Thursday evening, thenight after the Armenian cooking class, my mom says she has something very important to show me after dinner. We (me plus mom and Nene) have finished my absolute favorite Armenian dish, sini kufte (which basically means kufte in a pan). It’s a meat-on-meat pie with a distinct diamond pattern cut into it: two outer layers of ground beef, plus bulgur, and inside is ground beef with onion, spices, and pine nut filling. It’s criminally good, expensive because of all the meat, and a pain in the ass to make since you have to knead the meat forever.
Of course, I wouldn’t know about the hard work part since I didn’t make any of it tonight... or most nights. The Armenian cooking class, and specifically hearing Vache’s and Erebuni’s takes on the importance of our recipes, made me want to change my spoiled brat status, but between work and man hunting I’m not sure when I’ll get to contribute.
Mom does it all now. Nene used to cook a lot back when mygrandfather was alive, but after he passed, she said, and I quote, “I spent fifty years being a servant to my husband and children. I am done.” She’s refused to so much as boil an egg since living with us. Power move. Luckily, my mom has always enjoyed cooking, and in her retirement has taken meals to a whole new level. Like a casual Tuesday-night sini kufte with a side of tabbouleh. Are you kidding me? Though I wonder if this meal is meant to butter me up so I am more amenable to whatever she’s about to throw down.
I tried so hard not to overeat. Before I sat down, with the warm smell of roasted pine nuts and spiced meat in the kitchen, I told myself,Now, Nareh, this time you will not gorge yourself. You will want to get thirds, but you will not indulge this notion. All that talk is not from a “keep it tight” type of mindset, because I truly don’t care when it comes to seriously good food. It’s more that eating foods containing bulgur is a delicate dance; the bulgur sits in your stomach and expands until even your sweatpants don’t recognize you.
In any case, I ignored that little voice in my head the second I tasted the first bite, so here I am, half-prostrate at the little wooden table in the kitchen nook. My mom’s laptop is plunked down in front of me, and behind it is one of the flower arrangements from Diana’s shower. It seems to be one I assembled, the giveaway being a hasty quality, with filler sticking out too high and not enough roses. Doesn’t matter now anyway; the hydrangeas are weeping and the outer petals of the rose are crusting over. The filler’s still in good shape, though, with hearty greens and teeny unopened buds pointing skyward.
“Why’d you have to make it so good?” I groan dramatically,without a shred of restraint. I’m a five-year-old again, and it feels great to let it out.
She won’t admit it, but she loves the compliment. I can tell by the lilt in her step. Next to me, she places a glass of Earl Grey with a piece of clove drifting over the surface. “For digestion. And it wasn’tthatgood.” Then she pauses, smiles. “Or maybe it was.”
Mom jabs a finger into my shoulder, and I protest. She says, “Now, sit up better. Look at this.”
She clicks on a tab that reveals a spreadsheet. She says, “Since you had no luck again at the cooking class, I make this to help you.”
So... I didn’t tell her about Raffi asking me out, or my turning him down. Pretending it never happened seems to be the best course of action, especially since Erebuni’s been on my mind.
Erebuni accepted my follow request on Instagram the night of the cooking class. I was in the middle of following up on a lead, but dropped that and spent the next twenty minutes analyzing her profile. She hardly had any photos posted, only ten or so, but they were all witchy as hell, dark and moody still lifes, rich with detail. Red beeswax candles, crushed spices, lace doilies, amethyst crystals, engraved silver mirrors, dried lavender, the smoke from burning sage, and—not classic witch, but still a superstitious art—a dripping Armenian coffee cup. And they’re skilled from a photography standpoint. Not ashamed to admit, I got a bit jealous. I’ve been busting my butt trying to understand how to take a good flat lay photo, studying other people’s work, reading blog posts, trying different editing apps, and after a couple of years, my stuff is only okay. Or, it’s good, but nothing about it stands out. I know it. And here she is; it looks like she barely cares about Instagram, and her photos are brimming with talent.
We texted a bit today, and I tried to hold back on how gaga her photos were making me, but I think she got the hint. Oh, and I got to show her how the cooking segment turned out. I didn’t chicken out. I furiously edited this morning, watching Erebuni’s portion a few too many times, seeing the way her lips moved, hearing that streetlight-in-the-rain voice over and over. At one point she said the wordstretching. She pulled the word out and accidentally (or maybe not) pronounced it with astah, and, like, it was so sexy I listened to it several times and became, uh, concupiscent.
