121794180 the girls guide to love and supper clubs by dana bate excerpt

7/28/2019 121794180 the Girls Guide to Love and Supper Clubs by Dana Bate Excerpt

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to my parents


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CHAPTER

one

as soon as Adam pulls into his parents driveway, I panic:maybe the carrot cake was a mistake. Two days ago, it seemedlike a great idea. Everyone loves my carrot cake. Everyone. Even my

boss, Marka man who subsists on cheese sandwiches and hot

dogseven he loves my carrot cake. But the Prescotts arent like

everyone else. They drive Lexuses and summer in Tuscany andkeep a personal wine cellar at The Capital Grille. Adams mother

will probably take one look at the cake and call it quaint. Thats

what she called me once: quaint. A polite way o saying unsophis-

ticated.

I should have made something ancier, like chocolate mousse.

Or a Sacher torte. Why didnt I listen to Adam when he said

bringing dessert was a silly idea? Probably because silly hasbecome his avorite word to describe my obsessive interest in

ood, ollowed immediately by crazy. His criticism unctions as

muddled background music, like when my parents talk about my

uture and direction. The words barely register anymore.

Adam parks the car along the cobblestone circular driveway

in ront o his parents Georgetown home, a pale yellow mansion

that takes up the better part o a city block. Among the Federalistbrick and clapboard town houses, all sandwiched together along

the tree-lined streets, the Prescotts stand-alone home towers above

the rest, with its creamy acade, jet-black shutters, and series o

rectangular columns covered by tumbling sprays o wisteria and


5/24

2 D A N A B A TE

knotted ivy. It is one o the most beautiul homes I have ever

seen. It is also one o the most intimidating.

Adam smoothes his gelled, chestnut hair with his hands andshoots me a sideways glance as he unbuckles his seat belt. You

okay?

Fine, I say. But o course Im not okay. Everything about this

evening lies outside my comort zone, and I wish Adam would

turn the car around and drive the two miles back to our apart-

ment in Logan Circle, a neighborhood whose character is more

vintage thrit shop than Vineyard Vines. But were here, and Ihave a carrot cake in my lap. Turning around is not an option.

I throw o my seat belt and steal a glance in the cars side mir-

ror. Disaster. I spent an hour and a hal grooming mysel, but

thanks to the July heat and humidity, my orehead glistens with

sweat, and my wavy locks have swollen into a uy orange mass.

One more thing or the Prescotts to love: their son is dating Car-

rot Top. Carrot Top with the carrot cake. Perect.Adam umbles or the door handle as I shudder at my reec-

tion. Relax, he says. Theres nothing to be nervous about.

I know. But that isnt true. Theres plenty to be nervous

about, and we both know it. Its no accident that, in the fteen

months weve been dating, this is the frst time his parents have

invited me to their home, despite the act that we live in the

same city. I would say better late than never, but at the moment,the idea o never seems just fne.

Oh, but could you not mention the apartment? Adam asks.

I still havent told them.

Weve been living together or three months.

Adam scratches his square jawline and looks through the

ront windshield. Im waiting or the right time.

Whatever that means. We dated or six months beore hefnally introduced me to his parents. Then, too, he was waiting

or the right time. At this rate, it will probably be November

beore he tells them we moved in together. I were still together


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T H E G I R L S G U I D E T O L O V E A N D S U P P E R C L U B S 3

then. The way Adam has been acting lately, I dont know what

to think.

I hop out o the car and ollow Adam as he makes his way tothe ront door, scrambling to keep up as I balance the carrot cake

on my arms. You know Im the worst at keeping secrets, I say.

Its just or tonight. Please? For me?

I sigh. Yeah, okay, whatever.

Thank you. We dont need a repeat o The Capital Grille.

Thats where his parents took us or lunch the frst time they

met me, and sufce it to say, the lunch did not go as planned.They immediately snied out my lack o good breeding, which

came to a head when I accidentally spilled a glass o Martin

Prescotts 1996 Chteau Lafte in his lap and proceeded to wipe

the area around his crotch with my napkin, while uttering a ew

words and thoughts I probably should have kept to mysel. By the

time lunch was over, the Prescotts had made up their minds: I

lacked the poise and refnement required o a uture First Lady,which meant I was an unsuitable match or their son. I cant say I

blame them.

