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the dishwasher and assemble my salad. “Take your roasted garlic head, and squeeze out the buttery soft garlic onto the beets. When you’re ready to plate, add your beets atop your salad greens and, with a little more salt, a little herbed chèvre”—I open the fridge again—“some slivered almonds, and, um…some Dijon dressing. Voilà! You have a beautiful, healthy, tasty salad.”
    I hold out my plate to my imaginary audience and then look at it critically. How are people supposed to use beets beautifully? Even dry-roasted, the red ones look a little gory. Maybe at my restaurant I’ll only use golden beets or the red and white striped ones so it won’t look like I’ve got gobbets of raw flesh in my salads. That’s a good idea for a vegetarian restaurant anyway. I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork and taste the dressing. The mustard is just strong enough.
    I open the fridge to debate eating pasta or bread or pasta and bread. I’m scowling into the shelves when the phone rings. I’m pretty sure it’s Mom—I swear my mother has an alarm that tells her when I’ve held the refrigerator door open for too long.
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œI’m coming home, and guess what I’ve got,” my mother singsongs.
    â€œFresh rolls?” I love Chef Pia’s version of Vietnamese fresh rolls, full of bean thread noodles, mint, vegetables, and tofu.
    â€œNope. Something for your cold.”
    â€œChicken soup!?”
    â€œNo, silly. Pumpkin.”
    â€œPie?”
    â€œYou wish. Did you save me any of that pasta?”
    â€œI just started on the beets.”
    â€œGood. The soup’s still hot. It’s fresh.”
    â€œOoh, yum. Thanks, Mom, but you didn’t have to leave work just for my cold.”
    â€œSure I did,” my mother says easily, releasing me from feeling guilty. “Anyway, it’s the weekend. Who wants to work?”

4
    Early Sunday morning, Mom and I head for Whole Earth Grocery. I think I could make a life’s work out of going to the grocery store. Just the vivid colors of the produce, the salty tang of the seafood, the neat lines of bottled oils and vinegars, make me slow down and feel creative. Mom and I take about two hours to do the same pick-up-and-go type of shopping that takes most people fifteen minutes to do—mostly because we’re scanning the produce aisles for anything new and checking out the seasonal varieties to see what’s ripe. When Mom was working for the
Clarion,
we’d hit farmers’ markets all over the county, usually bright and early Sunday mornings. Now we usually just hit our local market and find the extras cruising the store aisles.
    I’m looking at tofu cream cheese and Mom’s frowning, trying to decide between crème fraîche and Devon cream, when I hear someone call us.
    â€œVivi! Lainey! Hi!”
    I cringe. It’s Mrs. Hesseltine and her daughter, Lorraine. In elementary school, Lorraine and I used to be really good friends, but by the time we got to junior high, Lorraine figured that hanging around with a fat girl whose mother wouldn’t give her a subscription to
Seventeen
wasn’t good for her image. Lorraine is on her cell phone, looking reluctant to be in the store at all. I see her eyes sort of slide over me while her mother bustles up to us, waving.
    â€œHi, Tammy!” Mom brightens up and receives a hug. She and Mrs. Hesseltine used to be pretty close friends before Lorraine pulled her popular-person act and started being too cool to hang with me. I give Mrs. Hesseltine a lukewarm smile.
    â€œViv, it’s so good to see you. And Elaine! You’ve really lost all of your puppy fat, haven’t you?” Mrs. Hesseltine gushes. I cringe.
Puppy fat.
“Lorraine…? Oh Lord, she’s on the phone again.” Mrs. Hesseltine looks aggravated. “I swear, I can’t get her off of that thing for more