Gloria walked past me and into the house. She was wearing a cheetah-print tracksuit. “I called David and found out he’ll be working late again today. I knew you might be too shy to call me, so I figured I’d come over and help out.”
I wasn’t sure what to say but “can you leave?” didn’t feel appropriate. It’s not that I minded the company, it’s just that I was looking forward to relaxing in various stages of undress for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Gloria set her purse down on an end table and made her way into the kitchen. I followed her. It wasn’t until I heard her gasp that I remembered the mug mess.
“What happened here?” she asked, her hand over her cheek as she stared at my crafty watercolor tornado.
I handed Aubrey to her. “Oh, I was just getting creative.” I rushed over to the sink and started cleaning up.
I was happy I’d put the mugs in the oven to dry. I didn’t want her to see her gift before I could present it to her.
“Well, you’re certainly getting into it. Is this for the motherhood program you’re in?”
David must have told her. I dumped a large plastic bowl of nail polish-colored water down the sink.
“Yes. It’s going really well,” I said convincingly.
Gloria sat at the kitchen table with Aubrey. “You young moms. Always up to one thing or another. Is this the book?”
Gloria picked up my copy of Motherhood Better from the kitchen table and, before I could stop her, opened it.
She put on her glasses and began reading. “Forget juice or soda, give your child kombucha.” She looked up at me. “What’s kombucha? Is that some kind of vaccine? Witchcraft?”
I tried to take the book away but she playfully held it away from me. “It’s a type of fermented tea...” I said.
Gloria’s eyes grew wide. “Rotten tea! What’s wrong with milk these days?” She flipped a few pages and continued reading. “Enjoy my recipe for gluten-free beet muffins with a date-coconut oil glaze.”
Gloria lowered the book. “Are you allergic to gluten?” I shook my head. “Is this Emily person allergic to gluten?” I shook my head. “Then why the hell are you avoiding it? When I was a kid we were afraid of the hydrogen bomb. Your generation is afraid of gluten.” Gloria handed me the book.
“Yes, some of the ideas are a bit radical, but Emily’s actually quite amazing.”
“Amazing at what? Getting moms to buy books full of half-baked ideas? Oh, I’m sorry, half-baked, gluten-free ideas with a coconut-date glaze?”
Even I had to laugh. Gloria couldn’t understand. She was from a different time.
“That reminds me.” Gloria stood up and handed Aubrey to me. “I have groceries in the car.”
“Groceries?” I asked, confused, following her to the front door.
“Yes, groceries.”
Gloria slipped out the front door and returned carrying two bags full of food.
I followed her into the kitchen.
She began pulling out ingredients. A large bag of shredded cheese. Two huge bags of corn chips. Canned corn. Sour cream. Salsa.
“What’s all this?” I asked, watching more items come out.
Gloria stopped and looked me dead in the eye. “I’m going to teach you how to cook—starting with my signature recipe, Frito Pie.”
Frito Pie. I knew the name because David had asked me hundreds of times to make the dish that featured the popular gas station snack, but I’d refused.
“It’s David’s favorite and an easy weeknight recipe. Your Emily Walker friend probably wouldn’t approve, but it’s a big hit at parties,” Gloria said, searching for a casserole dish in the cupboard.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, as she closed in on the section under the sink where my ill-fated potato farm had once grown.
“A plumbing problem,” I said, handing her a casserole dish from the top shelf.
Gloria preheated the oven to 350 and began mixing cheese, chips, and globs of cream cheese. Within fifteen minutes it was ready to go into the oven.
“That was fast,” I had to admit.
“What’s that smell?” Gloria asked again, sniffing the air.
“It’s just the plumbing,” I lied again, hoping she’d finally drop it.
“No, it’s something else. Something’s burning.”
As soon as she said that, I began smelling it, too. It was coming from...oh, no, the oven. I’d forgotten that my mugs were drying on the brand-new plastic platter I’d purchased earlier.
I practically threw Aubrey at Gloria and opened the oven. A cloud of toxic black smoke billowed out. Gobs of hot melted plastic were melting from the top rack onto the oven floor. It was a disaster.
“What IS that?” Gloria asked, backing out of the room with Aubrey. “Did you try to bake?”
I opened the back door and all of the windows, but not before the smoke alarm went off.
“It’s a craft. I crafted,” I shrieked.
Gloria played in the living room with Aubrey while I fanned under the smoke detector. I then poured cold water all over what looked like a radioactive mess in the oven. Thirty minutes later I was still chipping burnt plastic out of the oven with a knife. The mugs themselves weren’t too damaged. Once I pried the burnt plastic off, they looked almost post-modern. I decided not to give them as gifts but to definitely keep them. They were artistic and smelled of the struggle.
Gloria walked into the kitchen.
“I put the casserole in the fridge,” I said. “I’ll make it when I finally get this clean. Sometime next week, I anticipate.”
Gloria laughed. “Don’t worry. I ordered pizza. You know, you really shouldn’t use your oven as a cabinet. Even if you don’t use it often.”
I cringed.
I heard the front door open.
“Anybody home?” called David cheerfully.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and upon seeing his face Aubrey screamed happily. He kissed her on the cheek before hugging his mom. Last, but not least, he gave me a quick peck.
“What a treat to come home to all three of my girls! What’s that smell?”
I was really getting tired of people asking me that.
“There was a slight problem with the oven,” Gloria answered. “Ashley’s still learning how they work. But it’s all better now. Are you hungry? I ordered pizza!”
I bit my lip.
David looked at me sympathetically. “Rough day, hon?”
“I’m okay. How was yours?” He looked so confident standing there holding Aubrey and she looked so perfect in his arms. I stared at them, feeling like the odd person out—the obvious screwup. I shook the thought out of my head.
“Work is work,” he said, but I could tell he was worried. “Just let me know before you do any more expensive craft store runs. How did it turn out?”
“It turned out!” I answered, hoping the questions would end with that.
Later that night, after David had fallen asleep, I took my phone off the bedside table and peeked into the Motherhood Better Bootcamp portal.
There were already eight journal entries in the craft challenge section.
Josie from Iowa, mom of two
I’m setting up indoor plumbing in the playhouse I put together for my kiddos today. We’re inviting local foster children to spend their afternoons here.