Good Luck, Fatty

right. Seven o’clock okay?” I ask, reiterating what the invitation has already communicated.
    “Yeah. Sure,” he says. “Want me to bring anything?”
    I hop up a step and peck him on the lips. “Just my boyfriend,” I say, feeling giddy.
    Tom Cantwell is my boyfriend.
    He kisses me back. “I think I can arrange that.”
    “Good,” I say. Reluctantly I pull away from him and ease back over to the Schwinn. “See you then?”
    With a wink, he promises, “Absolutely.”

 
     
    chapter 20
     
    SINCE ORV and Denise tied the knot, I’ve had Gramp’s house pretty much to myself (instead of hunkering down in anticipation of the baby, the parents-to-be are savoring their last few months of freedom), the result being that I’m on my own, a situation I’ll be using to my full advantage tonight.
    Where did I put that damn pepper grinder? I wonder, my nerves beginning to fray (and the marinara sauce I’m simmering threatening to boil over the edge of the skillet).
    I shuffle through the crusty old condiments in the refrigerator door until I spy a jar of minced garlic, which I twist open and peer into, its contents largely dried to the walls of the container. Who needs garlic anyway? I think as I toss the thing into the trash. It’s horrible for the breath, especially if kissing might be on the menu.
    I never met my grandmother, Gramp’s wife, Lurlene (Lurlene Roberta, to be precise; they called her Bobbi, like me), but I’ve got her handwritten recipe book propped open on the counter, its pages held back with a half-used jar of mayo and a discount-bin (meaning: dented to smithereens) can of black olives.
    The recipe I’m following is for basic spaghetti and meatballs, but apparently nothing Lurlene did—in the realm of cooking, anyway—was basic, her tricks of the trade taking two full pages to spell out. Even then, I’m not so sure I’ve got a handle on things.
    The proof? As the compact balls of ground beef and breadcrumbs crackle in the bottom of a stockpot, the fresh linguine I snapped up at the Food Lion (it was supposed to be homemade spaghetti, but I had to cut corners somewhere!) starts frothing in waves over the rim of the saucepan, the water sizzling as it hits the red-hot burner and steams away.
    I dash to the stove, dial the burner back to its off position and let the linguine sit (the recipe tells me to do this, to keep the pasta al dente, which, based on my experience with the Food Network, I believe means stiff or hard).
    For a moment, everything appears to be under control, so I stop to ponder my grandmother’s childlike handwriting, its oversized loops and right-leaning slant reminding me of my fifth grade teacher, Ms. Martin, who, try as she might, failed to get me to perfect my cursive penmanship.
    Is it possible to miss someone you never knew? I wonder, feeling a twinge of sadness for me and Gramp, who, the way Orv tells it, lost the love of his life when Lurlene died.
    What about Marie? With parents like Gramp and Lurlene, shouldn’t she have had a head start at mothering? Instead, she and Duncan ditched me at their earliest convenience. Maybe she’ll be better with Roy, I think. Maybe they both will.
    The meatballs are in need of turning, a task I accomplish with an angled spatula and a sigh. Then I go back to stirring the tomato sauce, if for no other reason than to keep it from charring.
    With a sprinkle of oregano, the sauce is a fait accompli. Three minutes later, the meatballs achieve optimum doneness too, a point at which the recipe instructs me to marry the aforementioned ingredients, creating a gurgling, boulder-filled lake of yummy.
    I check my watch. The time is six forty-five, fifteen minutes ‘til Tom (which means I’m laudably ahead of schedule). I lift the apron I’m wearing (a Christmas-themed one Denise bought a couple of years ago at Derby’s during a post-holiday liquidation) gingerly over my head, careful not to disturb the tower of curls I’ve been working all afternoon to perfect (although I’m a little concerned that the steam from all this cooking may have put a damper on my retro ‘80s ‘do).
    We don’t have a special hook in the kitchen on which to hang the apron, so I give the thing a quick once-over for stains, and, finding none (at least I’m a neat cook, I guess), refold it and deposit it in the bottom drawer of the linen closet, from whence it came.
    Then I notice something unusual: silence. I’ve been so preoccupied trying to pull off