Stuck in Downward Dog, page 16
“So interesting,” she said encouragingly.
Mitz looked at her plate as though she was spying. Actually, everyone seemed to be eyeing the plates with suspicion, and I realized why. The bamboo bundles looked pretty, but I wasn’t sure how to eat them, and clearly neither was anyone else, judging from the skeptical looks on their faces. I wanted to set a good example for my guests and make them feel comfortable, so I picked up my knife and fork, first cutting through the green onion that was holding the bundles together. There. Then, I tackled the shoots. It felt like I was trying to cut through wood. Should I have put out steak knives? I didn’t even own steak knives. Was I supposed to have cooked the bamboo shoots? I suddenly had no idea. But that wasn’t the main concern. I pushed the shoots aside (avoiding eye contact with my guests) and ate a forkful of polenta, then tried not to make a face. I was starting to believe that perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be served cold. It tasted sort of like the way sweaty gym socks smelled.
I looked at the others, who were busy chatting and drinking their wine.
And not eating.
I quickly stood up to clear the plates, and Victoria helped me. I handed her the set of bowls and followed her back to the table with the pot of steaming Summer Strawberry Gazpacho.
“Is this strawberry syrup?” Amir asked, looking down as I placed the bowls of gazpacho in front of everyone.
Mitz hit him.
“Don’t eat it yet,” Mitz said.
But of course they were supposed to eat it. Why wouldn’t they?
“It’s a sauce, right?” Mitz asked. “We’re waiting for something else. The main course?” she said, trying to sound helpful, though I had to wonder if she just didn’t expect that I’d have not one but two more courses to serve before the main.
“It’s gazpacho. Strawberry gazpacho.”
“Gazpacho is supposed to be cold,” Bradford whispered to me. “That’s what gazpacho means.”
It did? Was I the only one who didn’t know this fact? The recipe certainly hadn’t said that. It hadn’t even said to serve it chilled, or maybe it had and I just hadn’t read to the end of the recipe. I stood up and cleared the bowls, taking them to the kitchen, and then pulled the recipe from the pile of papers in the corner. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Which I’d done, only I’d assumed the chilling process helped with the consistency and that when I was ready to serve it, I was to heat it up. Bradford put the bowls he’d cleared on the counter and his hand on my back.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said.
And I wanted to believe him, but my dinner party wasn’t meant to be.
Things just got worse. Since no one had really eaten anything yet, save for a few spoonfuls of scrambled egg and syrup, it seemed a little ridiculous to have a palate cleanser, but I served it anyway. I placed the shot glasses of melon granita in front of everyone. I saw Mitz and Olivia ogling each other across the table.
The thing about mixing orange and green, I realized, is that it creates a shade of brown, which really isn’t that attractive. And although it was supposed to be frozen, it wasn’t, though I wondered if that had something to do with the vodka, which I’d added in a burst of creative improvisation. As a result, my granita was a kind of brown melon mush.
“Is this applesauce?” Johnnie asked.
For someone married to the queen of etiquette, he was hardly a king.
And then the oven started to smoke. I began to breathe very quickly, in a way that was definitely not the pranayama breathing I’d learned in yoga class.
Victoria yanked open the door to the oven. Flames were shooting from each paper crown on the roast. She grabbed the spray bottle she used for ironing from the top of the fridge and began putting out the flames.
“You were supposed to put these on after you cooked it,” Victoria said. After she’d doused the flames, she stared at the roast. “It’s still raw. When did you put this in?”
“The butcher told me it was prepared,” I said defensively. “I thought that meant cooked. Ready to go. Whatever. I didn’t realize it wasn’t cooked until I opened the package to warm it up.”
Victoria wrapped her arms around me. “Why don’t we just have coffee and dessert?”
Coffee? I hadn’t even thought of coffee. I didn’t even know how to make coffee. Victoria went to the freezer and took out a bag of beans without saying a word. All I could do was hope that the dessert turned out okay.
