Page 49 of Penelope in Retrograde

“Silvia, if you put any more sugar in that batter, we’re going to have to stick a candle in the cornbread and sing it ‘Happy Birthday.’” Nana Rosie takes a sip of her mimosa. “Cornbread is a savory dish, not a diabetic coma.”

“I’m following your recipe exactly.” My mother wipes a bit of sweat from her brow. “You specifically call for a cup of sugar.”

“Let me see that thing.”

My mother hands Nana Rosie the yellowing index card from her recipe box. Nana Rosie puts on her glasses and inspects the card closely. Odds are that my mother is right and Nana Rosie is wrong, but the thing about being in your late nineties is that you have the luxury of not giving a shit and never having to admit your mistakes.

“That says half a cup, Silvia. You should really consider getting your eyes checked.”

“Thank you, Rosamunde.” Her lips pull from a thin line into a crooked smile. “I’d hate to have glaucoma and not realize it. Although, I have heard that the marijuana plant can be used for medicinal purposes when it comes to eye disease. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“Shots fired.” Phoebe waves finger guns over her head.

“Can it, or I write you out of my will, blondie,” Nana Rosie grumbles. “We are not discussing my garden right now. We’re making dinner.”

“Do we get to discuss it after dinner?” Phoebe begs.

“Tread lightly.” Nana Rosie takes another sip of her mimosa. “I could write you out of the will today and die tomorrow.”

“You always ruin the fun when you threaten us with death,” Phoebe says.

“Hardly a threat when she’s been promising it for forty years,” my mother mutters under her breath.

“Penelope, come over here and finish the cornbread for your mother,” Nana Rosie says. “It looks like she’s exhausted all of her cooking talents and once again come up short.”

“I’m going to lie down and have a look at nursing homes.” My mother unties her apron. “I hear that in the nice ones, they even let the residents help out with the cooking.”

“Those are prisons, dear.” Nana Rosie smiles, unfazed by the threat. “And I’m fairly certain that they ration sugar there better than what you’ve managed to accomplish here.”

My mother throws her hands in the air and sighs as she leaves the kitchen. Some things never change, and I, for one, enjoy this tradition.

“I thought I was in charge of the turkey,” I say, putting aside the carrots.

“That’s cute, dear.” Nana Rosie pours me a mimosa. “Marie came over early this morning to get the turkey in the oven.”

“To think I did all of that stalling for nothing.”

“Is that what you call walking three times around the block with Martin Butler? Back in my day, we called that flirting.” Nana Rosie bats her long fake eyelashes. “You like this man, don’t you?”

“You know, Nana, this recipe does call for half a cup of sugar.” I hold up the card, desperate to drive this conversation as fast and far in the other direction as possible. “I’m just going to have to double this batch so we don’t have to throw it all out.”

“Good idea.” Nana Rosie polishes off the last of her mimosa. “Now, let’s get to more important matters: Do you intend on sleeping with Martin at all during your visit? I only ask because I’d like to know whether or not my granddaughter is up-to-date on safe-sex practices.”

“Nana!”

“What? I’m on the internet. I read things.”

“Nana, I’m not sleeping with Martin.” I crack an egg on the side of the bowl and watch it slide into the gooey cornmeal batter. “In fact, I’m not sleeping with anyone within one hundred feet of this house.”

“I guess that rules out Smith. Pity. For a minute, I thought there was a chance for us to play The Bachelorette right here. It was quite nice to see him last night.”

“Well, brace yourself, because you’re about to see plenty more of him this evening. Dad invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Phoebe groans from across the kitchen. “Is it too much to ask that Falon and I get a tiny bit of attention this holiday so we can share our news and have our moment? It’s like that Thanksgiving before Oxford all over again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“What’s the news?” Nana Rosie asks.

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