Pinch of Love (9781101558638) by Alicia Bessette

be . . . scrump !”
    â€œMake yourself at home,” I say, a little annoyed that Ingrid’s settled on my couch with her socked feet tucked underneath her.
    â€œThank you,” she says, missing my sarcasm. She grins wide. “Watch with me?”
    I plop down on the other side of the couch.
    Ingrid holds up a marker-stained hand. “Shhh.”
    The camera roves over Polly Pinch. Close-up of her rounded lips, slightly parted. She drizzles her Secret Love Sauce Number 2™ on a wok of sugar snap peas.
    Close-up of her green eyes, as big as walnuts. She confesses her obsession with a popular brand of potato chips.
    Close-up of her diminutive fingers. She slices carrots on a damp wood cutting board.
    Close-up of her hip bones. She rolls out a Super Simp Flaky™ piecrust.
    â€œNow what this baby needs . . . is a pinch!” Polly says. She reaches into her potbellied ceramic canister labeled LOVE and flicks her fingers over the now-sizzling wok.
    After a few commercials, Polly sinks a fork into her special variation on Oriental stir-fry. A super-simp single-serving blackberry torte waits at her elbow. “Until next time, don’t forget that pinch!” Her glossed lips enclose a forkful of shrimp. “Mmm! Scrump!”
    Next time, it turns out, is now; the opening credits to Pinch of Love roll. Big loopy letters swim across the screen, and Polly sashays around her 1950s kitchen and lip-syncs the doo-wop theme song.
    â€œBack-to-back episodes?” I say.
    â€œYes.” Ingrid laces her fingers behind her head. “Oh yes.”
    Ahab strolls into the room. He sprawls out on the couch between Ingrid and me. He rests his chin on her lap, and she rubs his snout with the tip of her finger. I can’t believe how foreign it feels to look over at this small person I barely know sitting next to me, watching a cooking show.
    â€œIs your homework done?” I ask.
    Ingrid’s eyes lock on the television screen. “Yes, homework is done. All of it. Every last bit.”
    Close-up of Polly’s short, orange-painted nails. She massages a garlicky rub into a pork loin. “This rub’ll really ratchet up the action,” she says. “It’s gonna—be— scrrrrrump. ”
    â€œDo you ever try to make any of these recipes?” I ask Ingrid.
    â€œNo,” she whispers.
    â€œWhy not?” I whisper.
    â€œBecause she’s going to teach me how to cook someday. In person, I mean.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMy mother.”
    â€œOh,” I say. “Well, that’ll be nice.” Until now, I assumed Ingrid’s mother simply isn’t in the picture. “So, where is your mother?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not nosy.
    â€œRight there.” She points at the TV.
    â€œPolly Pinch?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œPolly Pinch is your mother?”
    Close-up of Polly’s square white teeth. She introduces dessert: super-simp anisette mousse.
    â€œPolly Pinch is your mother?” I repeat.
    Ingrid looks at me. Her lips and nostrils quiver. “Nobody believes me.”
    â€œSure I do. I believe you.” But the truth is, I don’t know what to believe. I suppose Polly Pinch could be Ingrid’s mother, but then again, Ingrid could simply harbor some crazy little-girl fantasy.
    Her jaw trembles as if she’s holding back tears. As if she suspects I don’t wholly buy her story.
    â€œNow, what this baby needs . . . is a pinch!” says Polly, brandishing a bottle of whipped cream and striking a sort of Charlie’s Angels pose.
    â€œShe’s perfect,” says Ingrid. “Look at her. She’s beautiful, and talented, and funny, and smart.”
    â€œYou must take right after her,” I say.
    â€œI know. I do. And I’ve never even met her.” Ingrid covers her face with her hands. She emits a few squeaky sounds, and I’m pretty sure she’s crying, or trying not