Balancing the carrot cake on one hand, I smooth my navy

sundress with the other, checking to make sure everything is in

its right place. The dresss bulk adequately disguises my curvy

fgure without looking like a nuns habita strategic move on my

part, because although Adam may enjoy staring at my ample bo-som, I guarantee his mother will not. Adam is dressed in his typi-

cal uniorm: navy polo shirt, khaki pants, and penny loaers. A

generous squirt o gel holds his dark brown hair in place, and his

skin is a toasty butterscotch, thanks to a ew summer weekends

on the tennis court.

I ollow Adam up the broad ront steps, past the potted box-

woods and hydrangea bushes, and as we reach the top, the rontdoor swings open.

Adam!

Sandy Prescott bursts onto the ront steps like a little


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4 D A N A B A TE

hurricane o pastels and pearls and rosted hair. She wraps her

arms around Adam and kisses him on the cheek, squeezing his

shoulders with her bony hands. Martin stands with one handtucked into the pocket o his salmon-colored chinos and extends

the other toward me. Between his boat shoes and Sandys pastels,

I eel like I interrupted a photo shoot or the Brooks Brothers

summer catalog.

Hannah, Martin says, grabbing my right hand. He squeezes

until I lose eeling in my fngers, the sort o crippling grip one

might expect rom a high-profle Washington lobbyist. Good tosee you again.

Likewise.

Sandy nods and ashes a quick smile as she glances at my

chest, which, apparently, I havent disguised well enough. Hello,

Hannah.

She drags her eyes up and down the length o my fgure and

makes a light, almost imperceptible clucking sound with hertongue when she spies my aux-leather sandals. Strike one. Two,

actually, i you count my unortunate anatomy.

Sandy tears her eyes rom my eet and motions toward the

doorway. Shall we?

Adam pulls me through the ront door into the oyer, a room

roughly the size o Alaska with about as much warmth. The ceil-

ing rises fteen eet, with a crystal chandelier that descends romthe top and sparkles like a mini-solar system in the summer sun.

A curved staircase sweeps up to the second oor and envelops a

round, Louis Quinze table, which sits atop the sleek white marble

oor. The entire house reeks o money, even more money than I

realized Adams amily had, and I see now why his parents bristle

at my blatant disinterest in Washington society.

What do we have here? Sandy asks, pointing to the crinklymound o aluminum oil perched on my arms. I tried to cover the

cake without letting the oil touch the cream cheese rostinga

goal easier in theory than in practicewhich means the cake

now resembles a fth-grade science project.


8/24


Dessert, I say, pausing beore mentioning the inevitable. A

carrot cake.

Sandy smiles tightly. Carrot cake, she says, taking the cakerom my hands. How un.

Adam sighs. Its one o Hannahs specialties. Making it is at

least a two-day project. Quite the ordeal.

Sandy stares at the mountain o oil and knits her brows to-

gether as she shakes her head. That sounds like an awful lot o

trouble or something like a carrot cake. I guess Ive always fgured

thats what bakeries are or.She lets out a bemused sigh and carries the cake into the

kitchen.

See? The carrot cake was a mistake. I knew it.

What ollows is a careully choreographed dance involving me on

one side and the Prescotts on the other. I dont want to step onthe Prescotts toes, and they dont want to step on mine, but re-

ally, all o us would be a lot happier i we didnt have to dance at

all. I, or one, would much rather sit along the sidelines and watch

everyone else dance while I stued my ace with candy.

But round and round we go, and the longer we dance, the

more the smile tattooed on my ace begins to ache and tingle and

develop its own pulse. And yet I keep smiling, mostly becauseI am Adams girlriend and they are his parents and, well, its

pretty clear whose position is the least secure. I dont expect the

Prescotts to love me by the end o this dinner, but I would like, at

the very least, or them to stop calling Adam every weekend to

voice their concerns about our relationship while he hides in the

bathroom and pretends Im not sleeping ten eet away in our shared

bed. In the scheme o things, I do not think this is an unreason-able goal.

We blow through a bottle o Veuve Clicquot as we nibble

canaps on the Prescotts brick patio, and the champagne both

calms my nerves and impairs my ability to ocus on what, exactly,


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6 D A N A B A TE

Adam and his parents are talking about. As our discussion pro-

gresses around the dinner table, I fnd mysel driting in and out

o the conversation, as i the Prescotts are a TBS Sunday ater-noon movie playing in the background while I old my laundry

and send e-mails. I hear what they are saying, and I am saying

things in response, but signifcant periods o time pass where Im

not sure what is going on.

