Free Pushing Upward by Andrea Adler Page B

is an escape, for both of us.”
    â€œYou’re right.” She was back!
    We kept walking, admiring the lily pads in the lake, the swans floating gracefully on the still water. Then Rachel stopped again.
    â€œMaybe this is a sign.”
    We looked at each other and both blurted out: “We have to learn to cook.”
    We cracked up, shook hands, and vowed to learn how to cook by the end of the month. That was the deal. Before going our separate ways, I made Rachel walk around the lake one more time, which she bitched about—which was fine with me—and then we hugged and kissed each other good-bye.

    Emma had been preparing most of the meals. She never complained, mind you; neither did I. But I was beginning to feel a little guilty. Cooking was part of our original agreement. So, the next morning, I decided to initiate my vow and made a trip to a small gourmet kitchen store. I was blown away by the variety of cookbooks. Dessert books for chocolate lovers, strawberry lovers, even marshmallow lovers. There were cookbooks for crêpes; omelets; chicken and fish dishes from France, Scandinavia, Peru. Walking up and down the aisles, I felt dizzy from the choices, but finally narrowed them down to three selections: an African cookbook, a Jewish cookbook, and a Chinese cookbook. I was determined to embark on a culinary voyage, praying I was up to the task.
    Emma was on the phone when I walked in. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I gently put the cookbooks on the kitchen counter and tried to guess who she was talking to. Like I couldn’t figure it out by the script on her lap and the way she expressed herself, with childlike exuberance. Clearly, it was Bert. Bert’s father was the movie mogul who was married to Sarah, Emma’s best friend who had died right after her husband. This was apparently the moment when Bert adopted Emma as his surrogate mother and she adopted him as her surrogate son. He was now a producer. He called Emma practically every day and sent her scripts to study and critique. She would spend hours not only reading these scripts, but writing extensive notes in their margins, detailing her evaluations. Her long pauses when she spoke to him implied, to me at least, that he confided in her and valued her comments. Where she learned the discernment to break down each scene, understand the nuances of every character, I had no idea.
    Without even knowing him, I didn’t like Bert. He took up way too much of her time.
    While I waited for her to end the conversation, I flipped through the cookbooks. Ohhh , Hunan chow mein! Yummy! I hunted through the fridge, but there was no baby bok choy, whatever that was, or water chestnuts. Emma had no wok. I picked up the African book. Mmm . Fufu, boiled plantain; masamba, greens; and pastel com diablo dentro, “pastry with the devil inside”—the picture looked divine! I poked around the cupboards, but we were out of tuna and there were no sweet potatoes. Drag-ola! I picked up the Jewish cookbook, leafed through the pages. “ Ahhh, potato pancakes!” I exclaimed, too loudly.
    â€œHello,” Emma called out.
    â€œHello! I’m going to make lunch today,” I said overzealously, hoping she’d realize how excited I was and get off the phone.
    â€œI’ll be off in a few minutes, dear. I was going to make fruit salad. My friend Zelda is coming for lunch.”
    â€œI’ll make enough for Zelda, too.” Emma returned to the phone, and I forged ahead, making sure we had all the ingredients: eggs, potatoes, onions, milk. But I couldn’t find the potatoes. I kept rummaging through the drawers, now making more noise than I should.
    Emma said good-bye and put down the phone. “What are you making?”
    She was probably terrified that what I was making was a mess. I didn’t blame her.
    â€œPotato pancakes,” I said, pulling out pots and pans, still looking for the potatoes. “Do you