Page 21 of Below the Shadow of the City
CHAPTER 21
SATURDAY, MID OCTOBER
M y notebook stares up at me like it’s a blank canvas. While a year ago I considered myself something of a DaVinci in the kitchen, right now my mind is totally blank. I still could take the easy way out and supply eight recipes from my Instagram. It would be incredibly simple to scroll through, see what’s gotten the most engagement, and copy and paste. I know I shouldn’t take that route, not when I know I can do better than that.
My dreams used to be sad, limp, nearly dead things. They still are at times, but participating in this cookbook has breathed the tiniest bit of life back into them. I know how this works, I’m invited to participate among many others, and Gingham Books will select a standout from the crowd. That star will get their own contract, their own cookbook, and all the success that comes with it. Sure, I’ve been downright apathetic about 90% of the things in my life since January, but I’ve found myself handed an opportunity. And I can’t half-ass something as big as this.
I finally have the motivation and none of the brainpower for it. It’s like my entire library of baking knowledge and creativity has been emptied. I have tried and true pate à choux, puff pastry, and pie crust recipes I can lean on, but nothing to fill them with.
It’s late in the season for the Farmer’s Market. A few unseasonably warm days have it holding on until the first frost. It’s been a while since I’ve wandered here with a specific mission. This summer I’d come far less frequently than I’d hoped to, usually opting to keep a stock of frozen items instead. Too much fresh produce had gone to rot in my fridge because I’d lost the motivation to do anything with it.
I wander among the stalls, grabbing persimmons that don’t have a purpose yet and tossing them into a tote bag I’d gotten with a magazine subscription. I’d canceled receiving the publication years ago, but the tote bag is still put to good use.
These trips are always made solo, having anyone with me is distracting. And this particular excursion is meditative as I take a break from ruminating on what Maddox had said a few days back. I don’t need to think about the bits of doubt that are still holding on, I need to examine each piece of fruit at this market like it’s a fine jewel. I have to discuss, in depth, the seasonality of the produce and the life story of the farmer who’s selling their wares. I may not be much for casual conversation until a farmer in a faded Carhartt jacket tells me about how wasps got into their strawberry crop this year and captures my attention.
“Eduardo!” I call out to one of the aforementioned Carhartt wearing farmers. “How’s it going?” He finishes a transaction and embraces me in a hug. I’ve been going to this particular farmer’s market for so long I know his father who used to run the farm. Eduardo took it over from him about five years back. I talked to him multiple times a summer since he was dating his now wife, throughout wedding planning, her pregnancy, and the first few years of his daughter’s life.
“Isabella had her first dance recital last week,” he pulls his phone from his pocket to show me a beaming toddler in a pink tutu and pigtails.
“She’s incredible!” I exclaim.
“She takes after her mother,” he grins at the photo one more time before sliding it back in his pocket. “I haven’t seen you much, I thought you were out cheating on me with some other orchard.”
“And miss out on your honeycrisps? I could never. It’s been a long summer, I’m just now getting back into a routine and soon I’ll be cooped up inside once winter comes.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” he winks and pulls a bag of eight perfect massive apples out from under his table. “I’d put these aside for you, just in case.”
Immediately any remaining ice around my heart melts at the sight of the crinkle-eyed hardened agriculturalist saving me my favorite apples.
“You might be my favorite person, do you know that?” He beams at my remark, a tiny blush flares across his cheeks.
“Any plans for these?” He asks as I pass over payment, tossing a few extra dollars into the folded bills and hoping he won’t notice until I’m gone.
“Oh yeah, salted caramel apple upside down cake,” I fish through my tote and pull out Vanilla bean pods to show him. “And homemade vanilla ice cream.”
“Damn,” he snorts and hands me the bag. “Who’s the lucky recipient?” My stomach flips. It’s recipe attempt number one for the cookbook and is also an attempt at an apology to Maddox. I can’t communicate my feelings, I can’t explain to him precisely why I am the way I am, but I can offer him more baked goods.
“Just a friend,” I grunt through a half-assed smile. “I don’t think the cake will last until next Saturday. I’ll bring you and the family something else when I see you next”
“No, no, Sigrid you don’t have to.” It’s too late, I plan to bake an extra batch of chocolate chip cookies and drop them at his stall.
“I insist, you’re too good to me, Eduardo, let me give you something special in return.” We give our goodbyes and I pretend I’m out of earshot when he shouts that I overpaid him on the apples.
I crack an egg and carefully separate the white from the yolk, depositing each in their respective vessels.