As I oat away on my champagne wave, I lose mysel in the

thorny world o my own thoughts: how lately Adam seems morti-

fed by everything I do, how moving in together has only magni-fed our dierences and obscured our similarities, and how

consequently I now eel as i I am in the wrong everythingthe

wrong job, the wrong relationship, possibly even the wrong city.

I snap out o my trance when someone mentions my name,

though Ill be damned i I can fgure out who it was. But everyone

is staring at me, so I think its sae to assume a question was in-

volved.Sorry?

Your parents, Martin says. How are they?

Theyre good. On sabbatical in London until October.

Wonderul, Sandy says. She hands her empty soup bowl to

Juanita, the Prescotts housekeeper. Your parents do such inter-

esting work.

My parents are the only part o my pedigree o which thePrescotts approve. When Sandy heard my parents were Alan and

Judy Sugarman, both esteemed economics proessors at the Uni-

versity o Pennsylvania, she saw a glimmer o hope. I didnt come

rom a wealthy or powerul amily, but at least my parents carried

the sort o academic het that would look good in a New York

Times wedding announcement.

They arent the only ones doing interesting work, Martinsays. Adam showed us the paper you coauthored on quantitative

easing. Very impressive.

Thanksalthough my boss was the one who wrote it. I only

helped with the research.


10/24


Shes being modest, Adam says, rubbing my shoulder. You

put a lot o work into that paper. And it showed. It was excellent.

Martin smiles. Looks like we have another Proessor Sugar-man in our midst, hmm?

It is the question I dread mostand, I should add, the one I

get asked all the time. Everyone assumes I aspire to be my parents

someday, my every proessional choice driven by a deep-seated

desire to carry on their legacy. The way everyone poses the ques-

tion suggests I should want that or myselthat Id be crazy not

to. And so what am I supposed to say when someone like MartinPrescott puts me on the spot? That Id rather stab mysel with a

rusty knie than become a proessor? That what Id really like to do

is start an obeat catering company someday, but that my parents

would go ballistic i I ever did? No, I cant say those things, not

when its clear that the one thing the Prescotts rate me or is a

career I no longer care about and a scholarly legacy I want nothing

to do with.So instead I smile and simply say, Well see.

I grab or my wineglass and take a long sip and then, against

my better judgment, I add, But who knows. Maybe Ill do some-

thing wild someday like start my own catering company.

Sandy blanches. An obvious disappointment.

Catering? Martin chuckles, swirling his wineglass by its

base. Surely you can aim a little higher than that.Juanita returns to the dinner table, carrying three dinner plates

on one arm and holding the orth in her opposite hand. She hands

me the last o the plates, a gilded disk o porcelain flled with

roasted potatoes, green beans, and some sort o meat.

Its slow-roasted leg o lamb, Sandy says as I study my plate.

She smiles. I was planning to serve a pork roast, but I wasnt sure

i you would eat that.Ah, yes. The Jew ruins the party once again. The truth is, I

love pork. I eat it all the time. But I cant expect her to know that,

and by her tone, it is clear that Jews are as oreign to her as aliens

or cavemen.


11/24

8 D A N A B A TE

I tuck into my portion o lamb, and the meat melts on my

tongue, buttery and rich with red wine and the aintest hint o

rosemary. Wow, Sandy, what did you put in this? Its abulous.Oh, I didnt make this, she says as she cuts her lamb into

bite-size pieces and pushes most o it to the ar corners o her

plate, burying the meat under wedges o roasted potatoes.

Adam clears his throat. Mom has a personal che.

Oh, I say. O course she does.

Id love to cook, she says, but who has the time? I cant a-

ord to spend two days baking a cake.The implication, o course, is that only unimportant people

have that kind o time. Unimportant people like me. I wait or

Adam to jump in and save me, but instead he shoves a orkul

o lamb into his mouth and eigns deep interest in the contents o

his dinner plate. For someone with Adams political ambitions

and penchant or riendly debate, Im always amazed at the lengths

he goes to avoid conrontation with his parents.I have a ull-time job, I say, oering Sandy a labored smile,

and somehow I manage.

