A La Carte by Tanita S. Davis Page A

boyfriend, but I also know how boys…Well.” She takes a breath, shaking her head. “Let’s save that for another time. So, Simeon liked the banana bread.”
    I sigh and change gears. “Yeah. I didn’t use the pecan bark, and the sugar substitute really worked out well. Sim couldn’t tell the difference.” I clear my throat and try to relax my shoulders.
    Mom shrugs out of her chef’s jacket and walks toward her bedroom. “Good. Oh, I meant to tell you…” I unfold myself from the bed and follow as she keeps talking. “We’ve been experimenting with the gingerbread you started the other day. If I don’t add any crystallized ginger, I could use it on our light-dessert menu.”
    â€œYeah? I think you should do it. With a tiny bit of that ginger-carrot sorbet, that would be awesome. Or maybe you could just have an ice cream sandwich?”
    â€œOh, good idea! And I could just put it on the regular menu, with the ginger ice cream, and it would be a ‘half the sugar’ dessert; we could roll the edges in some chopped crystallized ginger.”
    I flop down on Mom’s bed and envision the dessert, plated on the square red dessert plates…a dusting of powdered sugar and sprig of mint…perfect. I imagine having my own show, where how you plate something can make the difference between a dish that’s a dud and a dish that wins you national acclaim. For Saint Julia, it was a simple omelet—a big “French” food to Americans back in the sixties. For me, who knows? Someday I’m going to make this gingerbread for someone who can take me to the top.
    Mom pokes her head around the edge of the closet. “Well, I came home in the first place to see if I could pick you up for dinner tonight…. Pia made hot and sour soup, and there’s always fresh rolls, of course.”
    â€œI’m coming down to the restaurant, but I’m walking. I ate a
bunch
of bread today.”
    Mom sighs. “Lainey. You are a size-fourteen woman of African American descent. This is not unheard of in Western civilization. Eating bread will not kill you. Lord, I
knew
I should’ve never let you play Barbies.”
    I close my eyes. “Mom…”
    My mother worries that I’m going to end up with some eating disorder. This after I lost only four sizes in two long years of trying. I’ve got Mom’s height (five foot four) but my father’s big bones, wide shoulders, and flat butt, plus Mom’s high waist, big bust, and skinny legs, which, unless I work at it, gives me the figure of Humpty Dumpty on toothpicks. Mom and Pia are two of the best chefs that I know, and I am not about to miss out on that. However, I know my body, and I know that if I let bread sit too long, sugar free or not, it’s going to stick. I’ve already been the tubby freshman, thank you. No need to carry that into college to add to the freshman fifteen.
    â€œLook, Barbie Junior, I’ll tell you what—I’ll walk with you. Pia can drop us home after the dinner rush.”
    I make a face. “And I’ll have to lug my laptop and all of my books?”
    My mother sighs. “Fine.”
    â€œYou know what other kind of dessert you could make?” I say, placating her sense of motherly duty. “Carrot macaroons! See, these are the kinds of thoughts I have when I walk. Now, I’d be depriving you of my great cognitive abilities if I just sat in the car with you, did you know that?”
    My mother groans and pushes me out of her bedroom. “Go away, child. Carrot macaroons is taking your healthy-desserts thing just a
little
too far.”
    â€œI’ll make some tonight!” I holler through the door.
    I hear the sound of the shower and smile.
    Â 
    It’s a quick walk to the restaurant on a Sunday evening, and I kind of walk, kind of jog to get there. Mom’s in her office when I finally go down, showing