Free Life From Scratch by Melissa Ford

smile.
    “Are you from Spain ?” Arianna asks.
    Arianna asks all of the questions to which she can sense that I want answers. That is what dozens of years of friendship buy you—mental telepathy. I find out that he was born and raised in Madrid , moved to New York four years ago to learn English and works as a wedding photographer for his brother-in-law, knows how to speak three languages, and likes my pasta.
    And he knows that I am divorced, I am single, I am in love with all things Spanish. That I visited Barcelona for two weeks with a school-sponsored group when I was seventeen. That I don’t love Central Park . That I do like zoos. That I write a blog and am on a graphic design sabbatical and am terrified of baking. See, more information than Datey.com could get out of me.
    We are having a fantastic time, and I can feel my body actually relaxing when Ethan yanks me out of my reverie by mentioning that the guests should rate my meal. “You know, like they do on Iron Chef. Give her points for plating and taste.”
    “Judging me on plating isn’t fair,” I say, motioning to my tiny apartment kitchen. “I don’t have room for cool dinnerware.”
    “But this dish is very interesting,” Gael says, motioning towards the lobster bowl.
    “It’s from Bar Harbor ,” I tell him, even though he didn’t ask. “Anyway, cooking is just a hobby.”
    “Cooking is more than a hobby,” Arianna says generously. “It’s your blog. It’s you taking back you . Or becoming you. Or something like that.”
    I hope Gael’s English isn’t good enough to follow this conversation, because I’m suddenly embarrassed over the idea of needing to find myself.
    “I think plating is a creativity thing,” Pete corrects. “It has to do with how attractive the food is arranged on the plate or if it was just tossed into a bowl.”
    “Well, I thought the pasta was amazing,” Arianna interrupts. “It’s simple; but simple is good. And sometimes tomato sauces can be too garlicky and this one wasn’t.”
    “I dulled the garlic a bit with water before adding it to the oil,” I explain.
    “And the salad was delicious,” Gael adds. “The steak was perfect.”
    I beam at the mention of my little-steak-that-could.
    “The dressing was a little lemony,” my brother tells me.
    “It was supposed to be lemony,” Arianna points out.
    “Then it was too lemony,” my bother continues. “But the pasta was incredible.”
    “I liked the bread,” Pete says, almost grudgingly.
    “I didn’t bake the bread,” I tell him.
    “Next time, you will have to make Spanish food. Habas con jamon ,” Gael teases, since I admitted earlier in the meal that I’ve never tried pork. I’m not kosher, but Hebrew school did a number on my conscience.
    I like that he refers to a next time.
    “I wish I could make the blog my fulltime job,” I sigh. “I don’t really want to return to the library.”
    “Sorry, no help here,” Pete says.
    You can say that again, Polar Pete .
    “Write a book,” Arianna says decisively, as if publishing a book is as easy as learning how to fry an egg.
    “Travel,” my brother tells me. “Become a travel writer.”
    “I can’t just become a travel writer,” I say with a hint of exasperation. “If writing a book isn’t very realistic than writing a travel book is less so. I don’t even think my passport is up to date.”
    “Why not, Rachel?” Gael says to me. “You can do anything, right?”
    “What do you think Rachel should do?” Arianna asks, because she knows I can’t.
    “I need to think about it. I will call her with my answer,” Gael says.
    While I’m making a small pot of coffee, he writes out his name and number of the back of the ingredient’s receipt. G-A-E-L, I notice. Not Gayle. Not a middle-aged lady’s name at all. I tear off the other half of the paper, hoping the toilet paper I bought isn’t listed on the back, and scrawl my own name and number. “Rachel,” he says again, repeating