“I ran away to Paris to try to discover who I was,” Greta continued. “I was just a young thing from Nantucket, terrified of everything, but especially of the passage of time. I had this idea that if I didn’t figure out everything immediately, then everything would fall apart.”
“So, you traveled halfway around the world without a plan to force yourself to figure out a plan?” Julia asked, arching an eyebrow at her mother.
“Something like that.” Greta grimaced. “And then I found myself in the tiniest apartment with very little to do except write in a journal and, well…” She splayed her hands out in front of the ingredients on the counter.
“Cooking, of course.” Alana nodded as the image of a twenty-something Greta came to her, cracking eggs, melting butter, and pouring her heart and soul into the only thing she had control over.
“Why don’t we do something together?” Greta asked suddenly, tilting her head. “Isn’t it a mother’s duty to pass along her cooking knowledge to her children? I never did have a chance before the two of you went away.”
Julia and Alana exchanged glances. It was a rare thing, indeed, that Greta offered to share her kitchen.
“We can’t turn this down,” Julia said.
“You’re right,” Alana agreed.
“Wash your hands, girls.” Greta instructed, her tone shifting. “We have a lot of work to do.”
Greta had pre-emptively decided to make cassoulet, one of the more difficult French dishes that she’d mastered during her stint in Paris. Alana and Julia had enjoyed it numerous times at the Copperfield dinner table— a bubbling stew made of meat and beans, all covered in a blackened crust. The meat itself was cured pork, sausages, duck leg, and chicken, mixed with beans, vegetables, and spices. Even Ella, who wasn’t much of a meat-eater, adored cassoulet, saying it was “the time to appreciate good food and put food morals aside.”
“We should be able to finish it by nightfall,” Greta explained, mid-instructions.
“Mom! It’s only one in the afternoon,” Alana cried.
Greta flashed her an ominous smile. “Good things take time.”
Over the next few hours, there was duck fat to heat, pork to cook, beans to rinse, chicken to season, sausages to brown, onions to simmer, and so much more. Throughout, Greta explained that, beyond paying strict attention to each step, it was also important to sip wine as you went.
“And play music,” Greta explained, connecting her phone to the Bluetooth (which Julia had taught her to do during Alana’s weeks away).
Joni Mitchell began to play on the speaker, first quietly and then with overwhelming passion, reigniting the soul of those long-lost seventies and drawing Alana, Julia, and Greta into her world.
With every chunk of butter, every drizzle of oil, every sausage, and every bean, Alana was reminded of long-ago days when such things were “absolutely not allowed” if she wanted to continue her work in modeling. Asher had adored it when she hadn’t eaten, asking her if she was dizzy and if she needed help being guided down the street. At the time, a friend had called this a “hero complex.” These days, Alana just considered it “jackass behavior.”
Suddenly, as she watched Greta flip the sausages, Alana came out with an abrupt, “I was thinking we should invite Sarah over for dinner.”
“Are you talking about that girl you met on the boardwalk?” Greta asked.
Alana grimaced. “I texted her and never heard back. It makes me so worried about her.”
Julia gestured toward the melting butter. “I don’t think she’ll feel too comfortable here.”
“I know.” Alana bit hard on her lower lip. “It’s just that maybe, if she hears Mom talk about food, about the way it nourished her during her confusing time in Paris, maybe she’ll think of food a little bit differently. Maybe she just needs another perspective.”
The onions sizzled in butter, browning and casting smoke out beneath their translucent slices.
“Plus,” Alana added, “I know what it’s like to have to rekindle my relationship with food. It took several delicious meals just like this. It took the TLC of friends and neighbors eager to cook for me. In time, I gained the weight back— and my body, mind, and palate thanked me for it.”
“Invite her,” Julia affirmed. “What do you have to lose?”
Alana nodded and grabbed her phone, hunting for Sarah’s number. Instead of texting, she decided to call.
“Don’t!” Julia called. “The kids hate talking on the phone these days.”
But Sarah answered Alana’s phone call on the second ring. Julia’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Alana?”
“Sarah.” Alana’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over this evening. My mother, sister, and I are cooking up something special, and we’d love to share it.”