Recipe for a Perfect Family

Jenna is in the kitchen, peeling vegetables on her black marble countertops. The warm colours of the season pour in behind her through the window above the sink, the beige walls bouncing the little bit of afternoon light that remains from the day. Soft Jazz plays from another room, and Jenna sways from side to side, humming to the tune.

The doorbell rings and Jenna looks up quizzically at the clock on the wall in front of her. Seeing that it’s only 4:30, she keeps a curious look on her face and puts down her tool, rinses her hands under the tap, and wipes her hands on her pants as she makes her way to the door. Living in a safe neighbourhood, she doesn’t peer through the peephole, just opens the door.

“Mom.”

“Hi.”

Holding the door open with one hand, Jenna’s free hand turns into a fist. Feeling the nails dig into her palms, she looks down, realizes what she’s doing, and shakes the tightness out of her hand.

“It’s been a while.”

Margaret, holding on to the strap of her purse, looks down to her feet, brushing them nervously on the welcome mat underneath her.

“I know,” she mumbles. “Can I come in?”

Looking straight at her daughter, Margaret waits for Jenna to answer. Jenna, however, stays silent, but steps to the side, making room for her mother to enter. Margaret, step by step, makes her way inside, taking everything in, from the Autumn decorations, picture frames, and children’s shoes. Jenna closes the door behind her as soon as there is room to, then steps further into the house, giving her mother room to take off her coat.

Jenna, arms crossed, observes her mother as she carefully hangs up her coat, scarf, and tuque, and neatly places her boots with the multiple pairs that are already there. Once stripped of her outside clothing, she just hovers, still shyly looking all around.

“Coming?”

“Yes.”

Margaret follows her daughter into the kitchen, a large room with high ceilings, but light fixtures that come right down over the kitchen island in the middle of the room.

“I was just getting supper ready. I’m having guests over.”

“I can come back—”

Jenna makes her way to the other side of the island, flicking on the lights on her way, rolling her eyes. “No. Mom. You’re here now. Just sit, will you?”

Jenna gestures towards the stools and resumes what she had been making before. Gripping the peeler in her left hand and a carrot in the other, she tries to keep herself together in front of her mother.

Margaret looks all around: the drawings on the fridge, the colourful plastic dishes drying on the counter by the sink, the personalized calendar hanging on a door. She leans back, peers into the living room, and sees a piano with dolls sitting on the bench as if they were musicians. Jenna, on the other hand, peels the vegetables more aggressively by the second.

“So. How are you?”

“Getting by, I guess,” answers Margaret, with a fake smile. “You look good.”

“I am good. I’m great, actually.”

“And this is a lovely home. I really like the black marble, it’s—”

“A classic look. I know.”

Margaret looks away. She peers at the beautiful wooden cutting board hanging above the stove, admires the vase filled with wildflowers, and notices that her daughter now wears nails polish, a bold dark blue. She settles her gaze on one of the toys in the hallway, a small wooden train.

“Did you know that it’s faster to take the train here than it is to fly?”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“Really, think of it. If you combine all the check-in time, baggage claim, security checks, waiting because you arrived early, and all the other things related to flying, it comes out longer than just hopping on a train and coming into the city.”

“So you took the train in?”

“No. But I did research while my flight was delayed.”

Jenna nods, still debating in her mind whether her mother’s claim is true. Then, her brows become tighter.

“Do you even have any luggage or anything? You didn’t arrive with anything.”

“Oh, I arrived yesterday morning and stayed at the Delta. Lovely hotel that is.”

“You’ve been here since yesterday?”

“Yes.”

And you didn’t want to come here yesterday?”

Margaret gives Jenna a saddened I-don’t-know-what-to-say look, to which Jenna simply shrugs. Done peeling the carrots, Jenna takes a few steps to her left and pulls some apples out of the fridge. She returns to her post and begins peeling them, letting their sweet, slightly pungent smell fill the room.

“Making carrot salad?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you following my recipe?”

“For the most part. I might have pimped it up a little.”

“You pimped up my—"

“Oh, mom. Your recipe had four ingredients. It was always missing a little something. I just never realized it because you put in so much honey that the sugar paralyzed my taste buds.”

“They were a little honey-heavy…” Margaret admits, taking in the familiar taste of her daughter’s sense of humour. Then, feeling a wave of pride, Margaret adds: “My mother gave me that recipe.”

“I know.”

“So, what else are you making?”

“Grandma Stevenson’s meatloaf.”

“How did you manage to get your hands on that recipe? I’ve been begging her for years to share it with me.”

“She had a sweet spot for me ever since… you know.”

