no hope of me falling back asleep.
And as I laid there, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if she was hurting or scared in a room just a floor below me, her words from the hospital came back into my head.
And wouldn’t leave.
I lost Nana’s banana bread recipe.
I can’t remember if her banana bread calls for one egg or two.
She had my phone, but I just snagged my tablet and found myself searching YouTube.
For banana bread recipes.
No, for the banana bread recipe—the one the interwebs declares is just like their how grandma used to make it.
Apparently, there are a lot of those exact recipes.
Too many to scroll through.
So I figured…grocery store for supplies and trial run?
I like banana bread. The guys are hoovers who won’t turn down any or all baked good offering, even if it’s only mediocre.
And maybe it’ll give Faye something to smile about.
A smile I could then taste?
Only, who know how goddamned hard it is to make banana bread.
First there’s the flour—measuring by weight. Well, I don’t have a scale, or not one that’s useful in the kitchen, anyway.
(My bathroom one doesn’t do measure in grams…ask me how I know.)
Then there’s using the fancy mixer Courtney bought years ago but I don’t think either of us ever turned on. Well, that bitch is a bitch—flinging flour in all directions, mixing too fast or too slow (hello fucking lumps).
And sour milk.
Isn’t that a bad thing?
So why am I mixing vinegar into good milk to make it?
None of it makes sense.
And look, I can cook. I have a repertoire of meals at my disposal. I’m not one of those helpless males who has to run home to mom to get a decent meal. I’ve been on my own, cooking for myself for a good long while.
But baking?
Well, I obviously overestimated my skills because my counter is littered with absolute disasters.
Mostly charred loaves.
Some underbaked ones.
And loaves that are somehow both at once.
Then there’s the mass of dishes in the sink…and elsewhere.
