Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
My dining room has become an assembly line, the table littered with ribbons and tissue paper. Deja, Yasmen’s daughter, is stuffing the baskets with packets of salted pumpkin seeds, hot chocolate, and marshmallows, which kind of garnish the basket. The main attraction is the focaccia. Lupe, wearing rubber gloves, has a stack of the loaves and is carefully wrapping each of them in wax paper.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into using this business to support us full-time. Lottie’s gymnastics training is not cheap, and if I wanted her to continue, I needed extra income. I’ve done whatever keeps us living indoors with the lights on. The fall baskets seemed like a simple thing to do, but I didn’t expect all the orders we received. Even limiting delivery to a ten-mile radius, I still had to bake more than a hundred. Fortunately, Grits, the restaurant Yasmen and her husband, Josiah, own, is closed on Mondays. We used their industrial ovens and made a huge baking party of it.
“Are mine ready to go?” Hendrix asks, slipping on a lightweight jacket.
“We got fifteen here,” Lupe says. “They’re all for the east side.”
“Good.” Hendrix grabs two by the handle and heads out of the dining room. “Let’s get them loaded into the car, and I’ll start the first round of deliveries.”
“Hey, Hen,” Yasmen yells from the kitchen. “I just texted you the east side addresses.”
Hendrix pulls out her phone and nods. “Got ’em.”
“I’m your sidekick, Aunt Hen,” Lottie says, her face lit up as she scrambles to get her jacket.
“Grab some baskets, then, and let’s roll,” Hendrix replies. “But I warn you right now I’m in my nineties R & B era, so if you don’t want to hear Brownstone, you better bring some headphones.”
“We can totally do Brownstone,” Lottie readily agrees, following Hendrix but turning around to whisper to me. “Who’s Brownstone?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Just grab the baskets and prepare to have your mind blown, little girl, by some real music.”
“I’ll help load into Aunt Hen’s car,” Lupe says. “I think we’re just about done with the west and south side orders.”
“That’s me,” Yasmen says, walking into the dining room. “Lupe, you coming?”
“And me!” Deja chimes in. “This is the most orders, so we figured we’d both go and can fan out faster in the neighborhoods to get it done.”
“Sounds good.” Yasmen grabs her jacket from the back of one of the dining room chairs. “Let’s get it, girls.”
“And we meet back here for my famous chili when we’re done,” I yell so everyone hears.
“Do you have to call everything you cook ‘famous’?” Hendrix laughs.
“You’re my ‘manager.’” I tug on one of the goddess locs hanging down her back. “It’s you who’s trying to make all my food famous, though you won’t take a commission from any of my brand deals yet.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Hendrix shoots a knowing look over her shoulder. “When you get the big deal, it’ll be time for me to take my share. Right now, I’m just investing in you.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
“Just have a good red to go with that famous chili when I get back,” she says. “That’ll be thanks enough.”
We take the next fifteen minutes to load up Hendrix’s and Yasmen’s cars with baskets, and they all leave to do their porch drops, while Inez finishes stuffing the last few baskets for my part of town, the north side.
When I come back into the house, everyone’s gone, and it’s just Inez and me. I told Yasmen and Hendrix I wanted to spend some time alone with Inez. Of my three daughters, she’s had the hardest time adjusting to our new life, especially the fact that her father is in prison.
And that I helped put him away.
She hasn’t been acting out, but she has been more distant. I think she’s sorting through a lot of things she’s not voicing. I want to be here whenever she’s ready to open up, ask me questions, or even express her anger with me.
Yasmen and Josiah’s family has experienced a lot of loss, and all of them have been in therapy at various stages. At her urging, we did family therapy to give the girls a chance to process an incredibly complex situation. I’ve been doing individual therapy too, and it’s a lifesaver.
“Guess that leaves us.” I wrap one last focaccia loaf and double-check the items that go in the basket. “You ready?”
“Yeah. How long do you think this’ll take? There’s a tournament tonight.”
“Gaming?” I ask.
“Yeah. I mean since I don’t get to play much during the week…”
She suspends the thought as an accusation because that’s been a point of contention lately. I don’t address it while we load the first round of baskets into the back of the Pilot and head inside for more. I touch her arm to halt her progress and get her to look at me.