Sandy delicately places her ork on the table and interlaces

her fngers. I beg your pardon?

My cheeks ush, and all the champagne and wine rush to my

head at once. All Im saying is . . . we make time or the things

we actually want to do. Thats all.Sandy purses her lips and sweeps her hair away rom her ace

with the back o her hand. Hannah, dear, I am very busy. I am

on the board o three charities and am hosting two galas this

year. Its not a matter owantingto cook. I simply have more im-

portant things to do.

For a woman so dierent rom my own motherthe rosted,

well-groomed socialite to my mothers mousy, rumpled academicshe and my mother share a remarkably similar view o the role o

cooking in a modern womans lie. For them, cooking is an irrel-

evant hobby, an amusement or women who lack the brains or

more high-powered pursuits or the money to pay someone to


12/24


perorm such a humdrum chore. Sandy Prescott and my mother

would agree on very little, but as women who have been liberated

rom the perunctory task o cooking a nightly dinner, they wouldsee eye to eye on my intense interest in the culinary arts.

Were I a stronger person, someone more in control o her ac-

ulties who has not drunk multiple glasses o champagne, I would

probably let Sandys remark go without commenting any urther.

But I cannot be that person. At least not tonight. Not when

Sandy is suggesting, as it seems everyone does, that cooking isnt

a priority worthy o a serious persons time.You would make the time i you wanted to, I say. But obvi-

ously you dont.

Martin stabs a piece o lamb with his ork and shoves his

glasses up the bridge o his nose. Is this really appropriate, la-

dies?

The correct answer, obviously, is no. Picking a fght with my

boyriends mother, a woman who already dislikes me, is not ap-propriate. It also is not wise. But by this point in the evening, I

dont care. I just want this dinner to end, and the sooner that

happens the better.

Unortunately dinner stretches on or an interminable two hours,

giving me ample opportunity to take a minor misstep and turn itinto a totally radioactive uckup. And, knowing me, thats exactly

what Ill do. Whether its muttering expletives while wiping Mar-

tins lap at The Capital Grille or railing against those who order

chicken at a steakhousewhich Sandy ultimately didI always

manage to say exactly the wrong thing when the Prescotts are

around.

Adam tries to play reeree, jumping in with a story about hislatest coup, an assignment to a Supreme Court case. He embel-

lishes wildly, crediting himsel with ar more responsibility and

power than he actually has, but Sandy and Martin eat up every

word. They love it.


13/24

10 D A N A B A TE

This is Adam at his best: the uture politician, captivating the

table with his charm and panache. From the moment I met Adam,

I was, like any woman with a pulse, attracted to his chiseled ea-tures, his intelligence, and his ambition, but his charismathats

what sucked me in. Thats what hooked me. When Adam is on,

being around him is electriying, a total thrill o a ride you never

want to end. He made me eel interesting. He made me eel alive.

He took me to parties flled with political movers and shakers

White House Correspondents Dinner aterparties and charity

galas and Harvard alumni events. He treated me like someoneimportantlike someone who mattered. How could I not all or

someone like that? The man is magnetic, enchanting everyone

he meets with his smiles and jokes and shiny white teeth.

All o which seems great until I realize tonight he is acting

this way to shut me up.

Every time I attempt to join the conversation, Adam raises

his voice and plows over me like a bulldozer, crushing me withhis anecdotes and convivial banter. He kicks, squeezes, and prods

me beneath the table, like I am an out-o-control fve-year-old at

a dinner party. I cant get a word out, which, it becomes clear, is

the point.

And that, I decide, is total bullshit. Adam used to love my

spunk. Thats what he told me, anyway. I was nothing like the girls

Sandy tried to fx him up with, girls whod had debutante ballsand regularly appeared in Capitol File magazine. Sure, I went to

an Ivy League school, but in his Harvard-educated eyes, I only

went to Cornell, which he considered a lesser Ivy. I grew up in a

house the size o his parents oyer, wrote about fnancial regula-

tion or a living, whipped up pu pastry rom scratch. I was differ-

ent, damn it. And that made me special. But tonight I do not eel

special. Tonight I eel as I have on so many occasions recently:like part o a social experiment gone awry.

