“No, that’s okay. I’ll make us lunch when I get back.”
Dahlia rustled through her bag for her keys. This might be one of the last times she drove her old clunker before she sold it. She already had some decent offers online; it would help offset the cost of the U-Haul.
“Sounds good,” her mom said, her face turned back toward Dahlia’s notebook.
Dahlia might not have a car or an apartment soon, but as she grabbed the few ingredients she needed at the store, she knew she had those two notebooks. Those notebooks were her, sloppy and real and full of failures and successes. A testament that Dahlia Woodson could learn new things, by herself, just because she wanted to.
Handing that Moleskine over to her mother to look through had been another attempt to make up for things. It had felt like handing over her heart.
Dahlia laid the ingredients out on the counter when she got back. On the show, she’d gutted and pureed an actual sugar pumpkin, but she didn’t need to be that fancy now. She would have soaked her own black beans overnight too, if she was a proper chef, but oh well. Dahlia had no shame in the canned food before her.
Her mom helped her find the things she’d already packed that she needed: her good pot, spices, some olive oil.
“Can I help?” her mom asked, almost hopefully.
Dahlia studied her ingredients and shook her head, but she smiled.
“No, I’m good. You can just relax. It won’t take long.”
Dahlia put on some music, and she got to work.
The movement of her hands, the smell of spices filling the air. The rhythm of stirring, the patience of waiting, the magic of ingredients melding themselves together all on their own.
For the first time in days, Dahlia felt right in her body. She almost cried at the relief of it.
Once the flavors had simmered enough, she brought two steaming bowls over to the couch.
Her mom smiled after she took her first sip. Dahlia did, too. It was both sweet and spicy, warm and comforting in her belly, full of the promises of turning leaves and golden light. It would be September soon, and Dahlia was glad. It would be easier, somehow, she thought, to be sad in the fall.
“This is delicious, Dahlia,” her mom said.
Dahlia stared into her bowl, still smiling.
“This was the dish that got me kicked off the show,” she said.
Her mom’s spoon rattled against the side of her bowl.
“What?”
“I made this soup. And I guess it was too boring and ugly,” Dahlia said, swallowing another spoonful. “But I like it.”
Her mom put her bowl down on the coffee table with a loud clatter.
“Is it okay?” Dahlia looked over at her, smile faltering. “Too hot?”
And then, with confusion, she realized her mom’s eyes were wet.
“I’m not mad that you divorced David,” her mom said.
Dahlia froze with another spoonful halfway to her mouth.
“Uh,” she said, lowering her spoon. “Okay.”
When her mom simply worried her lip, not adding to this odd and shocking statement, Dahlia joined her bowl of soup with her mom’s on the table.
Dahlia turned, propping an elbow on the back of the couch.
“Mom,” she prompted.