I placed a Vanilla Port Poached Summer Figs with Honey Crème in front of each person.
“It’s gorgeous,” Bradford said reassuringly, and I took a deep, pranayama breath. Everything was going to be okay.
“Mmm—” Olivia said as she took a spoonful. A split second later she made a face. “What’s in here? Garlic?”
“It said three cloves,” I explained. “I only added three cloves. Is it too much?”
“Of garlic?” Mitz asked, sniffing her dish.
Of course of garlic, I thought. What other type of clove was there? And then I realized. I had added garlic to my port-poached figs. Instead of cloves. The spice. Sure, I had wondered about the garlic as I added it, but only for a nanosecond because I had so much else to do. And besides, I’d read somewhere that garlic got really mild when it was cooked, so I figured it was just one of those sophisticated haute cuisine things where the garlic would enhance the fig flavor or whatever.
Mitz laughed. “You’re so cute, Mara,” she said. And then she stopped smiling. “Wait a minute. What were we supposed to have for the main course?”
“Crown Roast with Asiago-Stuffed Summer Squash Blossoms, Shaved Sweet Potato and Toasted Pumpkin Seeds,” I said. I’d memorized the course names perfectly (just not how to cook them).
“Strawberry gazpacho, the summer platter of shellfish, the crown roast . . .” She looked at me accusingly, and her face started to turn red. For a moment I thought maybe I’d poisoned her, or that she was allergic to something I’d served, just as Emily Post had warned. Although, how could I have poisoned her? She’d barely eaten a thing.
“Mara, this is my wedding reception menu.” she yelled. “You stole my reception menu!” She stood up, throwing down her napkin. “I can’t believe your nerve. I told you this was my menu.”
But, of course, she hadn’t told me her wedding reception menu. Had she forgotten I wasn’t a bridesmaid? I had no idea what she was talking about. Amir stood up, put his arm around Mitz and told her to sit down.
“No!” she snapped at him.
“Well, I think it’s all for the best,” Amir said. “I mean, if this is what you were planning to serve, better to find out now that it sucks than to try it out on our wedding guests.” He laughed, though I think even he knew he wasn’t being funny.
She glared at him.
“Of course, it wouldn’t have tasted like this”—she waved a hand at the table—“because I would’ve been cooking it.” She looked at me. “You got this entire menu off CulinaryConnoisseur.com, didn’t you?”
I nodded, still confused. How did I steal her menu? All I’d done was follow her advice. She told me to look on CulinaryConnoisseur.com. What, did they only have seven recipes and I’d used them all?
“I told you I was doing the summer theme,” she said. “Hello? My last name is going to be Summers. I can’t believe you’ve just spoiled my entire menu.”
“Why don’t you consider it a trial run,” Bradford offered, taking a sip of water. “Besides, I assume I won’t be at your wedding, so now, it’s like I was there. Drama and all.”
Mitz glowered at him and then looked at Olivia. “Can you believe this?”
What I couldn’t believe was that Mitz was going to cook her own meal—at her own wedding. I didn’t know a lot about weddings, but I certainly didn’t think that was customary. Apparently, it was news to Amir, too.
“You’re not cooking a meal for three hundred guests,” he informed her.
She looked at him as though he’d said he wasn’t going to marry her. “Of course I am. What, I’m going to pay someone else to do what I can do better?”
“Well, it’s news to me, but then what isn’t, in the wedding planning,” Amir said, throwing down his napkin. “So, go ahead. You cook the meal in your wedding gown. Maybe you can get splattered with cornmeal just like Mara did. Why don’t you serve it, too? That’ll really make us look classy. But you’d better get started if you’re going to make the meal edible, because this menu needs a lot of work. Wait, I have an idea. Why don’t you practice while I’m in Vegas having my bachelor party.”
Then Amir stomped out the back door into the below-ground alcove outside the kitchen window and lit a cigarette, which infuriated Mitz, who looked like she was going to follow him, but instead turned left into the bathroom and shut the door.
