Keep Your Mouth Shut and Wear Beige Read Online Free
Author: Kathleen Gilles Seidel
coffered ceilings.
My house, a little nineteenth-century farmhouse, had been destined for such remodeling, but the small creek that ran along the back edge of the oddly shaped lot was part of the Potomac River watershed. The neighbors joined with environmentalists to raise enough of a ruckus that the developer gave up with his grandiose plans. He installed central air-conditioning, refurbished the kitchens and bathrooms, and hoped that someone on the planet still wanted to live in a small house.
The house itself was white and L-shaped. From the covered front porch, which was just big enough for a porch swing, you walked directly into the living room, the long end of the L. On the far wall was a fireplace positioned between a pair of built-in bookcases. The kitchen and dining room formed the short end of the L, and the stairs were in the middle of the house. Upstairs were three small bedrooms and one bathroom. The basement, which was going to be Zack’s territory, had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a dark narrow space, which the realtor called a “family room,” and it would have been if your family consisted of hobbits.
I had no garage, no first-floor powder room. There was no room for a table in the kitchen, and I had one-fifth of the counter space that I had had in the old house. I would have to use my dining room for dining and my living room for living. People were going to have to walk either upstairs or down when they had to pee. But it was a sturdy, practical little house, and that seemed right for me.
It didn’t take long to show Mike around. He did not, as I expected him to, comment on how small the house was or how few bathrooms there were. He praised the work the builder had done. He admired how fresh everything seemed, how nicely arranged the rooms were. I tried not to take that as a criticism of the old house, which had been neither fresh nor nicely arranged. I tried really hard.
He lingered longest in the kitchen. The salmon was coming to room temperature on a white platter. The ginger cookies were cooling on wire racks, and nothing smells as enticing as a fresh ginger cookie.
Mike missed my cooking. Just as I’d gotten used to not worrying about bills for health insurance or car repairs, he’d assumed that all families sat down every night to a perfectly sautéed trout fillet with a citrus sauce or a golden-brown roasted chicken, its cavity stuffed with lemon slices and heads of papery garlic. I’m not the Martha Stewart perfect homemaker. I do not care about presentation or display. I never do any crafts, and I don’t care what laundry detergent I use. But I love to cook, and because I understand the science behind cooking—I know what happens to the bonds of a coiled protein molecule when it is exposed to heat, air, or acid—I’m very good.
In the three years since he had left, I’d often invited Mike to stay for dinner. His relationship with Zack continued to be problematic, and the best way for the two of them to see each other was at the house. Mike had also come for all the holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, and I’d sent him back to his Capitol Hill condominium with lots of leftovers.
I could have invited him for dinner today. There was enough salmon for all four of us. But everything seemed different now. This had never been his house; he had not painted this dining room. Furthermore, he’d had lunch with a person who was goingto give a party for my son. We were starting to build separate lives.
So I offered him a cookie.
J
eremy flew back to California the following day, and he promptly proved himself to be every bit as impulsive as his mother. Within hours of his getting back, I got an e-mail from Cami. It was a photograph of her left hand with my mother’s lovely ring sparkling on her finger. “I’M SO HAPPY!!!!!!!” the message read.
T
hree days later I got a handwritten note from Cami’s mother. Rose Zander-Brown had distinctively
My house, a little nineteenth-century farmhouse, had been destined for such remodeling, but the small creek that ran along the back edge of the oddly shaped lot was part of the Potomac River watershed. The neighbors joined with environmentalists to raise enough of a ruckus that the developer gave up with his grandiose plans. He installed central air-conditioning, refurbished the kitchens and bathrooms, and hoped that someone on the planet still wanted to live in a small house.
The house itself was white and L-shaped. From the covered front porch, which was just big enough for a porch swing, you walked directly into the living room, the long end of the L. On the far wall was a fireplace positioned between a pair of built-in bookcases. The kitchen and dining room formed the short end of the L, and the stairs were in the middle of the house. Upstairs were three small bedrooms and one bathroom. The basement, which was going to be Zack’s territory, had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a dark narrow space, which the realtor called a “family room,” and it would have been if your family consisted of hobbits.
I had no garage, no first-floor powder room. There was no room for a table in the kitchen, and I had one-fifth of the counter space that I had had in the old house. I would have to use my dining room for dining and my living room for living. People were going to have to walk either upstairs or down when they had to pee. But it was a sturdy, practical little house, and that seemed right for me.
It didn’t take long to show Mike around. He did not, as I expected him to, comment on how small the house was or how few bathrooms there were. He praised the work the builder had done. He admired how fresh everything seemed, how nicely arranged the rooms were. I tried not to take that as a criticism of the old house, which had been neither fresh nor nicely arranged. I tried really hard.
He lingered longest in the kitchen. The salmon was coming to room temperature on a white platter. The ginger cookies were cooling on wire racks, and nothing smells as enticing as a fresh ginger cookie.
Mike missed my cooking. Just as I’d gotten used to not worrying about bills for health insurance or car repairs, he’d assumed that all families sat down every night to a perfectly sautéed trout fillet with a citrus sauce or a golden-brown roasted chicken, its cavity stuffed with lemon slices and heads of papery garlic. I’m not the Martha Stewart perfect homemaker. I do not care about presentation or display. I never do any crafts, and I don’t care what laundry detergent I use. But I love to cook, and because I understand the science behind cooking—I know what happens to the bonds of a coiled protein molecule when it is exposed to heat, air, or acid—I’m very good.
In the three years since he had left, I’d often invited Mike to stay for dinner. His relationship with Zack continued to be problematic, and the best way for the two of them to see each other was at the house. Mike had also come for all the holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, and I’d sent him back to his Capitol Hill condominium with lots of leftovers.
I could have invited him for dinner today. There was enough salmon for all four of us. But everything seemed different now. This had never been his house; he had not painted this dining room. Furthermore, he’d had lunch with a person who was goingto give a party for my son. We were starting to build separate lives.
So I offered him a cookie.
J
eremy flew back to California the following day, and he promptly proved himself to be every bit as impulsive as his mother. Within hours of his getting back, I got an e-mail from Cami. It was a photograph of her left hand with my mother’s lovely ring sparkling on her finger. “I’M SO HAPPY!!!!!!!” the message read.
T
hree days later I got a handwritten note from Cami’s mother. Rose Zander-Brown had distinctively
Readers choose
Claudia Casper
Tawny Weber
Stormy McKnight
Cathy Cassidy
Mathias Enard
Jonny Bowden
Joe Hart
Pete Hautman
Mark Del Franco
Susan Mallery