1
ALLIE
I was born wild.At least that’s what my mother tells me. She says I cried for the first two months of my life until she discovered the only thing that would calm me.
Music.
Not just any music, though. Punk rock. Loud, fast, chaotic. That’s what would lull me to sleep every night. She said it must have been in my genes.
That’s the only time she ever talked about him. Well, that and the time she told me I looked like him. Mom only let that one slip when I kept asking her why I didn’t look like her when I was little. My mother is as blonde as can be, with big honey-colored eyes to match. The contrast between my straight, almost black hair and bright blue eyes always confused me. Aren’t kids supposed to look like their parents?
You look like your father.
That’s all she said. Every other question about him was met with her usual “Don’t dwell on the past, sweet pea.” I was a curious kid, but eventually, I followed her advice and stopped asking. Maybe she had a point. Why live in the past when there’s nothing you can do to change it?
It almost worked. I had almost forgotten him until I found his sticker-covered guitar in the garage when I was six. I hid it in my closet, knowing it was special, but not quite understanding why. It wasn’t until years later that I found it again and spent the entire day at the library searching all the random words on the stickers. Words I came to discover were the names of bands.My favorite bands.
“Alexandra?” the man in front of me drawls, forcing my memories to dissipate back into the recesses of my brain. God, I hate when people call me that.
“Allie, please,” I say as politely as I can muster.
“Forgive me, Allie,” he corrects himself. “You looked like you were deep in thought. You must have a great story about what got you into cooking and food appreciation.”
That’s right. He asked me a question. How did I get into cooking?This is an interview, Allie. Not the time for the truth,I dutifully remind myself. I look back at the man in front of me. He’s old, probably in his early seventies, with short, gray hair and soulful brown eyes that shine with curiosity behind his tortoise shell glasses.
“My mom,” I say, uncrossing and recrossing my legs. It’s my tell, but he doesn’t know that. “She taught me how to cook when I was little,” I lie.
“How wonderful.” He smiles and it’s one of those genuine smiles. Not the kind most people paint on their faces because society deems it’s what they should do. “And what is your favorite thing to cook at home? Forgive me if that’s too personal. I know this isn’t an interview for a chef position or anything.” He chuckles to himself. “I’m just curious. I find you can learn a lot about a person from what they enjoy in their downtime.”
“Pasta.” I think that’s pretty self-explanatory. I’m not sure of anyone who doesn’t know what pasta is, yet he looks at me like he’s waiting for more. “I make a few different sauces. You know, Bolognese, carbonara…” I trail off.
What else could he possibly need to know?
“Any particular reason?” he prompts.
“Oh, um, well, I guess it’s comforting. I mean, I know it’s not the most low-fat option out there, but who doesn’t want a big old bowl of spaghetti on a rainy day?” He dips his head as if to say, “keep going.”
Okay, so this guy isn’t going to let me get away with short and sweet.
“It…” I shift in my seat, pressing my glasses back in place with my forefinger. “It tells a story. All food does, really. Every recipe, every dish, every ingredient has a history. Some have traveled across the world, some have been passed down from generations. Food shapes cultures…connects people. It’s the matzo ball soup your grandmother used to make when you were sick or the late-night taqueria you went to in college. The dessert you ate on your first date with your wife that you ordered even though you were full because you didn’t want it to end. It tells stories. And those stories deserve to be told, don’t you think?”
He appears deep in thought for a moment before cradling his cheek in his hand. “I do,” he finally says. His lips turn up into a half-smile but his eyes shine as if it’s a full one. “That’s precisely why I asked.”
A blush forms on my cheeks. I have no idea where that came from. I mean, sure it’s something I may have written in one of my blogs, but I’ve never spoken like that out loud about anything. I narrow my eyes and brace myself for his next question, but it doesn’t come. Mr. Aldridge jots something down on his college-ruled yellow notepad and clears his throat.
“Well, I think I have everything I need, Alexan—Allie. Thank you for coming in. I enjoyed our conversation, and I appreciate your candor. We have a few more interviews, but we will be making a decision in the coming days. Do you have any questions for me?”
“No,” I reply automatically and then mentally kick myself.You’re supposed to ask at least one question to show interest. That’s like Interview 101. I give him a polite smile and stand up from my seat, smoothing out my skirt. “Thank you, Mr. Aldridge.”
“Please, call me Theo.”
“Right. Thanks, Theo. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Theo nods his head and stands, opening the door for me.
I walk out of his office and scurry out to the parking lot like my ass is on fire. Jesus, that interview could not have gone worse. Mr. Aldridge—Theo—was nice enough, but I was a complete mess. All that garbled nonsense I just spewed at him? I’m surprised he didn’t politely tell me to get lost the second it spilled from my lips.
It’s not entirely my fault that I don’t know how to interact with real-life humans. I’ve been working for myself since I graduated from college. I got lucky that the food blog I started for fun my senior year gained a big social media following. I've been able to scrape by with influencing and a couple of brand partnerships. Until now, that is. Now I need a job with a reliable salary. I needthisjob.I initially scoffed when Emory told me about the opening. Food writer forTheEmberfield Lantern? Not my first choice. Of course, that’s exactly what I did for my blog, but working in an office with coworkers and answering to a…boss? I swallow down the lump currently forming in my throat just thinking about it.