I was wondering what a hostess should do when her guests are fighting—ask them to leave? Step in to solve the situation? I didn’t think I could do either, so I stood up to clear the table.
At which point Olivia grabbed my arm and pulled herself up to face me.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, “but since we’re on the subject of stealing . . .” She touched the sleeve of my shirt. “This looks so familiar.” And then, in a high-pitched squeal, she added, “I believe you’re wearing my clothes.”
I looked down at my outfit and then back at Olivia in her jeans and gladiator sandals. I was worried she was preparing for battle, though I wasn’t sure what the battle was all about, since she clearly wasn’t wearing anything that could compete with what I was wearing.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Was she staking a claim on all DVF garments? The entire line?
“I have this,” she said. “No, no, I had it. It had a hole, right at the back of the neck, where I ripped the label out. I put it in that bag . . .” she spoke slowly, replaying the last few weeks in her mind, “. . . and I gave it to you to drop off at the Goodwill.” She grabbed the collar of my shirt and twisted it to look at the bunched fabric where the hole used to be.
I felt sick. I had purchased a top that Olivia had given away. Because it was ruined.
“Did you go through my stuff?” Olivia shook her head. “I mean, if you really wanted something, couldn’t you at least have asked?”
Johnnie came over. “This is yours? Didn’t I bring it back for you from L.A.? You gave it to charity? You didn’t even wear it!”
Olivia snapped her head to look at Johnnie. “Because I think it’s a hideous pattern, okay?”
“Don’t be a bitch just because it looks better on her than on you,” he said.
Olivia picked up her handbag and headed for the door before I could say anything in response. Not that I had a response.
Then she turned around and looked at me, her eyes wide, which made her forehead smooth and emotionless.
“Oh, and by the way, it’s a dress.”
chapter eight
SAVASANA: CORPSE POSE.
This seemingly simple position requires stillness of the body but awareness of the mind.
I had a hangover right through Sunday until I awoke Monday, despite staying in bed for more than twenty-four hours straight. And I hadn’t even had more than half a glass of spiked Crystal Light. It was more than a hangover, I realized. It was a blanket of gloom.
I hadn’t just failed at the party, I’d failed at the entire OM list. I couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean, couldn’t paint. I’d mistaken Karsh for Kafka. I knew nothing important and I felt fat, though I was secretly astounded that I owned—and could fit into—one of Olivia’s hand-me-down dresses. I wanted to believe that meant that I, too, was a size 4, except that none of my other clothes—most of them size 10 or 12—were loose at all. Even my track pants, which I was forced to pull on because my yoga capris had polenta on them, felt tighter than usual. Was it possible that after all the yoga I’d done, I’d gained weight?
The worst part was that I couldn’t complain to my friends about any of these problems—or my life hangover, because my friends hated me: Mitz for stealing her “Summers” dinner theme, and Olivia for stealing her dress. Victoria would probably tell my mother what a disaster I was, and they’d commiserate about how useless I was. I hadn’t failed only at the OM list. I’d failed at my life.
If I’d at least gotten a promotion—or a new job—I could have taken solace in leaving my apartment and my disasters behind, immersing myself in my work. But I had the same misery-inducing job at the same motivation-crushing place. And in my state I just couldn’t face it. I grabbed the phone from under the covers to call in sick at the clinic, and Pumpernickel hopped onto the bed and stood on my chest, purring. I coerced him into snuggling.
At noon, the pounding in my head was amplified by the pounding on the door. It was Bradford, with his Kerplunk game, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream and a nondescript brown bag.
I looked at the game.
He shrugged. “You have to admit it’s appropriate.”
“You don’t have to rub it in,” I said, holding open the door so he could enter the hallway. “I know that my dinner party—and my whole life—is one big Kerplunk. Oh, and I’m already fat enough, so I don’t need the ice cream.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Bradford said. “It’s bad for your complexion.”
I made a face.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the brown paper bag in his hand.
