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And yet Lily and I made the mother of al messes.
Partly, it was the trial and error with the mix-ins—everything from peanut but er cups to dried cherries to one il -advised foray into potato chips.
I let Lily take the lead, and she in turn let her i
toppled, and Rice Krispies were nding their way into our hair, our shoes, and—I had no doubt—our underwear.
It didn’t mat er.
I had thought Lily would be methodical—a checklist kind of baker. Much to my surprise—and delight—she was not like this at al . Instead, she
was impulsive, instinctive, combining ingredients at whim. There was stil a seriousness to her endeavor—she wanted to get this right—but there
was also a playfulness. Because she realized that this was playing, after al .
“Snap!” Lily said, feeding me an Oreo Krispie treat.
“Crackle,” I purred, feeding her a banana crème Krispie treat.
“Pop!” we said together, feeding each other from a pan of plum-and-Brie Krispie treats, which were gruesome.
She caught me looking at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Your lightness,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. “It’s disarming.”
“Wel ,” she said, “I have a treat for you, too.”
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
“I’d say we have treats for everyone in your extended family,” I told her. “And that’s saying a lot.”
She shook her head. “No. A di erent kind of treat. You’re not the only one who can make secret plans, you know.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wel , do you like to be surprised, or do you like to anticipate?”
“Anticipate,” I said. Then, when she opened her mouth to tel me, I jumped in with, “No no no—I like to be surprised.”
“Okay then,” she said, smiling in a way that was almost devilish. “Let’s pack up these treats, clean up this kitchen, and take this show on the
road.”
“Somewhere there are babies to catch,” I said.
“And words to nd,” she added mischievously. But she wouldn’t say anything more.
I readied myself for the surprise.
twenty
(Lily)
December 31st
Imagine this:
You may not own the claim to a friend cal ed Boomer who can get the key to his famous aunt’s cooking studio.
But you are more than delighted to be a bene ciary of said key’s treasures.
Snap. Crackle. Dash yum.
In exchange for said privilege, perhaps the opportunity exists for you to cal upon a great-aunt nicknamed Mrs. Basil E. and ask that she
telephone a cousin named Mark to harangue this cousin into giving you the key to a very di erent kind of kingdom.
What do you do?
The answer is obvious:
You get that key.
“Cheap shot, Lily,” my cousin Mark said as he stood at the entrance to the Strand. “Next time, just ask me yourself.”
“You would have said no if I’d asked you.”
“True. Trust you to manipulate what a sucker I am for Great-aunt Ida.” Mark eyed poor Dash, then pointed a nger warily at him. “And you! No
fu
Dash said, “I assure you I could not contemplate any of your so-cal ed fu
Mark sco ed. “You bookish lit le pervert.”
“Thank you, sir!” Dash said brightly.
Mark turned the key to the front door and opened the store to us. It was 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Revelers streamed by along Broadway and
we could hear loud, festive gatherings a couple blocks up at Union Square.
This quiet bookstore, our evening’s destination, had closed hours before.
For us, and us alone, it had opened on New Year’s Eve.
It pays to know people.
Or it pays to know people who wil cal certain cousins and remind them who put aside a trust fund many years ago for their col ege education
and al that’s asked in return is one teensy lit le favor for a Lily bear.
Dash and I stepped inside the Strand as Mark closed and locked the door behind us. He said, “Management has requested that in exchange for
this privilege, you two pose for some publicity shots, wearing Strand T-shirts and holding Strand bags. We’d like to capitalize on your fame before
the tabloids forget al about you.”
“No,” Dash and I both said.
Mark rol ed his eyes. “You kids today. Think everything’s a handout.”
He waited, as if expecting us to change our minds.
He waited a few more seconds before throwing up his hands.
To me, Mark said, “Lily, lock up behind you when you leave.” To Dash, Mark said, “Try anything with this precious baby girl and—”
“STOP DOTING ON ME!” Shril y let out.
Oops.
Quietly, I added, “We’l be ne, Mark. Thank you. Please leave. Happy new year.”
“You won’t change your minds about those publicity shots?”
“No,” Dash and I both proclaimed again.
“Baby stealers,” Mark mut ered.
“You’re coming over tomorrow night for Christmas on New Year’s Day di
“I’l be there,” Mark said. He leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Love you, kid.”
I kissed his cheek in return. “You too. Be careful you don’t become a growly old man like Grandpa.”
“I should be so lucky,” Mark said.
He then unlocked the front door to the Strand and stepped back out into the New Year’s Eve night.
Dash and I remained inside, staring at each other.
Here we were, alone together in our city’s most hal owed ground of bookishness, on this city’s night of biggest holiday anticipation.
“What now?” Dash asked, smiling. “Another dance?”
On the subway train from the cooking studio over to Union Square and the Strand, there had been a Mexican mariachi playing in our train car. A
ful ve-piece band, no less, in traditional Mexican costumes, with a handsome, mustached singer who was wearing a sombrero and singing a most
beautiful love song. I think it was a love song; he sang in Spanish, so I’m not sure (note to self: learn Spanish!). But two separate couples sit ing
nearby started randomly making out when the guy sang so beautiful y, and I have to believe it’s because the song’s words were that romantic, and
not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
Dash threw a dol ar into the donation hat.
I took a risk and upped the ante. I said, “Cinco dol ars if you’l share a dance with me.” Dash had asked me out for New Year’s Eve. The least I
could do was return the favor and ask him for a dance. Someone had to step up already.
“Here?” Dash asked, looking morti ed.
“Here!” I said. “I dare you.”
Dash shook his head. His cheeks turned bright crimson.
A bum slumped in a corner seat cal ed out, “Give the girl a dance already, ya bum!”
Dash looked at me. He shrugged. “Pay up, lady,” he said.
I dropped a ve-dol ar bil into the musician’s hat. The band played with renewed energy. Anticipation from the crowd of revelers on the train
felt high. Someone mut ered, “Isn’t that the baby stealer?”
“Catcher!” Dash defended. He held out his hands to me.
I’d never imagined my dare would actual y get cal ed in. I leaned into Dash’s ear. “I’m a terrible dancer,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered in mine.
“Dance already!” the bum demanded.
The revelers applauded, goading us on. The band played harder, louder.
The train pul ed into the Fourteenth Street Union Square station.
The doors opened.
I placed my arms on Dash’s shoulders. He placed his hands around my waist.
We polkaed o the train.
The doors closed.