Read Online The Lost Recipe for Happiness by Barbara O'Neal - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara O'Neal
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chopped vegetables over it, covered it with water, and left it to stew.
The familiar, homey smell filled the air, coaxed knots of tension from her shoulders, lending enough comfort that she could carry her cell phone outside to the patio that looked south. The potted marigolds she’d picked up at the grocery store, and the geranium she had carried all over the world, were perking up in the warm sunshine. She poked a finger into the soil, taking cheer from the yellow and orange and magenta faces.
Hmm. Maybe marigolds would be a pretty garnish for the plates at the restaurant. The idea carried enough frisson that she found her notebook and wrote it down.
Marigolds. Mary’s gold. The flowers of the dead.
Holding her phone in her hand, she looked south, toward the hard, high blue ridges of mountains. Over those peaks, a few hundred miles as the crow flew, was Espanola, a sullen and sun-bled town just north of Santa Fe where what remained of her family still lived.
Settling at the picnic table, Elena looked at the lush green slopes around her, slopes that would be covered in snow and humans this winter, and dialed the number for her adopted mother’s house. Maria Elena lived alone these days, sometimes caring for one grandchild or another, wearing her stretch pants and the crisp striped shirts that hid her round little bowling ball of a tummy. She answered on the fourth ring, sounding rushed.
“Hola!”
“Hey, Mama. Are you busy?”
“Elena!” she said. The surprised joy made Elena run a thumbnail down her thigh. “Never too busy for you,
m’ija.
What are you up to?”
“I don’t have long to talk, Ma, but I just wanted you to know that I moved and I’m in Colorado.” She said the last with a happy rise at the end of her words.
“You moved. What about your man there in Canada?”
“We broke up. I told you that already.”
“You give up too easy, Elena.” She tsked. “That’s why you’re not married still.”
“He gave up on me, and I don’t want to talk about it.” She peered at the split ends on a lock of hair. “How’re my sisters?”
“Margaret keeps on getting fatter and fatter, you know. Julia’s got her grandkids with her this week, and Rose is just working away. She’s started teaching. We’re so proud of her!”
Rose, three years younger than Elena, had gone to college to study nursing, and married another nurse. They lived outside Santa Fe in a nice house with three nice kids. “Tell her I said hi.”
“You could call her yourself.”
“I will,” Elena said, though she wouldn’t. There were always such vast silences in their conversations, the vast quiet of two dead siblings between them.
“Where in Colorado are you?”
“Aspen.”
“Ooooh.” The word was layered with meaning. “You working there?”
“Yeah.” Mama never seemed to grasp the layers of kitchens, the line cooks and prep cooks and sous chefs. They were all just cooks to her, but Elena said it anyway, “I’m the executive chef of a new restaurant. The boss of everybody.” She plucked some lint from the knee of her jeans. “And you know, it takes a lot to get a restaurant going, of course, so it might be a while before I could come see you.”
“Sure, sure.”
The familiar silence fell between them. Elena hadn’t been home in three years, and that visit had been for one day at Thanksgiving. Like conversations with her sisters, visits home were laden with unspoken losses. But she loved Maria Elena and didn’t want to neglect her. This was the way they’d worked it out, over time. “I’ll call you, Mama.”
“Okay. Be good,
m’ija.”
After she hung up, Elena sat on the table, feet on the bench seat like a teenager, the phone in her left hand. Restlessness crawled down her crooked spine, burned in her shattered hip.
Isobel settled next to her on the bench, her long hair shiny in the sunlight. Tipping her face up to the sun, she closed her eyes. “She doesn’t mean anything with the man
The familiar, homey smell filled the air, coaxed knots of tension from her shoulders, lending enough comfort that she could carry her cell phone outside to the patio that looked south. The potted marigolds she’d picked up at the grocery store, and the geranium she had carried all over the world, were perking up in the warm sunshine. She poked a finger into the soil, taking cheer from the yellow and orange and magenta faces.
Hmm. Maybe marigolds would be a pretty garnish for the plates at the restaurant. The idea carried enough frisson that she found her notebook and wrote it down.
Marigolds. Mary’s gold. The flowers of the dead.
Holding her phone in her hand, she looked south, toward the hard, high blue ridges of mountains. Over those peaks, a few hundred miles as the crow flew, was Espanola, a sullen and sun-bled town just north of Santa Fe where what remained of her family still lived.
Settling at the picnic table, Elena looked at the lush green slopes around her, slopes that would be covered in snow and humans this winter, and dialed the number for her adopted mother’s house. Maria Elena lived alone these days, sometimes caring for one grandchild or another, wearing her stretch pants and the crisp striped shirts that hid her round little bowling ball of a tummy. She answered on the fourth ring, sounding rushed.
“Hola!”
“Hey, Mama. Are you busy?”
“Elena!” she said. The surprised joy made Elena run a thumbnail down her thigh. “Never too busy for you,
m’ija.
What are you up to?”
“I don’t have long to talk, Ma, but I just wanted you to know that I moved and I’m in Colorado.” She said the last with a happy rise at the end of her words.
“You moved. What about your man there in Canada?”
“We broke up. I told you that already.”
“You give up too easy, Elena.” She tsked. “That’s why you’re not married still.”
“He gave up on me, and I don’t want to talk about it.” She peered at the split ends on a lock of hair. “How’re my sisters?”
“Margaret keeps on getting fatter and fatter, you know. Julia’s got her grandkids with her this week, and Rose is just working away. She’s started teaching. We’re so proud of her!”
Rose, three years younger than Elena, had gone to college to study nursing, and married another nurse. They lived outside Santa Fe in a nice house with three nice kids. “Tell her I said hi.”
“You could call her yourself.”
“I will,” Elena said, though she wouldn’t. There were always such vast silences in their conversations, the vast quiet of two dead siblings between them.
“Where in Colorado are you?”
“Aspen.”
“Ooooh.” The word was layered with meaning. “You working there?”
“Yeah.” Mama never seemed to grasp the layers of kitchens, the line cooks and prep cooks and sous chefs. They were all just cooks to her, but Elena said it anyway, “I’m the executive chef of a new restaurant. The boss of everybody.” She plucked some lint from the knee of her jeans. “And you know, it takes a lot to get a restaurant going, of course, so it might be a while before I could come see you.”
“Sure, sure.”
The familiar silence fell between them. Elena hadn’t been home in three years, and that visit had been for one day at Thanksgiving. Like conversations with her sisters, visits home were laden with unspoken losses. But she loved Maria Elena and didn’t want to neglect her. This was the way they’d worked it out, over time. “I’ll call you, Mama.”
“Okay. Be good,
m’ija.”
After she hung up, Elena sat on the table, feet on the bench seat like a teenager, the phone in her left hand. Restlessness crawled down her crooked spine, burned in her shattered hip.
Isobel settled next to her on the bench, her long hair shiny in the sunlight. Tipping her face up to the sun, she closed her eyes. “She doesn’t mean anything with the man
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