“Sixteen Candles.”
“At least no one stole my underwear,” I said sarcastically. “So I guess I have that to be thankful for?”
“Perfect. You’re as doom and gloom as I’d hoped you’d be,” he said, walking into my apartment. Pumpernickel rubbed up against his leg, and I sat down on the carpet in the middle of the floor. “I would’ve been disappointed if I’d wasted my day coming over here to find you happy as a hog. There’s nothing like trying to cheer up someone who’s already in a good mood. So here’s my pep talk. It was just a dinner party. And the best dinner party, in my opinion, is one that gives people something to talk about.”
“Well, that’s just perfect, because it’s not like anyone’s going to be talking to me, so they might as well talk about me. I’m sure that the party will give them fodder for years. I mean, it’s not like I just screwed up one thing. It’s my whole life, and I put it all on display Saturday night.”
“Your whole life?” Bradford asked. “Did I miss something?”
“No, you were here Saturday night. You saw what happened.”
He sat down on the carpet beside me, opened the ice cream and then handed it to me with a plastic spoon. Pumpernickel climbed onto my legs and sniffed the side of the container. I took a scoop and handed it back to Bradford.
“Do you want to talk about what’s going on?” he asked.
But there was too much to say. I wanted to trust Bradford, I just wasn’t sure I could. The only thing good going on was that I had one day off from my useless job, which, of course, I’d also failed to get a promotion at. Or quit, for that matter.
“I’m supposed to be at work,” I moaned.
“I figured as much, knowing Marjorie. I called you at work. Some girl answered. Tiffany?”
“Tiffany?”
Bradford took a spoonful of ice cream and shrugged.
I picked up the phone and dialed the clinic’s number.
“Who’s this?” I asked when a voice other than Marjorie’s answered.
“Who’s asking?” she replied, and I wasn’t sure if I felt offended that I had to introduce myself at the place I’d worked for three years or intimidated by someone who clearly had more confidence than I ever exuded.
“I’m Marjorie’s assistant, Mara. I work there. I’ve worked there for three years.”
“Hmmm,” she said, sounding bored. “Never heard of you. Anyway, I work here now. Actually, I’m more like Marjorie’s PR rep. At least while Didi’s laid up. I just got into town. I’m her niece,” she explained. “I’m starting at Duke in January, majoring in communications. I’ll be handling all of Marjorie’s press events until then.”
The one thing left on my OM list that I technically hadn’t failed at yet—Item Number 2, get a promotion or a real job—was being handed to some college freshman who’d worked at the clinic for three hours.
“Well, I’m sick,” I said. “I left a message that I’ll be in tomorrow.”
I could hear Tiffany talking to someone in the background.
“Oh, hang on,” she said. “Marjorie wants to talk to you.” For a split second I felt I’d reached the turning point in my life. If this had been a movie, this would have been the part where the boss told the undervalued, underpaid main character that she really valued her and that she realized this fact on the one morning she’d stayed home sick and was promoting her to—
“Did you talk to someone at the Post?” Marjorie asked, abruptly interrupting the scene in my head. “Don’t answer that—the writer’s name came up on the call display history on your phone,” she snapped. “You told this person”—I heard papers shuffling “Natalie Germaine, that I gave Didi free surgery and that she had an allergic reaction?”
My head hurt. “I—It wasn’t the Post. It was just a student doing a project about PR for school,” I blurted out.
“It’s all right here—in the Post. So obviously you were duped. Or the student realized the gem of a story she had and sold it to the newspaper. And now the College of Physicians is going to investigate my practice, and I’ll probably get audited by the government who will find out that I’ve put through a lot more surgeries than I should have. And to top it off, Dr. Overholt is threatening to sue Didi for giving me the event she’d paid her to plan, which is a breach of contract, so guess what? Didi’s suing me to get the money to pay my competition. I don’t know what you’ve been doing all weekend, but this”—I could hear her slap the stack of papers—“pretty much sums up mine.”