During a lull in Adams act, Juanita appears with my carrot

cake, an eight-inch tower o spiced cake, caramelized pecan fll-

ing, cream cheese rosting, and toasted coconut. Miraculously,


14/24


none o the rosting stuck to the oila small triumph. Juanita

starts cutting into the cake, but I shoo her away and volunteer to

serve the cake mysel. I Adam wants to cut me out o the conver-sation, fne, but no one will cut me out o my culinary accolades.

I hand a at slice to Sandy, whose eyes widen at the thick

swirls o rosting and gobs o buttery pecan goo. I cannot tell

whether she is ecstatic or terrifed. Something tells me its the

latter.

My goodness, she says. She lays the plate in ront o her,

takes a whi, and then pushes it orward by our inches. I gatherthis is how she consumes dessert. By the way, Hannah, she says

as I serve up the last piece o cake, I read some very scary news

last week about your neighborhood. Something about a rash o

muggings?

Really? I hadnt heard that.

You should be careul. Apparently Columbia Heights is still

very much . . . shall we say, on the edge.Oh, I dont live in Columbia Heights anymore. Adam and I

ound a place together in Logan Circle about three months ago.

We

I catch mysel. Adams eyes widen in horror and fx on mine.

Im sorry, what? Sandy says, her eyelids uttering rapidly.

Did I hear you correctly? You two have been living together?

Neither o us says anything.Sandys voice grows tense. Adam? Is this true? Youve been

living togetheror three months?

Adam clears his throat. No. Yes. Let me explain . . .

But beore he can say anything more, Sandy clenches her jaw

and shakes her head and leaps up rom the table. Adam chases

ater her, and then Martin throws his napkin on the table and

stomps out o the room ater both o them, leaving me in the din-ing room, alone.

I stare at the mess o plates and napkins, scattered around the

table amid the overturned orks and the slices o uneaten cake.

The Prescotts havent touched my dessert, and given the hushed


15/24

12 D A N A B A TE

tones coming rom the next room, they probably never will. I pull

my plate closer, saw o a corner o carrot cake, and shovel a ork-

ul into my mouth. The cake is delicious, the best Ive made inmonths, bursting with the sweet avor o cinnamon and carrots

and the crunch o caramelized pecans and toasted coconut. Its a

masterpiece, and no one will ever know. Im sure there are worse

ways this evening could have gone, but at the moment, Ill be

damned i I can think o any o them.


16/24

lets be honest: the Prescotts were going to fnd out at somepoint. All I did was speed up the process.And, really, with all o the champagne and red wine, com-

bined with the prospect o sugary rosting and pecan goo, it al-

most wasnt my ault. I was distracted. Who hasnt made a ew bad

decisions under the spell o sugar and alcohol? Besides, Adamacted like a jerk or most o the evening. Im hardly the only one

at ault.

But something tells me none o these excuses will y with my

boyriend, who has ignored me or the remainder o the evening.

As he speeds toward the Q Street Bridge, Im struck by how little

he has said since we let his parents. The air- conditioning blasts

through the vents in Adams Lexus, chilling the interior o thecar as we move like a cool, hermetically sealed bubble through

the thick, sticky summer air. Even at nine-thirty, the summer sky

still holds a aint purple glow, draping the night in a dreamlike

veil. Old-ashioned streetlamps dot the sidewalk, surrounded by

leay trees o varying sizes and blooming impatiens. The spires

belonging to a series o Dupont Circle town houses loom on the

horizon.As we approach the bridge, Adam grips the wheel o his Lexus

with two tense fsts and presses down on the gas pedal. He races

up behind a white Prius, a car moving at the speed limit, and

CHAPTER

two


17/24

14 D A N A B A TE

rides its tail all the way across. When the opposing lane clears, he

jerks the car over the double yellow line, speeds up, passes the

Prius, and cuts back in ront o it.Asshole, he says as he gives the driver the fnger.

I have no idea how driving the speed limit makes someone an

asshole, and I am inclined to ask, but given Adams scarily aggres-

sive tone, I decide not to bother.

Adam speeds up again as we cross Connecticut Avenue, ying

through the very heart o Dupont Circle with its crowded streets

and bustling sidewalks, and I clutch my seat and close my eyes,not at all comortable with these hostile maneuvers, even though

I recognize my earlier behavior is likely behind them. Regardless,

Id rather not die tonight.