I cut Kiki out, feeling that would be the greater insult. Between Erebuni’s and Vache’s interviews, and Vartouhi’s instructing, the segment turned out to be the best I’ve created. This is what happens when I get to pick my own story. I’m only bummed I couldn’t rub it in Richard’s and Mark’s faces.See how I can craft a story?Instead, I muttered, “Suck it, Mark,” while the video and the accompanying article uploaded to the KTVA website.
I shared it on Instagram, which, even with my public profile, feels safe. It’s my personal account, so only Elaine, my work confidant, and MacKenzie the anchor follow me. I told Elaine beforehand, and she supported it and swore herself to secrecy. MacKenzie, who is scary and self-absorbed, has never commented on or liked a single one of my posts. Mark’s on Instagram, but his ass is blocked.
The post received mixed reactions. I mean, everyone who commented seemed to enjoy it, but a lot of my usual likers didn’t respond at all. It was off-brand since I rarely post about my work. Doesn’t matter. Erebuni saw it and thanked me a million times over for publicizing the event, and that meant more than strangers’ comments. In the article on KTVA’s site, I linked to Vache’s site, which he said gave him a good boost in traffic, way morethan he usually got. I know a day of traffic isn’t game-changing but I was still glad to send people his way. The whole thing, even the deceiving Richard part, gave me a warm rosy feeling and made me wish I could choose my own stories more often.
But that glow of Erebuni’s attention is slowly fading as I pore over my mom’s spreadsheet. Along the rows I read the names of Mom-approved bachelors, and the columns are as follows:Age,Occupation,Family,City,Country of Origin,Height,Photo, andRSVPs.
Eight rows are entirely filled, with some question marks in the columns. I grab a quick sip of tea and instantly burn my tongue. Damn it, I always time it wrong, and the tea goes lukewarm before I’m brave enough to try it again. Though I’m terrified at my mom’s meticulousness, I have to admit I’m a little impressed. Since my mom retired from her high school math position, she’s seemed a bit bored, directionless. Could also be attributed to Dad being gone and Nene having to move in. When Dad was alive, no, they didn’t always get along, but they were alwaysdoingthings. Having people over, going out to the country club, organizing fundraisers, volunteering for this or that association. Now Mom feels trapped at home with Nene because Nene refuses to take care of herself, and I feel bad that my job keeps me away so much of the time, but it’s more than that. Without Dad, Mom seems to think she isn’t supposed to be out in society anymore, that her life is basically on pause until I produce some grandchildren. She’s hinted as much.
So I guess it’s not a terribly big surprise that she’s poured so much effort into the creation of this document, which will hopefully be a stepping-stone to the end goal of a bunch of rug rats for her to chase after. I get it; every parent wants to be a grandparent(their reward for surviving parenthood), but I suspect my mom’s just bored senseless. It’s on me, I guess, to take this spreadsheet seriously and pull her out of the doldrums. Erebuni, though. She’snotanywhere in “Mom’s vision of Nareh’s Life Plan.”
I sit back. “Damn, Mom, you put a lot of effort into this.”
“You like it?” She’s smiling big. She knows she’s done good. “Don’t say your mayrig doesn’t work hard.”
“I don’t say that.”
“I know you think this.”
I shake my head just a bit and scan the list. It appears not all these guys are going to be at all the events (at least according to Facebook RSVPs). At the top she’s put Raffi and Arek. Of course Raffi gets top billing. Arek has a question mark by his country of origin. I point to that square. “Arek is either Barsgahye or Hyastansti. Also, he’s from Fresno. But it doesn’t matter, I told you I wasn’t into him—we’re just friends.”
She pulls the laptop toward her and clacks the keyboard, filling the box withArmenia?; she says while typing, “Not that many Barsgahyes in Fresno. Anyway, you didn’t give him a chance. Try again.”
I tell her okay, though in my mind I’m like,Bzzt, nope.
On to the next. “Armen, getting his PhD at Stanford in chemical engineering.”
Oh. The eggplant guy from the cooking class. There’s a tug in my stomach as I’m transported back to that kitchen—the interview with Erebuni, the way she stared at me, anticipating, lips barely parted.
I shake myself. “I met him last night. He wasn’t my type.”
“Not your type? He is very good-looking! See his height? Six feet.”
Damn. She is right on with that. “How do you know these heights?”
