Georgia's Kitchen by Jenny Nelson Read Free Book Online Page A

cookies into a Ziploc, smashed a frying pan on top of the bag, then mashed the cookie bits into the ice cream, topping it off with a generous pour of U-bet chocolate syrup. For a classically trained chef, Georgia’s tastes, at least in crisis mode, tended to the plebeian.
    The phone rang and she picked it up without checking caller ID, sure it’d be Glenn. “Hi.”
    “Georgia. I’ve been leaving messages for a week. Didn’t you get them?” It was her mother, Dorothy. After years of twice-monthly phone calls, she’d taken to calling two, sometimes three times a week. Georgia blamed the ring on her finger for her mother’s ringing on the phone.
    “Oh, hi. I’ve been really busy lately.” Georgia scooped up a bite of the magical Chubby Chippie concoction. “Sorry,” she said, her mouth full.
    “What are you eating?”
    “Chubby Hubby ice cream and chocolate chip cookies.”
    “With the wedding just weeks away? Not to mention that our family has a history of diabetes.” Dorothy paused. “Although with my mother in the bakery business you’d never know we had issues with sugar.”
    Georgia refused to take the bait, well aware that Dorothy’s relationship with Grammy had been less than perfect. Based on Georgia’s own relationship with Dorothy, she was pretty sure she knew why—and it had nothing to do with Grammy.
    “Are you trying to get sick, Georgia?”
    “Nope.” She took another bite. “Just fat.”
    Dorothy sighed. Georgia’s rejection of her mother’s bone-jutting body ideal had been a point of contention between themsince Georgia turned three, which was the age, Dorothy believed, when baby fat was no longer adorable.
    “Mom, please try to remember I’m a chef. It’s practically illegal for me to be skinny. And I’m not even fat.”
    “I know, I know. Anyway, I’m calling to remind you about tomorrow and to check on the wedding planning. I haven’t heard an update lately.” For some inexplicable reason Georgia couldn’t figure out, Dorothy cared more about this one day in her daughter’s life than she had about her entire thirty-three years put together.
    “We already have the space, the caterer, the florist, the band, the judge. There’s no more updating to do.”
    “The invitations?”
    “We’re going to see the proof next week.”
    “Good. How’s Glenn?”
    “Glenn is great.” It would never occur to Georgia to tell Dorothy the truth. “Remind me about what?”
    “Tell him we’re looking forward to seeing him.”
    “I will. Oh, it looks like we’re getting a three-fork review.”
    “A what?”
    “The restaurant. We’re getting a three-fork review.”
    Dorothy was silent.
    “Marco? Where I work? A really important reviewer came in last night, and she’s giving us a fantastic review.”
    “That’s great, Georgia. I’m glad that cooking is finally working out for you, since it’s obviously what you like to do.”
    “Oh, is it that obvious?”
    Dorothy charged on, as seemingly oblivious of her daughter’s sarcastic tone as she was of everything else about her. “I was wondering if you thought I could wear a sort of rosy-red dress to the wedding. I know red is traditionally very Republican, but it’smore magenta actually, a floor-length tunic with hand embroidery around the neck.”
    “Sounds like Mrs. Roper from
Three’s Company
.” Considering Dorothy’s obsession with skinniness, you’d think she’d have at least a vague clue about fashion. Instead, she was stuck in the era of Earth shoes, muumuus, and rust-colored pantsuits.
    “Mrs. Who? Is Glenn’s mom wearing something similar?”
    “I doubt it, Mom. Wear whatever you’d like.”
    “Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. The party’s at one.”
    “Party?”
    “You haven’t forgotten, I hope? Dad and I are driving down tomorrow and spending the night in Millbrook at Uncle Paul’s. I have the environmental summit in New York on Monday, remember? Paul invited us all to a lunch he’s having at