But I will concede tonight was a disaster. An indisputable,

excruciating disaster. Why do interactions with Adams parents

always end this way? Because Im me, thats why. And Adam is

Adam. I am chatty and unpredictable, and Adam is uptight andcautious, and when you throw us into a room with his parents, we

somehow become exaggerated versions o ourselves, which is to

say, polar opposites. I am the loose cannon, and Adam is the guy

with a stick up his ass, and it is clear which kind o person the

Prescotts preer.

What Adams parents think o me shouldnt matter, but it

doesto both o us. Adam may have grown up surrounded byluxury and privilege, but we were both raised by parents who in-

vested a signifcant proportion o their time and money into our

upbringing and whose opinions always matteredon the right

schools, the right majors, the right careers and liestyles. Why

should their opinions about our signifcant others carry any less

weight? Ive always respected people who could out their parents

wishes on a regular basis and blaze their own trails in the ace otheir parents disapproval. But Adam and I arent like that. Its

one thing weve always had in common.

Adam turns onto the wider and less crowded thoroughare o


18/24


Fourteenth Street, and I decide to break the silence. The carrot

cake came out well.

Carrot cake. Thats all Ive got.Like it matters, he mumbles under his breath.

Im sure theyll get used to it. Us living together.

Adam hus as he races through a yellow light. Dont count

on it.

We dont speak again until we reach the apartment.

Adam unlocks the door to our fth-oor, lot-style apartment,

which is located in the heart o Logan Circle. When I interned in

Washington as a college student, Logan Circle was still consid-

ered up-and-coming, and I heard stories about the prostitutes

who would loiter up and down Fourteenth Street. But over the

past ew years, dozens o shops and restaurants and galleries have

moved into the areaeverything rom Whole Foods to the hipCork Wine Bar and low-key Logan Tavernand now the Four-

teenth Street corridor bustles with young proessionals, who have

moved into the area in droves. Our building sits on a lot where a

run-down auto repair shop once stood, but now the decaying

ware house o beat-up cars has been replaced by eighty-our luxury

rental apartmentsnone o which I could aord without Adams

monthly fnancial contribution.I ollow Adam into the apartment, leaving a ew eet between

us as he storms into the living room. He throws his keys on the

steel console, setting o a clang that echoes o the brushed ce-

ment oors.

I cant believe you told them, he says as he throws himsel

onto our leather couchhis leather couch, actually, since I sold

all my urniture beore we moved in together, an idea that seemedto make sense at the time but now makes my stake in this apart-

ment, this relationship, rather tenuous.

I didnt mean to, I say. It just sort o . . . slipped out.


19/24

16 D A N A B A TE

Right. It slipped out. Ater I specifcally asked you not to say

anything.

I told you, Ive never been good at keeping secrets. Adamstares at me, unmoved. At least they know the truth.

Adam lets out a hu. Yeah. Great.

They were going to fnd out eventually . . .

Adam presses his palms against his temples and lets out a grunt.

You know what? I cant deal with this right now. Well talk

tomorrow. He pushes himsel o the couch and marches into the

bathroom.Okay, so hes pissed. Or, more accurately, given the banging I

hear going on in the bathroom, hes at-out angry. But i we have

any shot at making this relationship work, his parents will have

to accept and respect our decision to live together. We cant live a

lie orever. At least I cant.

What worries me is Im beginning to think Adam could.

When I said Adam has never defed his parents, thats not en-tirely true. Hes dating me, ater all. That has been his one rebel-

lion against them, his small act o resistance. But tonight, instead

o charging orward in the ace o their disapproval, he waved a

little white ag and let me open to attack. And lately all the

characteristics that drew him to my sidethe way I was talkative

and obeat and sometimes a little weirdare pushing him away,

as i I am a constant source o embarrassment.He didnt used to see me that way. When we frst started dat-

ing, he introduced me to all his riends and colleagues as his little

frecracker. Thats what he started calling me ater our third date,

when he brought me to a Redskins party at his riend Erics place.

Eric had decided to make bualo chili, but, in what became clear

to both me and everyone else at the party, he had no idea what he

was doing. Two hours into the party, ater all o us had blownthrough the bags o tortilla chips and pretzels, Eric was still chop-

ping red peppers. Determined not to let a room o fteen people

go hungry, I rolled up my sleeves, marched into the kitchen, and

grabbed a knie. Okay, Bobby Flay, I said as I wielded my knie.