The apple cake bakes away in the oven as I whisk the ice cream custard. It feels unnatural to be baking again, like stretching out limbs that have atrophied. There’s choreography that the body forgets, I stiffly maneuver the whisk around the bowl, spilling some of the custard over the sides.
The cookies were one thing, I’d made them now three times over for Maddox. Once to get his number, once to apologize for running away from him, and a third time to thank him for dropping everything to drive me to the hospital. Holding my cards close to my chest was my style for much of my life. I have a very readable face, my moods couldn’t be more obvious if they had closed captions on them.
Maddox plays me like a game of Jenga. I balance precariously as he breaks me down bit by bit, both of us holding our breath waiting for me to crumble.
I’m still incredibly anxious, though as days have passed I’ve grown to be far less avoidant. A mean voice in the back of my mind tells me I should have let things lie, but I’m getting better at ignoring it. Even still, whenever I send a text asking to see him flashes of angst grab at my ankles like rip tides in the ocean, but somehow just thinking about Maddox pulled me back into harbor.
I had spent a few more consecutive nights with him. Consecutive enough that I packed a small duffel to live out of for a few days. Last night was the first that I’d spent in my own bed since last Saturday, and I need to face the fact that we’re fully in relationship territory now. My mind wanders to the other day when it fully settled in that we were doing the easy coexisting thing couples do.
“I’ll see you later, ok?” He stated the other morning like it was a matter of fact and wrapped his arms around me tightly. His lips dotted kisses on the top of my head and I’d never felt so precious and cherished by someone.
“Ok,” I whispered, “but I really need to get to work.”
I was downright spellbound that morning. I floated through the grimy subway station, rode to my stop, and practically skipped to the office. It’s actually been impossible for me to scowl, my mouth sits in an upward twinge. A permanent almost smile.
When I got to the office I was horrified that I found myself covered in dark brown hairs scattered up and down my black jumpsuit. Maddox fucking shed all over me while we were making out before I’d left his apartment that morning. I thought I was past the age of covering up hickeys, and while this predicament is far more temporary, the implications are…stranger.
Had I known that one of the consequences of dating someone with his traits would result in this I probably would have reassessed my wardrobe choices.
I rifled through my desk drawer to retrieve a lint roller, and Margo swung around my cubicle as I was frantically removing any trace of him.
“Damn did you see a dog today?” She asked, because why else would I be acting as erratic as I am with a lint roller?
“Fuck.” I realized I’d muttered the curse out loud. Margo stared at me, because no normal person would react as such if they’d seen a golden retriever or a sheepdog or whatever would be large enough to cover all of me in tiny tufts.
I stayed silent, the squeaky wheel of the lint roller soundtracked the lengthy pause. She didn’t press, but the cautious stare she gave me said more than enough.
“Big week this week!” Ralph announced as he strode past my desk. I jolted from my skin and was more than grateful for his interruption. Likely the first and last time I’d say so.
Investors, or partners, or some group of important people are going to be in the office for a few days for handshaking and meetings where they talk in circles about how wonderful they all are. I’ve been merely tasked with coordinating lunches, printing itineraries, and making sure conference rooms are booked. A perfect to-do list of things to avoid Margo with. Because the more real Maddox and I become, the more likely it is that I’ll eventually have to broach the subject with her.
I added it to the list of things future Sigrid will have to deal with. Recipes. Maddox. Margo. My parents. The rest of my life. They all remain funny little open ended questions highlighted and underlined as I continue to neatly pack it away.
My thoughts all come to an inflection point as I plunk the eggshells one by one into a third bowl. It’s a clear container for all the scraps and remnants to live while the final product is created, and then unceremoniously tossed into the trash. I’m seeking metaphors in just about everything, convinced that some outside force is going to tell me what to do and think and everything will be magically answered for me and I’ll be relinquished of whatever curse has been haunting me. I stare at the bowl, piled high with cracked eggshells begging it to say something, anything about how I can fix myself.
While the cake bakes I pad to my bedroom, stripping off my pants and leaving them in a pile on the floor. This habit is something I’d never reveal to another soul, including Maddox, but I could barely stand still when I was whisking the batter. I need to relieve tension, and I have roughly a half hour before I need to make the caramel topping for the cake.
With one hand already down the front of my underwear I queue up the file I’m looking for. Human porn doesn’t do it for me anymore, my celebrity crushes fall flat. One thing seems to always work without fail.
“Hi Sigrid…”
The audio file plays and the first three syllables have me soaked and swollen. I’m already primed to begin with, I can’t stop thinking about him and I was pacing my apartment like a damn cat in heat before throwing myself onto the bed and touching myself while imagining his body atop of mine, him inside me, and his words that drive me over the edge.