Margaret falls silent, clasping her hands together to avoid fidgeting. She looks away, and Jenna notices this. Jenna, in return, tries to relax a bit by rolling her shoulders back and shifting her weight a few times.

“I didn’t know you kept in touch with her.”

“Why wouldn’t I? She never gave me a reason to stop talking to her,” Jenna says, intentionally trying to get a reaction out of her mother. “But yeah. Who do you think taught her to be tech-savvy? She didn’t just buy herself an iPad.”

“I just always assumed it was your sister.”

“Oh please. Julia is good with tech, but she’d never have the patience to teach a 93-year-old woman how to use a tablet.”

Jenna starts putting carrots and apples through a culinary robot, giving them both a break from small talk. Out of the corner of her eyes, Jenna could see her mother eyeing her every move. In between batches of shredding, Jenna pauses and turns towards her mother.

“Do you want to help me?”

“Oh. Are you sure? I wouldn’t know—"

“Of course. Just grab the mortar and take care of the spices. They’re by the microwave.”

Her mother pushes herself back from the island, carefully places the stool back in its place, and makes her way to the microwave. She lifts her hand towards one of the multiple cupboards, but Jenna, who was supervising her, interjects.

“No, next one to your right. Right in front of you, mom. There you go.”

“God, you sound like my mother.”

“Well, you did force me to spend a lot of time with her when I was a kid.”

“Forced you…”

“It’s not as if I had much of a choice.”

“You went there after school each day till I finished work. It couldn’t have been so bad.”

“It wasn’t,” Jenna agrees. “I do remember once though, that you had to work late and Julia and I had to have supper there and she served us this god-awful meal… I can’t remember the name of it, but it was green and basically consisted of a mix of all the vegetables that kids hate. Ju and I begged you not to send us back there for weeks.”

Margaret looks up briefly at her daughter, but quickly hides her smile behind her loose hair, looking down at the mortar. “She called it Boerenkool, but that just translates to kale. She mixed in Brussel sprouts too. Believe me, I wasn’t the biggest fan either.”

“It makes me shiver just to think about it,” Jenna says, faking a shiver. Margaret tries to hide her joy by raising the freshly ground spices and getting a good whiff, closing her eyes in the process.

“You know, you can take a picture of the recipe if you want it. Or write it down.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“I won’t tell.”

“Would she mind though? I feel like I don’t have her permission.”

“At this point even if she does find out, she’ll forget a day later. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Looking back and forth between her daughter and the fresh spices she was still holding, she breathes out and puts down the mortar.

“Alright."

“There are pens and paper in the corner there, if you need it.”

Margaret makes her way around the kitchen island, behind her daughter, and grabs what she needs. She leans on the island on Jenna’s right, making note of the recipe, lifting her head after every second word to verify she’s transcribing it right.

“I remember when it was you jotting down all my recipes before you left for college. You and Julia both spent a whole day looking through my cookbooks.”

“Funny. You almost make it sound as if I chose to move out for college.”

Margaret’s expression melts. She tightens her grip on the pen, and rolls her free hand into a ball, but relaxes quickly. She doesn’t respond.

“But yeah, I remember. The difference though is that I still use your recipes. She doesn’t.”

“You’re still in touch with your sister?”

“Yeah. She comes here once a year and I go to her once a year, and we text every now and then when we have news.”

The two exchange a look, but the moment doesn’t last. Jenna returns to pouring her shredded carrots and apples into a bowl, Margaret continues transcribing the recipe.

“So, you come to Richmond every year?”

“I do.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I’m not sure if I wanted you to know.”

Jenna walks to a cupboard to pull out a bag of raisins and dried cranberries, then to another to grab a jar of honey. She takes her time, not able to look her mother in the eyes. Margaret, on the other hand, stops writing. She turns her head in the direction opposite her daughter, trying to hold in a tear. But, after having poured in a decent amount of honey and sprinkled the dried fruit in the salad bowl, Jenna witnesses her mother wiping a tear from her cheek.

“But yeah. Any time Ju cooks it’s this new recipe she finds in Ricardo, like “caramelized pecan” or “stuffed duck…” Never the good old stuff.”

Margaret straightens up, wipes the wet off her face one last time, and runs her hand through her hair, tucking one strand behind each ear.

“I think the last time she tried to follow one of my recipes was when she was still living under my roof.”

“Yeah. She probably only did it ‘cause she had to.”

“That does sound like her.”

Once done transcribing the recipe, Margaret smiles in gratitude at her daughter then makes her way to her purse and tucks away the piece of paper. Jenna watches her every turn, refamiliarizing herself with her mother’s movements. Margaret zips her purse shut, then regains her seat at the kitchen island, facing her daughter.

