“We’re not. I checked. Any hospital would send him home. He barely has a temp and his breathing is fine.”
Rose lifts a yellow paper sack from our local bakery. “Mrs. Murphy says hi. She sent eggs, flour and yeast for making bread or pasta.”
I picture the previous time I tried and grimace. “Hello? Nice to meet you. I’m Samantha, your cousin. Remember me?”
Laughing, she opens the bottom door. “Stranger things have happened.”
“I doubt it. Besides, all of the first responders are busy with COVID. I don’t think I should risk burning down the house.”
“Think of it as an opportunity.” Rose throws a kiss up the stairs which I return.
“Before you go, I don’t suppose you found any toilet paper?”
“No, sorry. Are you out completely?” Dark eyes meet mine and her concern warms me.
Thank God for family.“I’m rationing and Suds made a quasi-bidet.”
“Talk to Uncle Vinny. He’s got plenty. I’m sure he’ll give you a good deal.” A wink and a laugh tell me she’s kidding.
“No way. He’ll insist I hook up with one of his cronies.” Recalling almost a year of blind dates, I roll my eyes.
“Why not tell him you got hitched?”
“Have you lost your marbles? Besides you and Mia, no one in the family knows. Can you imagine how he might use the information against me?”
She waves. “Whatever. It’s your wet ass… Tell Suds I hope he feels better. And, hun? Seriously, if he worsens, IM me. We’ll help you through it.”
My throat tightens and my eyes tear. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll text you later.”
When the door slams shut, I haul our food upstairs into the waiting room. The virus lives on surfaces so I guess that means groceries, too. Overnight, I’ve turned into a germophobe. No doubt, I’m locking the barn door after the horses got out but just in case, I spray all the packaging with disinfectant. Washing my hands, I sing several choruses ofI Love Rock and Roll,then walk into the living room to check on my tough guy.
Face flushed, he snores lightly but at least he’s not coughing.
Damn, I’ll need to call Petey’s or make a meal. I’m an intelligent woman with a pantry full of food. People have been making bread since the dawn of time. How hard can it be?
Determined, I grit my teeth, and call home. “Hey Mom.”
“Rose warned me you’d be calling. Do you own a fire extinguisher?”
“I don’t know, let me look.” I try not to take offense. Considering my history, her question makes perfect sense. More than once, during my teenage years, she’d come home to find her dinner in flames.
Holding my cell phone to my ear, I check under the sinks, in the closets, and in the dentist’s old reception area.
“Found one.” I pull the heavy container off the wall and place it on the floor next to my conference-slash-kitchen table.
“Excellent. Now, do you own a bowl?” She’s serious.
“Sure, I eat cereal.” Rolling my eyes, I hold up my leftover oatmeal as she sighs heavily.
“No dear, a big one, for mixing.”
“Hmm. I’m sure we do. Got it.” I pull out the next best thing, a sauce pot, and put it on the table, out of view of my camera.
“You’re going to want one cup of warm water to start the yeast. Mind you, not too hot.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure I know the subtle difference but I bravely turn on the tap water and fill my coffee mug halfway. I don’t need her knowing I don’t own measuring cups, either.
“Now, stir a couple tablespoons of sugar into the water and pour in your yeast. Once you see it foam, add the flour. Then, you mix until you can’t use a spoon anymore. At this point, knead while adding the final dry ingredients with your hands and let it rest. Are you getting this, dear?”