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Time to get this show on the road. I chopped and minced and

crushed at rapid-fre speed, and in no time, dinner was served.

Get a load o this frecracker, Eric said as he watched me workmy magic. Ater that, the name sort o stuck.

For a while, the nickname seemed like a good thing. Every

time I would rail against ad diets or champion the importance o

sustainable agriculture or lament the lack o ood options in inner

cities, Adam would laugh and say, Thats my little frecracker.

He made me eel special, as i I were a vital part o his lie. His

parents were the only people rom whom he seemed to hide me,and though it bothered me a little, I understood. I was the anti-

Sandy. Thats what made me attractive. But he hasnt called me

his little frecracker in what eels like months now, and lately I

eel as i hes hiding me rom everyone. When did this little fre-

cracker become a grenade?

I ollow Adam into the bathroom and stare at his reection as

he brushes his teeth. Im sorry dating me is such a huge embar-rassment.

Adam spits a oamy, white lump o toothpaste into the sink

and rinses out his mouth, swishing the water back and orth be-

tween his cheeks. He spits the water into the sink and meets my

eyes in the mirror. I never said that.

Its what youre thinking.

Adam shoves his toothbrush into the toothbrush holder. No,its not. But come on, did you need to mention the apartment?

I told you, that was an accident.

What about arguing with my mom about cooking? Was that

an accident, too?

I play with the ringe on one o our hand towels. I wasnt ar-

guing with her.

Adam hus. Sure sounded that way.Well, Im sorry. I guess I cant do anything right.

Thats not what Im saying. He massages the bridge o his

nose and sighs. But, okay, just as an example, why did you have

to bring up the whole catering antasy? What made you think


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18 D A N A B A TE

that would go over well? Im surprised you didnt start telling them

about ood carts or your obsession with underground supper

clubs.Ever since I introduced Adam to the idea surrounding under-

ground supper clubssecret, unlicensed restaurants run by o-

duty ches or enthusiastic novice cooks out o their homeshe

has considered it an obsession. Sure, I have lobbied him repeat-

edly to let me host one out o our apartment, and sure, I have re-

searched the crap out o what it would take to run one, but that

hardly makes it an obsession. Its more o an interest. An intense,unshakeable interest.

Adam reaches or the mouthwash, but I grab the bottle beore

he can lay his hands on it. Starting a catering company isnt a

crazy antasy, Adam. Your mom employs a personal che. Cook-

ing is a legitimate career.

Yeah, or people who dont have the brains to do something

else. Which you do.God, you sound like my parents.

I sound like someone whos right.

No, you sound like an asshole.

Adam rolls his eyes. For my parents sake, couldnt you have

made up something else?

Typical Adam: when reality doesnt suit your audience, create

an alternate reality that suits them better. Adam Prescott orpresident!

But I know Adam wishes my intense interest in ood werent a

reality at all. When we frst started dating, my talent in the

kitchen was a turn-on. The prospect o me in the kitchen, wear-

ing a skimpy apron and holding a whisk in my handhe thought

that was sexy. And, as someone with little insight into how to

work her own sex appeal, I pounced on the opportunity to makehim want and need me.

I spent our days preparing my frst home-cooked meal or

him, a dinner o wilted escarole salad with hot bacon dressing,

osso bucco with risotto Milanese and gremolata, and a white-


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chocolate toasted-almond semireddo or dessert. At the time, I

lived with three other people in a Columbia Heights town house,

so I told all o my housemates to make themselves scarce thatSaturday night. When Adam showed up at my door, as the rich

smell o braised veal shanks wated through the house, I greeted

him holding a platter o prosciutto-wrapped fgs, wearing nothing

but a slinky red apron. He grabbed me by the waist and pushed

me into the kitchen, slowly untying the apron strings resting on

my rounded hips, and moments later we were making love on the

tiled kitchen oor. Admittedly, I worried the whole time aboutwhen I should start the risotto and whether hed even want osso

bucco once we were fnished, but it was the frst time Id seduced

someone like that, and it was lovely.

Adam raved about that mealthe rich osso bucco, the zesty

gremolata, the sweet-and-salty semireddoand thats when I

knew cooking was my love language, my way o expressing pas-

sion and desire and overcoming all o my insecurities. I learnedthat I may not be comortable strutting through a room in a tight-

ftting dress, but I can cook one hell o a brisket, and I can do it in

the comort o my own home, wearing an apron and nothing else.

