“Oh,” I respond, trying not to sound disappointed, “it’s just that I’ve already blogged that I might have a crowd here in the brownstone so I can serve the traditional English feasts I’ve been working on recently. I mean, this is a really good way to test the recipes for the cookbook I’m researching. I’m told by my agent, Beverly, it’s expected to sell big.” This latest cookbook, The English Manor Cookbook: Traditional Meals for Holidays, Shoot Lunches, and More, is due out next year.
Hudson takes advantage of my being distracted by climbing onto a kitchen chair and straining his pointy little muzzle toward the bowl of beef fat. I swat him away. “Hey you, you had your share.”
Sometimes I forget he’s a dog and treat him like a person, but his animal instincts come roaring to the forefront when there’s raw meat within smelling distance. “Huddie, shoo!” Disappointed, he hops down, and slinks to his basket in the corner of the kitchen.
Aunt Miranda sighs down the phone line. “Why can’t you just fly off to Saint Thomas like other sane, single young women and forget Christmas is even happening?”
I hear the subtext: Because that would be so much more convenient for me.
“That’s what I’d do…” she continues. “A few frozen cocktails, a chaise lounge, a bottle of tanning oil, a personal butler. Before you know it, Christmas will be done and dusted, and you’ll come home bronzed and more relaxed than you’ve been in years, if you catch my meaning.”
“Subtle, Aunt Miranda. Is that how you speak to the Dalai Lama when you’re overseeing his blessing ceremonies? Anyway, I don’t want to leave New York at Christmas time. I’m planning to put up my tree tomorrow.” I feel a frisson of pleasure buzz up the back of my neck. I love everything about having a real, living Christmas tree. I love choosing it, I love springing the branches free from the bundling, I love the herbal floral fragrance, and I just adore draping it in lights. “You should try it some year.”
“What’s the point? I’m never at home. Besides, if I wanted a sticky pine tree swathed in handmade ornaments and drugstore tinsel, I have people for that. You know, Charlotte, you could have people, too.”
“I don’t need people.” I lean over and give Hudson a little scratch on the belly. He twitches, and bicycles his stubby legs. He smiles a blissed-out smile.
“I’m saying that I have connections. I could give you a leg up to a real career.”
“I have a real career.” I pick up my nutmeg and begin grating with renewed determination.
“Pfft! When are you going to stop testing recipes for cookbook authors, and write a cookbook of your own? For heaven’s sake, how many awards did you walk away with when you graduated from The Culinary Institute of America? I’d never have sanctioned your turning your back on university in favor of The CIA had I known you’d toss out any chance of success and waste your time with that little blog.”
“This recipe testing and my ‘little blog,’ happen to pay my bills, thank you very much. I’m getting more and more paying sponsors every day. Since last month, 37 more members have signed up.”
“Ah, yes, your ‘Charlotte’s Chefs.’ Has it ever occurred to you, young lady, that you spend more time with the followers on your blog than you do with live humans?”
“Charlotte’s chefs are live humans.”
“Technically, yes, but you must see my point. A 26-year-old girl shouldn’t rely on online friendships and a stray dog as her entire social sphere. She should be out in the city, getting dirty and making mistakes. Speaking of dirty, have you heard from James?”
My back stiffens as I accidentally hack a large chunk of skin off of my knuckle. “Ouch,” I cry, chucking the microplane and the nutmeg into the sink. “No, I have not heard from James, and I’ve asked you repeatedly not to bring him up.” I crouch down on the floor, gather Hudson into a hug, and suck on my wounded finger.
“With your talent and his star-power, you could be someone by now. I know you blew your chance by turning James down way back when, but I’ve an idea he’d welcome you back with open arms. Team up with a real player like that firecracker, and you’d be a New York Times columnist and a leading restaurateur in short order. Your literary agent, the one who gets you all those testing jobs… what’s his name? Beverly Chestnut! That’s it. He’s said as much a number of times. What a character that man is! Ha! The bolo tie he wore to the World Literacy Fund Charity Ball slayed me. Genius! All I’m saying, darling, is that you could be someplace in this world.”
“I am someplace in this world.” I look around my cozy kitchen, decorated just the way I like it with a combination of French country touches, and mid-century appliances. “I’m where I want to be.” Hudson turns in a circle, and snuggles into my lap, burrowing with his little, pear-shaped head. I give him a scratch behind the ears. He fusses a little, then settles in the crook of my knee.
Aunt Miranda sighs. “I care about you, Charlotte, I truly do, but I’ll never understand you.”
I notice the clock, and see that the day is getting away from me. “So, is there a chance you’ll come to Christmas brunch or dinner, or is it an absolute ‘no?’”
“One moment Charlotte… I beg your pardon! Of course we cannot supply cocaine to the on-air talent. Who do you think I am? The concierge of the Chateau Marmont.”
I put the phone down on the counter. Maybe I can make some apple butter, I think to myself while Miranda rants on, with lots of clove. That’ll be so warm and yummy for the winter. Hmm…when will I be able to hit Fairway to see what they have in the way of decent New York State apples…?
“Charlotte, are you there, darling?”
“I’m here,” I say firing up my Nespresso machine to make a nice, steaming double-shot cappuccino.
“As I was saying Charlotte… Actually, hold the phone. You’d better tell that talent wrangler that if any pop star, politician, or for that matter, Muppet, is too high to sing in the final number, he’ll be looking for a job come New Year’s! Sorry darling, it’s a madhouse here. Tell you what, come down to the tree lighting tonight and we’ll discuss. I really can’t stay on the line.”
“No thanks,” I say, pulling my antique, hand-cranked food mill from under the sink. “I’m going to watch it on TV.”
“Darling, you must come. It’s the pinnacle of my event-planning career to date, and I’m not going to be very English about it and pretend it’s really nothing. Taking a leaf from the Americans’ books, I’ll simply say it. If I pull this off, I’ll frankly be one of the top global Production Directors, period. Hello Cannes! Hello coronation of Prince William! Say you’ll pop round.”
I glance over at Hudson snoring lightly in his warm bed. I don’t want to go out for walkies today, much less eject myself into one of the single-most crowded events on the island of Manhattan.
“I don’t know…”
“Super. The broadcast starts at 7, and the lights go on at 9. I’ll phone or text you later. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Before I can argue, she’s put down the phone. I’m on a schedule, too, you know. Maybe I’m not organizing the lighting of the tallest tree in the Northeastern U.S., but I have responsibilities. I stomp my foot and let out a scream of exasperation, waking Hudson.
He leaps out of his bed and runs from the kitchen to the hallway. I hear a ching ching and I don’t even have to turn my back to know that my determined little roommate is rattling his tags, leaping up against the wall under the little blue plastic IKEA hook shaped like a dog’s rear end. He’s trying to grab his leash.
“Seriously? I have a countertop covered in mincemeat and dough waiting to be made into tiny pies. You’d love a mincemeat pie, wouldn’t you, boy?”