Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin

Author:Sasha Martin [Martin, Sasha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4262-1375-5
Publisher: Penguin Random House LLC (Publisher Services)
Published: 2015-03-02T16:00:00+00:00

PART FOUR

Stirrings

“When one is in love, a cliff becomes a meadow.”

—Ethiopian proverb

CHAPTER 17

My Oklahoma

IRENTED A STUDIO APARTMENT on the west side of Tulsa—little more than two rooms right off the Arkansas River, tucked between the billowing smokestacks of the city’s industrial zone. Mom helped me set up my scattered belongings. We unloaded the car in less than 30 minutes: a milk crate of kitchenware on the counter, my old blue duffel bag heaved into the closet, my favorite pillows in a pile where the bed was supposed to be.

A veil of humidity hung in the air, sticking to my skin. Even the walls seemed to sweat. Setting up with Mom felt like a true mother–daughter moment and I realized, warmly, that many parents wouldn’t drive halfway across the country to help their kids settle in like this, certainly not at my age. In less than a month, I’d be 26 years old.

A few hours later, the furniture arrived on the backs of two horse-faced men. For $150 a month, I’d rented the bare minimum from a local furniture store: a bed, a twill love seat, and a round white lamp. The hungry apartment swallowed up these tokens, the empty rooms echoing and emaciated. It would have cost another $50 a month to get a dining table and chairs, coffee table, and nightstands. We made do by standing at the thin island counter for meals.

Mom had only two days before her flight back to Boston. The morning before she left, we drove down to the nearest big-box store and picked up a few necessities, like shampoo and a blanket. Mom also grabbed a ten-pound bag of Granny Smith apples and hoisted it into the cart.

“It’s almost your birthday. Let’s make an apple pie.”

“Like the kind we had when we were little?”

“It’s the only kind I know how to make,” she shrugged with a smile. She sent me down the aisles to grab a couple of lemons, brown sugar, a few sticks of butter, flour, and a glass baking dish.

“Don’t we need cinnamon and nutmeg?” I asked.

She patted her purse. “Never leave home without it.”

At the apartment I leaned over the laminate island and helped Mom peel the apples, then watched as she sliced them up. The knife landed with a dull thud against the cutting board, laborious and arrhythmic. Her cuts were nowhere as thin or as even as the chefs at the CIA would have required, but rather a mishmash of wedges, rounds, and blocks.

She squeezed an entire lemon over the pieces so they wouldn’t brown, and then tossed on a palmful of sugar and the spices. Almost immediately the sugar pooled onto the apples—a syrupy condensation. She used a fork to press butter, flour, and water together into a quick piecrust. First there was too much water, then too much flour. She worked more of each into the dough until it began to shape up, and then rolled it out with a bottle. It stuck in places, but she still managed to drape the now warm parcel across the glass baking dish.

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