Aunt Ingrid was one of my favorite people. More days than not, she was my lifeline at the diner. She’d started working there around the same age I had, back when Grandpa still ran it. I wondered why she’d stayed there as a server, especially since she’d told Grandpa she didn’t want half ownership with Dad.
It was hardly a high-paying job, making it difficult to do much more than cover bills. Until I’d taken over my grandparents’ house when they moved to Florida, I’d struggled in a tiny one-bedroom apartment throughout my twenties. Ingrid supplemented her income with a stained glass side hustle and always had a busy booth at local maker markets. I guess I’d been trying to do the same with my cheese.
“How are the sweet potatoes coming along?” she asked while checking the turkey.
“About to cut them. Water boiling?”
“Yup.” She closed the oven and moved back to the other end of the kitchen counter, where she stirred the slow cooker full of baked beans.
That appliance might be as old as me. Half the stuff in the kitchen had to be at least twenty years old. It wasn’t only the diner Dad avoided changing. My childhood home still had the same wood paneling and collage frame in the entryway, full of photos of him and Ingrid as kids. The wall behind it probably hadn’t been touched since the frame was hung before I was even a twinkle in Dad’s eye. The only thing that had changed about the house was the absence of Mom’s belongings.
We fell into a comfortable silence as we worked on our own tasks. It was easy to navigate the kitchen with Ingrid. We’d gotten a lot of practice during holidays over the years. Thanksgiving and Christmas were the only days of the year Dad didn’t cook.
After dumping the potatoes into the boiling water, I turned to ask Ingrid if I should get started on the green bean casserole and found her holding out cans of green beans.
Laughing, I took them from her. “I can take a hint.”
“No one you wanted to bring to dinner this year?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ingrid, you ask every year and that answer never changes. Why keep asking?”
“What can I say? I’m an optimist.” Her nose pinched. “Glad it wasn’t Brandon though. I never got a good vibe from him.”
“Thanks for saying somethingafterhe dumped me,” I mumbled. “It worked out for the best. I’m happier now. We weren’t the right fit.” It was easier to understand that now with distance.
“Dating anyone new?”
“And there it is.”
“What?” She blinked innocently at me.
I never talked to my parents about my love life, but Ingrid was different thanks to a mix of her nosiness and how often we worked together. She’d had a sixth sense for reading the barest hint of heartache or puppy love on my face my whole life, from my first crush on a kid in third grade to the first guy who’d dumped me in high school.
She’d always been the quintessential cool aunt, who let me try booze and weed for the first time at her place, where she could keep an eye on me. It had been less cool when she’d sprung a giant box of condoms on me after I’d told her I was going out on my first date. But Ingrid was special. She was the first person I’d come out to.
“Nah. Taking a break from all that. What about you?”
“I haven’t been on a date in over ten years. Too old for that shit.”
“No one’s too old for that. Quit with the excuses.” I’d been hearing the same line from her for a long time. It would be one thing if she were aromantic, but I knew it was because she’d been hurt by her ex-wife and hadn’t wanted to risk putting herself back out there.
“Yeah, yeah. How’s the Holiday Hoopla event coming along?”
Normally, I wouldn’t censor myself when talking about festival work, but with Amos in the picture, I needed to becareful. Ingrid had a well-honed meter to assess my tones, and I didn’t want her jumping to any conclusions. Or to any truths.
“We’re making good progress. We’ve got the menu set and now we’re figuring out who can cook the food.”
“I assume you’re going to use the Red’s kitchen. You know I’m happy to help with anything. Since it’s free, it doesn’t need to be cooked in a commercial kitchen, right? I can cook at home.”
“Good question. I’ll ask Bo.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and smiled at a text from Amos.
Amos: [photo of a turkey with the neck and gizzards arranged like a penis and testicles]
Amos: The son of one of our cooks did this. So wrong but so funny.
“Who’s that?”
“Huh? Oh, Amos.”