Adam loved my ood, and he loved watching me work in the

kitchen even more, the way my cheeks would ush rom the heat

o the stove and my hair would twist into delicate red curls along

my hairline. As the weeks went by, I continued to seduce himwith pork ragu and roasted chicken, creamed spinach and carrot

sormato, cannolis and brownies and chocolate-hazelnut cake.

But once the honeymoon period was over, about six months

into our relationship (which, incidentally, coincided with the frst

time I met his parents), he tired o the ricassees and pound cakes

and sous. It was a distraction, he said. Id gone beyond what

one might consider a uture wiely duty and had entered therealm o obsessionconstantly talking about what I planned to

make or dinner and rhapsodizing over every new recipe I ound,

spending three days preparing a brisket and wreaking havoc in

the kitchen. He was fne with cooking as a hobby, but once he


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2 0 D A N A B A TE

realized it was more than that, hed had enough. You cook so you

can eat, and you eat so you can live, and thats that. Serious and

intelligent people dont make a career o cooking.So, what, I should have lied to your parents? I ask, icking my

fnger against the plastic Listerine bottle. Adam doesnt reply. I

hand him the mouthwash and grab my toothbrush o the counter.

Yeah, great idea. Then maybe theyll never get to know me.

Maybe that would be better . . . , Adam mumbles.

I reeze, the toothbrush hal hanging out o my mouth.

Excuse me?Never mind, he says.

No, what was that supposed to mean?

It means youre right: Im sick o dating a total misft. Its not

cute anymore. I cant be in a relationship with someone whos al-

ways making me apologize or her behavior.

I pluck the toothbrush rom my between my lips. Is that so?

Listen, all Im saying is I should be able to take you placeswithout worrying about what you might say or do.

Come on, Adam. You dont have to worry about me.

Oh, I dont? What about almost lighting Erics Christmas

tree on fre last year when you insisted on lighting a menorah

right next to it? Or the inamous dinner with my boss last month?

Ugh. I knew hed bring that up. I was just trying to explain

the correct way to make spaghetti carbonara.And by doing so implied that he had done it incorrectly.

Well . . . I mean . . . he had.

Adam sighs. Do you see what Im saying? Youre a loose can-

non.

No Im not. Im just . . . a stickler when it comes to certain

things. But you dont have to worry about me. Promise.

Yeah, well, Ill believe that when I see it.Oh, youll see it, all right, I say, shoving my toothbrush back

in my mouth. Trust me.

Im not entirely sure what I mean by this last statement, but I

suppose what Im trying to say is I can be the genteel, taciturn


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woman he describeseven i, deep down, I think the whole idea

o proving mysel to him is absurd. Because it is. That wasnt the

deal we struck. He chose to date me because I was sassy and opin-ionated. But lately Adam seems to have buyers remorse, as i I am

some wild shirt he bought on a whim, a bright orange button-

down that now doesnt go with his liestyle or anything else in his

closet.

And that scares the crap out o me. Adam is the frst person I

let mysel all in love with in a slobbery, all-consuming way. What

will happen i everything alls apart? I have no experience todraw rom, no playbook to reerence. This is an embarrassing ad-

mission to make at twenty-six years o age, but it is also true. I

sacrifced opportunities and riendships to make our relationship

workruling out a better-paying job in Boston so that I could

stay in DC with him, deciding against a weekend cheese-making

class because it would mean less together time or the two o us.

Adam became the center o my world, and I let my other riendsdrit away, and now I barely have any riends let who arent con-

nected to Adam. I I lose him, Ill lose my entire social lie, on top

o this apartment and the entire lie weve built togetherthe

movie nights, the Sunday brunches, the trips to Harris Teeter to

buy groceries, and the walks along the Tidal Basin to see the

cherry blossoms and the memorials. Ill be alone. All that sacri-

fce will have been or nothing.I cant let that happen. I have to make this relationship work

again, to re-create the spark that attracted us to each other in the

frst place: his magnetic energy, my seductive wit, his ascination

with me, my admiration or him. I owe that to both o us. All I

need is a little Sugarman magic to prove to Adam that he has

nothing to worry about, and neither do I.

121794180 the girls guide to love and supper clubs by dana bate excerpt

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