The Discount Life: Step Three (cont'd)

On Wednesday night the weather was officially cool. The whole of the house carried a nip that sent me running for my coziest sweater. Outside, people burned fireplaces and the air smelled of pastimes and cinder. I left the kitchen window open, the chill grazing my skin, a reminder that my favorite season was here. In the spirit of the DLA I was planning a meal to rival my fondest memories: chilly fall evenings, opening the front door to a warm home, the smells of something delicious wafting up to greet your nose. I’d kill two birds with one stone: I’d be working on Step #3 and Stanley would be pleased to come home to something warm and wafting. After a half hour of carefully combing the myriad cookbooks that typically went unopened on my shelves (when you make the same dishes over and over there’s hardly a need for cookbooks) I settled on Chicken Pot Pie. I was even going to make the crusts. A real chef would; Judy would never rely on Pillsbury for her masterpiece. Besides, like tomatoes, vegetables and chocolate chip cookies, food was better when it was fresh and not stored, shipped and packaged for consumption thousands of miles away.


It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.

It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.

I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”

“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”

“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.

“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”

“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.

“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”

He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.

“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.

“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.

“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”

“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”

“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.

“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?

“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”

“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.

“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.

“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”

“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this.   "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”

“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”

“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.

“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway.  I can go myself.”

“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”

“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.

“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.

“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.”  He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”

“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”

“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.


“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.

“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”

“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”

“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”

She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”

“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”

She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”

“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”

“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”

“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.

“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”

“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”

“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”

“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.

“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”

“What night is it?”

“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”

“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”

“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”

“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”

“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “

“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”

“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.

“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.”  We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes.  When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?" 

"It was Mel," I answered.  "She's going to take the cooking class with me."

"Perfect," he said.  Perfect, I thought again.



Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment:  Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)