They both stay silent for a while. Having put the carrot salad in the fridge, Jenna begins to work on the meatloaf. She pulls eggs, ketchup, onions, and some ground beef out of the fridge, and combines them all together. Unconsciously, Margaret’s expression changes from happy to staring at the bowl of ingredients with a saddened smile. Jenna, looking up to her mother to give her a thankful smile for the spices she prepared, notices the change.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed.”

Margaret gives her daughter a forced smile, the fold in her lips disappearing as soon as her daughter looks away. Elbows leaning on the island, she tries to hide her expression behind her hands.

A few more seconds pass and Margaret tries to change the subject. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, wanting to speak but never knowing what to say.

“Is there something you want to say?”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“No. It’s okay. Just say it.”

Margaret hesitates but eventually gives in. She readjusts her position, then takes a deep breath. Breathing out, she asks her question.

“So, what did I miss?” Margaret asks, but seeing her daughter’s face drop, she adds: “Only if you’re okay with me asking, of course.”

“You want me to tell you what I’ve been up to for the past 13 years?”

“Yes, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m always ready to talk about myself. I…”

“Yes?”

“I’m just still trying to figure out why you care all of a sudden.”

“I’ve always cared. I just didn’t show it well.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jenna breathes out, clenching her fists. “And a phone call never occurred to you? Since you’ve cared all this time?”

Margaret sits straight and crosses her arms. She stares wide-eyed at her daughter, waiting for her to say something else. Jenna, however, feeling her mother’s gaze on her, did everything she could to avoid their eyes meeting: she turned to the sink to wash her hands, put away the ingredients she had finished using, bent down to pull out the dish for the meatloaf from the drawers, and once she had nothing left but to transfer the meatloaf into the dish, she finally glanced at her mother.

“So, will you?” Margaret asks once more. “Tell me about your life?”

“Fine.”

Margaret relaxes her stance, bringing her arms down and resting them on the surface in front of her. She closes her hands together, ready for any sort of news.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Jenna exclaims, feeling at a loss. “How do you even want it? Chronological order? By significance of events? Or, I know, when I first realized I was a ‘deviant little shit?’”

Refusing to react to this last comment, Margaret, breathing out, remains serious. “Whatever makes more sense to you.”

Jenna takes her time to think. She completes the finishing touches on the meatloaf, compacting it into the desired shape, then washes her hands before covering the dish with aluminum foil. She opens the oven and gently places the dish on the center rack, closes the oven and sets a timer. Task completed, she turns around, leans on the back counter of the kitchen, and crosses her arms.

“Well, for starters, I needed therapy for two years after what happened with dad. And that proved to be a waste of money because it’s only when I met Gwen that things started to get better.” Jenna starts pacing on her side of the kitchen island. “Do you want something to drink?”

Margaret, not expecting the abrupt interruption, shakes her head. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Mom, It’s okay. I’ve got a bottle of wine open from yesterday.”

“I’m fine, I—”

“Well, I can’t do this without a drink.”

Jenna pulls out a bottle from the fridge and places it on the counter in front of her mother. She grabs a wine glass from the china cabinet and pours herself one. Before pushing the cork back into the bottle, she raises it and her eyebrows in her mother’s direction, indicating that it’s her last chance to get some. Margaret nods.

Once both glasses were poured, the bottle was back in the fridge, and Jenna had had a sip, she continues as she stares down at her drink.

“So. About me and Gwen. She was a student at Bishop’s, like me. We met on Halloween, and she—while very tipsy—came up to me and started pouring compliments on me because I was dressed as her favourite character: Megara, you know, from Hercules? Not that it matters much, but anyway, her drunkenness was kind of cute, so I made sure to bump into her a few more times during the evening and we danced a little too.”

Jenna smiles, still looking down, savouring the memory of that day. A few moments later, she remembers she has an audience and continues her story.

“Anyway, after that night we lost touch because she ended up blacking out before I could ask for her number, let alone her name, but from the little information she told me about her—the fact that she was in the music program—I was able to track her down and properly ask her out.”

Jenna takes another sip of her wine, and her mother imitates her.

“Then, of course, we fell in love, and, long story short, we moved in together at the end of that school year, graduated a year later, and, both wanting more than what that small town could offer, we settled here.”

“You bought this house right out of university?”

“Yeah. Gwen got a huge inheritance from her grandparents when they passed, which helped us make a down payment. And I found good work fast. It took her a little bit more time, but now she has a good teaching position at the nearest high school.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. She’s really amazing. And she gets along really well with Julia too.”

