Page 10 of A Recipe Called Home
“Yeah, well, he farts. A lot. So, the name fits,” he replied as he slid back out, not meeting her eyes.
Turns out all the sink needed was a good tightening up. When they tried the tap, the water ran smoothly without leaking. Jules felt a little silly for having him come all the way here just to turn a wrench a few times, but at least it was fixed.
She thanked him, expecting him to start towards the door, instead he turned to face her. Their eyes locked for a long, searing moment. The energy buzzed between them. Jules could feel her heartbeat picking up as her breath grew shallow. They hadn’t been alone like this in a long time, and her body was betraying her. Miles took a tentative step in her direction, keeping his gaze fixed on her.
Unsure of the moment, Jules broke eye contact and asked if he wanted anything to drink, turning her back to him to open the refrigerator.
“No, Jules. I don’t need anything to drink,” Miles purred in his low, deep voice that sent a shiver up her back.
Another few seconds of silence passed between them before he quietly added, “I think I should go.” Jules felt a quick stab of disappointment.
“Yeah, I’m sure you have a lot to do with the house and all. Thanks again for your help.”
“Anytime,” he said as he turned and walked out.
Alone in the kitchen, her thoughts toppled over themselves:Why did he move back here? Where was he before, and what was he doing? Why was he being so nice to her, and why did she react to him that way?
Seeing Miles again was a complication. One she had not prepared for. Both times they ran into each other, Jules turned into a bumbling idiot, which was unlike herself. Often, her thoughts were a jumbled mess, but she could always pull off an air of confidence in front of people.
Although she had to admit she enjoyed seeing him, she wouldn’t let herself forget what had happened between them years ago. She still felt the sharp hurt rise when she thought of it and was too ashamed to face her own part in the mess. He’d never look at her the same if he knew what she did. Jules was still working on forgiving herself, and she couldn’t expect him to do the same. Not to mention whathedid that night. It was all too messy and best left in the past.
Before she could spiral too deep, a chorus of coughs and sneezes came from upstairs. She met Grandma Rosa at the staircase, helping her down as she continued to sneeze. Her grandma’s skin looked ashy grey, and her voice sounded nasally. She had caught a cold. It was probably all the meds she took that lowered her immune system.
“Let me make you some chicken noodle soup,” Jules offered.
Her grandma screwed her face up in a disgusted look.
“No, no. If you’re going to cook, let’s make good use of it.” She shook her head. “There’s a recipe for my minestrone in the tin. We should have everything we need for it.”
Jules did as instructed and got to work chopping the vegetables and boiling the broth. As she cooked, Grandma Rosa told her about how she would cook this soup for Grandpa Lou and Barb whenever they were sick. Jules had it growing up, too.
She remembered a time from grade school when her grandpa picked her up one afternoon after she got sick on the playground. The nurse had called home, trying to get her mom, but she wasn’t around. Jules must have been seven or eight at the time, and she felt awful. The kind of stomach bug that made it hard to even move your head without feeling bile rise in your throat.
When they got home, Grandpa Lou had settled her on the couch in the TV room with two big pillows and an orange puke bucket on the floor. He would come in every ten minutes to check on her, worry creasing his face. He was so beside himself, he eventually sat on the floor next to her, watching cartoons with her for hours until she fell asleep.
It made Jules sad to think about, but she was grateful to have had so much time with her grandpa. He always made her feel special and taken care of. Growing up, Grandpa Lou was so present in her life that it never even occurred to her to miss having a dad of her own. Grandpa was there, but now he wasn’t. Now, all she had were these memories.
Rosa watched her like a hawk as Jules turned all the chopped vegetables into the pot of broth, stirring often, ensuring they softened but did not get soggy. That was the difference between a fresh homemade soup and a canned, thoughtless soup: the crispness of the veggies. Of course, balanced seasonings helped, too, she reminded Jules, as she arranged the garlic, oregano, parsley, thyme, and more on the counter near the stovetop for her. Grandma Rosa measured nothing, just went off her gut and a lot of tasting as it came together. Jules had a hard time with that; she was a rule follower, so it felt wrong to just eyeball important ingredients. She wanted to follow a system and know that in the end, everything would taste the way it should.
“That’s not cooking from the heart,” her grandma once had told her years ago when they were making chicken piccata. “Every dish is different, even if they have the same name. Feel what it needs and adjust as you go. Cooking is a lot like life, in that way.”
Grandma Rosa could always connect cooking and food to just about anything that was going on in life. Jules had missed that.
They spooned heaping mouthfuls of soup from their bowls, careful not to spill on the fancy tablecloth. It was a symphony of hearty, vibrant flavors and comforting textures, each bite packed with tender carrots, zucchini, celery, and green beans, cooked just enough. The broth, rich and flavorful, balanced the tangy sweetness of ripe tomatoes with the savory depth of vegetable stock and herbs. The final sprinkle of fresh grated parmesan and drizzle of good olive oil took it to the next level, while the subtle heat of red chili flakes gave it a gentle kick. A quick squeeze of lemon at the end brightened the taste and tied it all together.
It was the kind of soup that warmed you from the inside, hearty enough to battle a head cold but light enough to be gentle on your stomach. Even though she had some help, Jules felt a satisfying sense of accomplishment for making such a simple yet delicious meal. It unlocked a dormant part of her soul. She could feel the creative energy flow back through her body, leaving her aching to do more, make more.
Bellies full, they each drifted off to their rooms for the night. Jules settled on her bed, grabbing her computer to check her missed emails. Part of her wanted to see a full inbox, to feel needed outside of Riverbend. Becoming replaceable wasn’t an option in her mind.
Her laptop whirred to life after two days of rest. It took a few frustrating minutes to connect to the house Wi-Fi network, which Jules had set up years ago before she moved to D.C. She still remembered the password: BoBo1957, the name of their old dog, plus the year her grandparents got married. At least some things never changed, she thought. Slowly, she watched her inbox tick up with new messages. At the top was an email from Becca’s personal account:
Jules-
Hope everything is going well and that you’re getting some deserved downtime.
We talked briefly about this before you left, but wanted to remind you to sign your employment contract for the PR firm. Look it over and shoot me any questions. I’ve attached it here, again.
I’m so excited to take this next step with you by my side. We’ll be unstoppable.
