Free This Cake is for the Party by Sarah Selecky Page A

stopped at Arby’s, said Nina.
    Who eats at Arby’s? I asked. I don’t even know where to find an Arby’s.
    When you’re looking for them, they appear, said Nina. It’s sinister.
    We were drinking homemade Chardonnay, care of Brooks’s father. Nina had designed a series of labels for her father-in-law that read Chateau Holland , with an old picture of the family farm that she’d found at the archives. The wine itself was made at a brew-your-own franchise called The Cellar; the family farm had never grown any grapes. The land was now called Waverly Park, home to a new development of brick-veneer shoeboxes in the area north of Markham. Nina and Brooks had bought themselves a condo in the Argyle Lofts downtown. They bought it outright, as in: they have no mortgage.
    I daubed a spoonful of walnut oil over the arugula and then sprinkled it with Go-Manchura’s plum vinegar. When the pumpkin seeds started to pop in the cast iron pan, I slid them out onto a plate to cool. I diced tomatoes and piled them on top of the garlic bread.
    Nina watched me screw the cap back on the purple bottle. What you got there? she asked.
    It’s one of the products I wanted to show you, I said. This vinegar improves digestion and discourages bacteria and yeast growth in the intestines.
    Mm, said Brooks.
    Nina peeked in at the lasagna and shut the oven door. And what’s in there?
    It’s another one of these special products, I told her. The stuff I’ve been telling you about.
    But what’s it called? she asked.
    It smells just great! said Brooks.
    It’s lasagna, I said.
    Oh, said Brooks. That’s funny, because it doesn’t smell like lasagna.
    All of the ingredients are certified organic, I said.
    If I were to guess what it was, Brooks continued, I definitely wouldn’t have said lasagna. I would have said—he closed his eyes and took a big whiff—mm, I would say more like beef stroganoff.
    I hadn’t tried this particular Go-Manchura entree yet, and I wanted it to be delicious. So much. I should have tested the mushroom one myself before serving it this weekend. I knew the Roast Veggies & Herb version was good, but I wanted to try something new. Stupid!
    Yeah, I said, but no, it’s lasagna.
    Yeah no! said Nina. Notice how people from Toronto always say that? We always say that.
    Say what? I asked.
    Answer a question with yeah, no. It’s a tic or something. Watch, you’ll see.
    Brooks lifted a bottle of Chateau Holland. More wine?
    Yeah . . . no, I said.
    That’s it exactly, Nina said. I know you forced it that time, but still.
    It did feel familiar coming off my tongue, I told her.
    Nina smiled. That’s right, she said. We do it all the time and we don’t even notice.
    Because it’s a time-share and meant to be used by a number of families throughout one season, Cottage F (there are seven of them built around the lake, alphabetized from A to G) discourages any signs of character or human life. There are no old canoe paddles mounted over the fireplace, no smooth stones collected from the beach in a line on the windowsill, no blanket box full of faded quilts with the stitching coming undone from years of wear. The structure of the cottage is autonomous and self-satisfied. It merely tolerates human presence. It was built in a sturdy, present way: Large, blocky pine furniture with a golden varnish takes up space around the wood stove. A winding staircase to the second floor is almost in the centre of the living room. The floors are made of a matching yellow pine and waxed to a high, shiny finish. It’s easy to slip if you are in sock feet. The steps used to be so slippery, the owners of the cottages had to sprinkle sand on the wet varnish to make traction. It feels like walking on an old emery board now.
    We ate dinner around the dining room table behind the couch, close enough to the living room to watch the fire in the wood stove. It was already