Read Online Peas and Carrots by Tanita S. Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanita S. Davis
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Dessa. Ready for your odyssey in education this morning?”
“Hey.” I give him a half smile. He’s wearing dress pants and slippers. I can’t see his shirt. Up top, he’s all baby, wrapped up in some kind of blue cloth sling thing. In front of him, he has a mug and the newspaper open.
I nod at the lump. “Don’t you people ever put that kid down?”
Mr. Carter chuckles. “We do. It’s just that Jamaira has so many awful things in her life and so few good things that we indulge her. She likes to be held, so we hold her.”
I click my tongue like Granny Doris, sharp and critical. “You’re spoiling her.”
“Nah.” Mr. Carter grins, cheerful. “You can’t spoil a good baby like Jamaira.” He stands carefully, adjusting for her weight, and picks up his coffee cup. “You ready for breakfast, madam?”
“Uh…sure. Foster Lady said I was supposed to get something out of the oven—” I sneak a quick look up the hall. I saw Mr. Carter and forgot what I was doing. I thought she’d come running in here to make sure I didn’t take out that stupid pan.
“Oh, I got the frittata out already. Do you like broccoli?”
“It’s…all right.” There had better not be broccoli for breakfast.
“If you don’t like it, Robin boiled some eggs. There’s also cold cereal, toast, juice, peanut butter, fruit—the usual stuff. During the school year, it’s a good idea to eat a hot breakfast, though.”
I follow him to the kitchen, noting that I don’t smell broccoli at all but something much, much better. The skillet is on the stovetop, resting on the burner to cool. It’s huge, and I’m glad I didn’t have to take it out myself. “That’s a frittata? I thought that was a quiche.”
For some reason, I don’t mind asking Mr. Carter stuff.
“A quiche is a tart with a crust,” he says, and I nod.
I
knew
he’d know.
“Quiches are French, while the frittata here is an Italian dish,” he goes on, carefully reaching above the counter to bring out a stack of white ceramic plates. “You want to get the forks and napkins out of that drawer to your right?”
I grab a pair of forks and a couple of cloth napkins and follow him to the table. He puts down the plates. “Now, a strata is close to that, but it uses pieces of stale bread and milk in the layers with the eggs and the vegetables and cheese.”
I make a face. “What?”
“Stale garlic bread is delicious the next day in a strata. This I promise you,” Mr. Carter says. “You want some of this? There’s juice in the fridge, too, if you’d like.”
“I’ll try some frittata,” I say. What the hell. I’ve had broccoli and eggs separately. I guess it can’t kill me to eat them together…first thing in the morning. Ugh. “Is there coffee?” I ask hopefully.
“Oh, good, another one for my team,” Mr. Carter says. The baby makes a noise like a kitten, a tiny mewing, and he pats her on the back. “Hope and Robin drink tea. I like my coffee, and the French press is in the cabinet there.” He gestures with his chin. “But I’m going to have to leave you a moment and do some diaper duty.”
“Eww, go—please. I’ll make my own coffee,” I say, stepping way back. There are some things I just don’t need to think about in the kitchen first thing in the morning.
“Hey, Daddy.”
Mr. Carter kisses Hope as they pass in the kitchen doorway. She’s wearing a braided headband pushing back her wild frizz of hair, black skinny jeans, a long-sleeve denim top, and black lace-up canvas tennis shoes. The denim shirt has that little HW mountain range and water-tree logo on the pocket. I look it over and shrug. The uniform shirt’s not that embarrassing, but Hopeless’s outfit is all her: hopelessly boring.
“You’re making Dad coffee?” Hope asks, and I shrug again.
“I don’t know how to do it French.”
“I’ll show you,” Hope says. “Do you drink coffee all the time? If you do, Dad’s going to have to use an actual
“Hey.” I give him a half smile. He’s wearing dress pants and slippers. I can’t see his shirt. Up top, he’s all baby, wrapped up in some kind of blue cloth sling thing. In front of him, he has a mug and the newspaper open.
I nod at the lump. “Don’t you people ever put that kid down?”
Mr. Carter chuckles. “We do. It’s just that Jamaira has so many awful things in her life and so few good things that we indulge her. She likes to be held, so we hold her.”
I click my tongue like Granny Doris, sharp and critical. “You’re spoiling her.”
“Nah.” Mr. Carter grins, cheerful. “You can’t spoil a good baby like Jamaira.” He stands carefully, adjusting for her weight, and picks up his coffee cup. “You ready for breakfast, madam?”
“Uh…sure. Foster Lady said I was supposed to get something out of the oven—” I sneak a quick look up the hall. I saw Mr. Carter and forgot what I was doing. I thought she’d come running in here to make sure I didn’t take out that stupid pan.
“Oh, I got the frittata out already. Do you like broccoli?”
“It’s…all right.” There had better not be broccoli for breakfast.
“If you don’t like it, Robin boiled some eggs. There’s also cold cereal, toast, juice, peanut butter, fruit—the usual stuff. During the school year, it’s a good idea to eat a hot breakfast, though.”
I follow him to the kitchen, noting that I don’t smell broccoli at all but something much, much better. The skillet is on the stovetop, resting on the burner to cool. It’s huge, and I’m glad I didn’t have to take it out myself. “That’s a frittata? I thought that was a quiche.”
For some reason, I don’t mind asking Mr. Carter stuff.
“A quiche is a tart with a crust,” he says, and I nod.
I
knew
he’d know.
“Quiches are French, while the frittata here is an Italian dish,” he goes on, carefully reaching above the counter to bring out a stack of white ceramic plates. “You want to get the forks and napkins out of that drawer to your right?”
I grab a pair of forks and a couple of cloth napkins and follow him to the table. He puts down the plates. “Now, a strata is close to that, but it uses pieces of stale bread and milk in the layers with the eggs and the vegetables and cheese.”
I make a face. “What?”
“Stale garlic bread is delicious the next day in a strata. This I promise you,” Mr. Carter says. “You want some of this? There’s juice in the fridge, too, if you’d like.”
“I’ll try some frittata,” I say. What the hell. I’ve had broccoli and eggs separately. I guess it can’t kill me to eat them together…first thing in the morning. Ugh. “Is there coffee?” I ask hopefully.
“Oh, good, another one for my team,” Mr. Carter says. The baby makes a noise like a kitten, a tiny mewing, and he pats her on the back. “Hope and Robin drink tea. I like my coffee, and the French press is in the cabinet there.” He gestures with his chin. “But I’m going to have to leave you a moment and do some diaper duty.”
“Eww, go—please. I’ll make my own coffee,” I say, stepping way back. There are some things I just don’t need to think about in the kitchen first thing in the morning.
“Hey, Daddy.”
Mr. Carter kisses Hope as they pass in the kitchen doorway. She’s wearing a braided headband pushing back her wild frizz of hair, black skinny jeans, a long-sleeve denim top, and black lace-up canvas tennis shoes. The denim shirt has that little HW mountain range and water-tree logo on the pocket. I look it over and shrug. The uniform shirt’s not that embarrassing, but Hopeless’s outfit is all her: hopelessly boring.
“You’re making Dad coffee?” Hope asks, and I shrug again.
“I don’t know how to do it French.”
“I’ll show you,” Hope says. “Do you drink coffee all the time? If you do, Dad’s going to have to use an actual
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