“Yes!”
“I did that last year and my pastor pointed it out the next week at church. This year I have to go hard. No more Kroger chicken for me.”
“But you don’t know how to make macaroni and cheese.”
“That’s why you’re here!”
That man didn’t know how to grate cheese or boil pasta. And it was a good thing I’d insisted we stop at the grocery story to get all of my ingredients because he originally had a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on the counter ready to go.
I stood by his six-burner, gas range stove top, listening to A. J. explain how he decided to go into journalism, and I imagined all of the women who were in love with him. He was perfection. And he didn’t know it. He seemed to have everything in his life figured out. And his kitchen. It looked like something out of a catalog, a mall display. There was a bread warmer. Two ovens. A hidden refrigerator. But he admitted that he lived on nacho chips and salsa.
I had to drain the pasta in a paper towel and he watched me like I was a superhero. He kept saying he couldn’t have done any of “this” and “that” without me and one time he pinched me on the cheek.
“All right, smooth operator,” I said, handing him the bowl of cooked pasta. “My work here is done. Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Yes. You need to put it all together. It’s your macaroni and cheese.”
A. J. stepped up like he was being called to battle. He dipped his hand into the butter and spread two war streaks under his eyes.
“What do I do?” he asked gravely.
“OK, Rambo, just pour the pasta into the casserole dish,” I said.
“Oh!”
I handed him the eggs to crack and a cup of milk. Butter. And salt.
“Mix it all together,” I instructed.
He stepped away from our spot at the counter.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I know I have a drawer with some spoons in it,” he said, opening a drawer. “My mother bought some the last time she was visiting.”
“A spoon? No. I said mix it up.”
“I know. I need a spoon.”
“I meant with your hands.” I grabbed his hand on the knob of one of the drawers and a firecracker sparked in my gut. I couldn’t let go. It was just a touch, but I felt him touch me back. He didn’t move his hand from the drawer until I moved mine.
“My hands? In that?” He pointed to the clumsy mixture in the casserole dish.
“Yes. They’re clean, right?”
He bent over the dish like it was a dead alien.
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “You’re afraid to put your hands in that?”
“There are eggs in there,” he said nervously. “And milk.”
“All of which are things I’m sure you’ve eaten before. You have to mix it with your hands. It’s the best way. That way you know you have everything all mixed in right all the way to the bottom. Trust me.”
“You sure?” He squinted at the dish.
“Yes.”