Dinner at Jack's

Chapter 4: Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Minestrone-3

Later, Mary Beth offered to run into Fawcettville’s downtown to Scafide’s to pick up pizza, which was her idea of making supper. I should inform you that pizza in this part of western Ohio was unlike pizza anywhere else I’ve ever encountered. For one thing, you didn’t buy a pie. You just needed to decide how many pieces you wanted. Pizzas were made by the Scafide boys on sheet pans in big industrial ovens. They were all the same: crust, red sauce, mozzarella cheese, and dotted with single slices of pepperoni, one per square. No other toppings available, and as far as I knew, everyone in Fawcettville accepted this as normal.

On cue, Mary Beth asked, “How many pieces will you want?” She grabbed an oversized purse from where it lay on the maple kitchen hutch.

“Aw, sis, pizza doesn’t seem like much of a homecoming dinner.”

“Sorry to disappoint. If I let them, Brad and Grace would both live off the stuff. Neither of them has met a green food item they liked.” She leaned around me to call into the living room. “Brad? How many pieces you want?”

“Six,” he called.

She looked back at me and smiled, as though the matter was settled.

“Did you forget?” I asked, questioning whether Mary Beth would even know my occupation.

She c****d her head.

“I’m a chef. Trained, and back in Seattle, I put meals on the table five nights a week for a fancy-schmancy gay couple on Mercer Island, plus did all their parties.”

Mary Beth looked at me dubiously. “What? You wanna make supper?” She turned to pull open the refrigerator door and bent to peer inside. Her sigh didn’t hold out a whole lot of promise. “I don’t know if we have stuff to make anything. Maybe another night? We can go out to Walmart tomorrow and pick stuff up.” She closed the refrigerator and then dug in her purse for her keys. “You wanna come with? Grace should be home soon, and I know she’ll want to see you.” She shrugged. “At least see Ruth.”

She glanced down at the tiled kitchen floor where Ruth was lying. Upon hearing her name, the dog looked up, expectant.

“No. You just go sit down with Brad, have a glass of wine. My specialty is finding stuff in people’s kitchen and making something wonderful with it.”

“Kind of like Chopped?” Mary Beth asked, referring to the Food Network competition where chef contestants took baskets of diverse and sometimes bizarre ingredients and made appetizers, entrees, and desserts out of them. Ross and I had never missed an episode. I frowned but nodded. “Yeah. Like that. Now shoo.”

“Are you sure? I haven’t been to the grocery store—”

I cut her off. “I’m sure.”

She shrugged. “Well, okay.” She disappeared into the living room. I heard her whispering to Brad, “He’s gonna make us supper.”

Something that sounded like whining came from her husband. She shushed him and whispered loudly, “Shut it. He’s trying to be nice.”

Then the volume on the TV went up, bringing into the kitchen the theme music from Mike and Molly.

I peered into the refrigerator with Ruth sniffing at my calves. “Get away, you. You already ate.” Earlier I had managed to find a piece of leftover fried chicken in a Tupperware bowl that I’d shredded for Ruth, adding a couple of chopped and zapped baby carrots. She loved it.

Looking into the dismal contents of the fridge, I wasn’t sure I’d have the same luck feeding my sibling and her family. There really was very little here. I pulled open the crisper drawer and found a bag of ready-to-go spinach salad, half-full. I sniffed it, deemed it good, and set it on the counter to resume my quest. There was an onion, a jar of pre-minced garlic that I would normally shudder at, and wonder of wonders, a couple of zucchinis, looking a little shriveled but otherwise usable. There was also a small bag of red potatoes and, in the freezer, some corn.

I checked the pantry, found a can of chicken broth, a can of diced tomatoes—they were even fire-roasted!—and a jar of pesto sauce. There was also the ubiquitous green can of “grated cheese” that again I would have normally shuddered at, but hey, desperate times…

I found a few other things I would need among the stuff in the fridge, freezer, and pantry and pulled them out. I looked at the ingredients on the counter and knew what I would make with them, titled on the fly, Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Minestrone.

I found a cutting board and lined my ingredients up in front of it. The knives my sister owned were dull and cheap but would have to do, at least until I could unpack. I unearthed a Dutch oven from a cupboard near the floor and set it on the stove, then drizzled a little canola oil in it, and added a pat of butter. I’d need to buy sis some olive oil if we were to get along.

I got to work.

* * * *

They all looked down dubiously at the steaming bowls of soup in front of them. Grace held her mass of dark curls away from her face and sniffed. She looked up at me as though I had told her she was the biggest w***e at Fawcettville High, her brown eyes wide with hurt and indignation.

“Smells good,” she said, in her soft but deep-for-a-girl voice.

“You think so?” I smiled and lifted my spoon.

“Not really,” Grace responded. She hadn’t been a bastion of friendliness toward me since she’d returned home from volleyball team practice.

“Grace!” Mary Beth chided.

Brad had his head bent over his soup. I was pretty sure he was snickering.

“Okay, guys. I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but trust me. I work magic in the kitchen.” I shoved the bowl of grated cheese forward. “Top it with a little cheese and take a taste. I promise. You’ll love it.”

Dutifully they passed around the cheese and heaped it atop their soup. I resisted the urge to ask if they liked a little soup with their cheese and waited to see their reaction.

Mary Beth took the first bite. Chewed. Swallowed. And then she got it—the look. The one that says, “Oh my God, this goes beyond delicious. This is life changing.” Well, maybe not quite that last part, but damn close. And I am not exaggerating!

“It’s really good. Amazing.” She tucked back in with her soupspoon. “You’d never know it to look at it.”

She snorted, and I rolled my eyes. My sister was never one to be generous with compliments.

Apparently her husband and daughter trusted her review, and they both lifted spoonfuls to their mouths. “The look” made its way around the table. Even Brad managed to crack a smile. “Wow,” he said softly, which for him was a five-star review.

Sigh. If only my charm, my looks, my sense of humor had the same ability to win people over as my food. If that were the case, I’d still be happily married.