Page 78 of Pity Play

“They call soccer football everywhere in the world except the US,” he reminds her.

My mom takes a sip of water before replying, “I’m glad this was our life. I like Pop’s and Elk Lake has been the perfect place to raise the kids. I always felt like we were a key part of our community.”

“What I want to know,” I say looking at my dad, “is whether you copied the menu from your dad’s restaurant here.”

“A couple things for sure,” he says. “But I like to think I put my own spin on them.”

“That must be where I get it,” I tease before asking, “What happened to your parents’ restaurant? You know, after they passed.”

“It was sold, and the proceeds went to the people who adopted me and Bobby. I think it was like a buyout for taking a kid they didn’t want.”

“You’d think someone would have taken both of you, then.” My mom’s tone is past judgmental and bordering on hostile.

“People want babies,” my dad tells her. “It’s not an easy task placing two adolescent boys.” Changing the subject, he asks, “What comes with that meatloaf?”

“Caramelized onions and garlic mashed potatoes.”

“You just can’t get away from those mashed potatoes, can you?” he jokes.

“Just you wait until you try the onions,” I tell him. “I caramelize them, then finish them off with root beer instead of wine.”

My dad raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like very fine dining to me.”

“It’s not. I learned a lot of stuff at culinary school and not all of it is fancy, as you like to call it.”

“Well then, bring me the meatloaf!” he orders. My mom asks for the same.

Walking back into the kitchen, I tell Jim, “They both want the meatloaf.”

“Good choice.” He cuts two slices and puts them in a pan under the broiler to heat. “It’s nice seeing your dad up and about again. It’ll be nicer when he comes back to work.”

“The doctor says he can start back next week, but he’s got to take it slow.”

“I might have to hire some help,” Jim says. “Now that you’re heading back to Chicago, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to manage everything without you.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll be back in a few weeks to check on you,” I tell him. “But I’m sure my dad would be happy for the extra help.”

I get busy filling orders that are coming in, and I let my mind wander. I haven’t even been home for three weeks, and I already feel myself slowing down. I expect readjusting to late hours at Capon might kick my butt. Even so, I am looking forward to getting back into my groove.

I plate my parents’ order and then take it out to the dining room myself. I want to see my dad’s face when he tries the onions. Putting their dishes down in front of them, I turn to my dad and declare, “I predict that you’re going to beg me for the recipe.”

He laughs. “You think, huh? You know I cook a pretty mean meatloaf.”

“I know you do,” I tell him. “But I think mine might be worth a cook off. We can serve some of each and let the customers decide which they like more.”

“Are you challenging me?” My dad is trying to sound tough, but the truth is, I can tell he’s excited at the prospect. This is probably the kind of lively competition our working together might have created.

I stand and watch while my dad cuts into his meatloaf. He takes a small bite and chews it thoughtfully before guessing, “Horseradish and Tabasco?”

“Yup. What else?”

He starts to list items. “Mushroom, spinach, and salsa! I like salsa in place of ketchup. Nice move.”

I offer a small bow. “I should have known you would have caught that.”

My mom rolls her eyes. “I’m starting to think that if you two ever did work together, I’d never see either of you. You’d be too busy competing.”

My dad waves his fork through the air. “You don’t have to worry about that. Luke is going home to Chicago, and I promised that we’d come up there and let him cook for us at Capon.”

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