Margaret nods along, rubbing small droplets out of the corners of her eyes any time her daughter doesn’t pay attention.

“And, Julia was my maid of honour at our wedding.”

“Oh, yes! I saw some of the wedding photos in the entrance. Congratulations, by the way. I—I’m really happy for you. I wanted to ask earlier but I… It didn’t feel like the right... When did you get married?”

“Remember when Julia went to Jamaica with her husband?”

“You got married in Jamaica?”

Jenna nods with a gentle smile, but it quickly disappears. Margaret mirrors her daughter’s expression, then finds herself looking down at her hands. She nervously plays with the stem of her wine glass.

“I’d love to see some pictures,” Margaret says, not thinking about how her daughter might react to such a request. She observes her daughter a few moments, trying to pin down how she’s feeling, but she’s unable to. Instead, she tries to diffuse some tension: “I’m really proud of you. You know that, right?”

Jenna, arms crossed once again, acknowledges her mother’s statement, but doesn’t add anything to it. She takes another sip of her wine, looks out the window above the sink, then takes another sip. Margaret, peering down into the living room and seeing those dolls again, straightens herself up, takes a sip, and then prompts her daughter to continue speaking.

“So your job is going well and you’re married, you have an amazing home, and you have how… many… children?”

“Three.”

Jenna hid a small grin behind the wine glass she held at lip level. Margaret exhales and stares at her daughter with wide eyes, wanting to know more, but not daring to ask. Jenna, still smiling, puts her wine glass down on the counter behind her and takes a step forward to lean on the kitchen island.

“So, Artemis is the oldest. She’s 7, she loves elephants, and she loves to figure skate. We’re trying really hard to get her to like a summer sport because she practically chews our ears off with constant skate-talk. So, if you have any ideas, please share – and yes, we’ve tried rollerblading. No, it didn’t catch on.”

“Eros is 5 – and yes, before you ask, we did give all our children Greek mythology inspired names. We thought it was an original idea – and he’s our little clumsy one. He can’t go a day without stepping on something or running into something else. We tried padding him up, but he always manages to hit the area that’s less protected. We tease him by calling him Achilles ‘cause – you know. It would have suited him better.

“And then there is Rhea. She’s also 5. We adopted her while Gwen was pregnant with Eros. And she’s gonna be a writer – or something that has to do with words – there’s no doubt there. She begs for stories every night, and sometimes we sit at the counter together and she brings me paper and I fold them in half and staple them at the spine to make a book and she tells me what to write on each page. When we’re done, she runs off and fills in the pages with drawings, then gives it to Gwen or she throws an open-mic night in the living room where we do readings of her work. She’s – she’s got a spark in her.”

Margaret didn’t say a word, and not getting the reaction she expected, Jenna leaned over to take a better look at her mother whose eyes were closed shut, as if not able to take anything in anymore. Jenna backed up and found her spot on the back counter where she had left her wine glass. She takes the last sip, emptying her glass, then glances at the clock.

“And, actually, they should be back anytime now. They just went with Gwen to the grocery store to pick out some sweets to eat during their movie tonight.”

Jenna stays quiet, respecting her mother’s emotions. Not in the mood anymore, Jenna washes her glass of wine, then begins tidying up the kitchen. After having put away everything that could be put away, and cleaned every surface that needed to be cleaned, and washed every dish that had been dirtied, Jenna breaks the silence.

“Surviving, mom?”

“Trying to.”

Margaret opens her eyes, makes eye contact with her daughter and, as if snapping back into reality, sits up straight and wipes the wet off her checks as best she can. Jenna grabs a Kleenex box from the windowsill above the sink and places it in front of her mother, who pulls one out immediately.

“You don’t have to worry about me. God knows I don’t deserve to have you worry about me.”

“Mom… Don’t say that,” Jenna says, not sure why she’s trying to comfort her mother. “I was mad at you, for sure, but it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Every time I speak to Ju I ask about you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Do you ever ask about your dad?”

“Ju avoids mentioning him, and I’m satisfied with that,” Jenna explains, but seeing as this statement made things worse for her mother’s mood, Jena adds: “But I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to know how he’s been.”

“We don’t have to talk about your dad if you don’t want to, I don’t want to get you in a bad mood before your guests arrive.”

“Mom, come on. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows what she wants. I asked you how he’s been, which means that I want to know how he’s been. It won’t hurt me more than he already has.”

Margaret blows her nose again, then takes a long, deep breath out, and a long deep breath in, sucking in all the courage she needs to get the next few words out.

“Your father died.”

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want to know what happens next? Click here for part 2!