the next.
Beige linen vertical blinds trembled slightly as the breeze wafted past them. Meringue leaned against the French doors, her violet eyes glazed over. She was bored. And homesick. Today she felt low and needing to ease herself out of this feeling, decided she had to bake. She moved into her tiny kitchen, comprised of just a few cabinets, a refrigerator and a stove along the back of the living room wall. She took out the ingredients she needed: butter; eggs; sugar; salt; sour cream; flour; baking powder; cinnamon; baking soda and vanilla. Good vanilla. The butter needed to be at room temperature if she wanted light, fluffy buns but it was as hard as a rock. She sat it out on the balcony and in a few minutes the sun had obliged and the butter was ready to cream with the sugar. Meringue pre-heated the oven and set to work. Twisting the radio dial to a talk station, barely acknowledging the quipping host but just wanting the company of a voice, she began to sift and cream, mix and stir. She took an ice-cream scoop, lovingly wrapped in an old blue frayed tea towel, from the drawer and scooping the mixture, put an equal amount into each muffin case. Within twenty minutes the muffin tray was in the oven and a couple of minutes after that she could smell the comforting scents of baking. She felt a little better. Getting herself a small glass bottle of strawberry juice, she sat at the table by the window and opened the drawer, taking out a pad of thick cream writing paper and matching envelopes lined with apple green tissue paper. Pulling the top off of her violet fountain pen, she pointed the nib to the paper and began to write: Dear Mom…..
After a while the letter was finished, there were tears in her eyes and a couple of the words were smudged with damson ink. She sealed the envelope, wrote the address and then the muffins were ready. Meringue took the tray out of the oven, put them carefully on a wire rack to cool, prised one out of the tray even though it was too early and went out onto the balcony. The view from the third floor was quite incomplete, paralleling most lives in the City of Angels. Flat, sparse rooftops, a red tiled roof, two palms trees swaying absentmindedly in a barely there breeze, a glorious orange tree with Junoesque blooms, all encased in a fine layer of smog that had drifted aimlessly into Hollywood with nowhere to go.
LA in a nutshell: once you had arrived there was no way out and you were trapped between the city and your mind.
Meringue ate her muffin. It was as light as air and as she chewed slowly, another tear rolled down her cheek. She had thought she was feeling better, but the tastes of cinnamon and vanilla reminded her of home.
You couldn’t let them see you cry. Couldn’t say or do anything to offend them. Just had to roll with it, until the real thing came along. The Real Thing. She had had the real thing. Peace of mind anyway. When she lived at home in Florida and worked in the beauty parlor and had dinner with her mom twice a week. She had liked dating Joe too. Going to the movies, dances at the Small Town Supper Club and occasional dinners at Reggie’s Diner. She had been happy enough, even borderline contented. If only she hadn’t decided to try Los Angeles, but there was a constant nagging inside her head that kept asking her, what if, what if, what if you never try? And now that she was there, she couldn’t get away. Her mind felt lost, tormented, raped. Maybe she should see her shrink? Maybe she could make an extra appointment? It was only Monday, and she felt as if she couldn’t wait until Wednesday. That was it! That had to be the answer. She called the office and yes, of course he had time for her later on today. She went back to the view, her relief palpable as she sat on her tiny balcony, a glorious blonde, lost in the City of Angels.
*
Jezzy and Adrian
Montgomery
Beige linen vertical blinds trembled slightly as the breeze wafted past them. Meringue leaned against the French doors, her violet eyes glazed over. She was bored. And homesick. Today she felt low and needing to ease herself out of this feeling, decided she had to bake. She moved into her tiny kitchen, comprised of just a few cabinets, a refrigerator and a stove along the back of the living room wall. She took out the ingredients she needed: butter; eggs; sugar; salt; sour cream; flour; baking powder; cinnamon; baking soda and vanilla. Good vanilla. The butter needed to be at room temperature if she wanted light, fluffy buns but it was as hard as a rock. She sat it out on the balcony and in a few minutes the sun had obliged and the butter was ready to cream with the sugar. Meringue pre-heated the oven and set to work. Twisting the radio dial to a talk station, barely acknowledging the quipping host but just wanting the company of a voice, she began to sift and cream, mix and stir. She took an ice-cream scoop, lovingly wrapped in an old blue frayed tea towel, from the drawer and scooping the mixture, put an equal amount into each muffin case. Within twenty minutes the muffin tray was in the oven and a couple of minutes after that she could smell the comforting scents of baking. She felt a little better. Getting herself a small glass bottle of strawberry juice, she sat at the table by the window and opened the drawer, taking out a pad of thick cream writing paper and matching envelopes lined with apple green tissue paper. Pulling the top off of her violet fountain pen, she pointed the nib to the paper and began to write: Dear Mom…..
After a while the letter was finished, there were tears in her eyes and a couple of the words were smudged with damson ink. She sealed the envelope, wrote the address and then the muffins were ready. Meringue took the tray out of the oven, put them carefully on a wire rack to cool, prised one out of the tray even though it was too early and went out onto the balcony. The view from the third floor was quite incomplete, paralleling most lives in the City of Angels. Flat, sparse rooftops, a red tiled roof, two palms trees swaying absentmindedly in a barely there breeze, a glorious orange tree with Junoesque blooms, all encased in a fine layer of smog that had drifted aimlessly into Hollywood with nowhere to go.
LA in a nutshell: once you had arrived there was no way out and you were trapped between the city and your mind.
Meringue ate her muffin. It was as light as air and as she chewed slowly, another tear rolled down her cheek. She had thought she was feeling better, but the tastes of cinnamon and vanilla reminded her of home.
You couldn’t let them see you cry. Couldn’t say or do anything to offend them. Just had to roll with it, until the real thing came along. The Real Thing. She had had the real thing. Peace of mind anyway. When she lived at home in Florida and worked in the beauty parlor and had dinner with her mom twice a week. She had liked dating Joe too. Going to the movies, dances at the Small Town Supper Club and occasional dinners at Reggie’s Diner. She had been happy enough, even borderline contented. If only she hadn’t decided to try Los Angeles, but there was a constant nagging inside her head that kept asking her, what if, what if, what if you never try? And now that she was there, she couldn’t get away. Her mind felt lost, tormented, raped. Maybe she should see her shrink? Maybe she could make an extra appointment? It was only Monday, and she felt as if she couldn’t wait until Wednesday. That was it! That had to be the answer. She called the office and yes, of course he had time for her later on today. She went back to the view, her relief palpable as she sat on her tiny balcony, a glorious blonde, lost in the City of Angels.
*
Jezzy and Adrian
Montgomery
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