question number eighty-two.
She didn’t feel desperate…well, a little. Her birthday was in May. She’d be thirty-four, and that was mid-thirties, which sounded much more advanced. As in, Sorry, it’s advanced. And terminal. And it was, because after mid-thirties came late thirties, then forties, then death.
“If you crack those knuckles one more time, I’m slapping you.” Kate sent her a murderous glare.
Posey put her hands in her pockets. “Sorry.”
The woman on Posey’s other side sighed loudly. “This doesn’t look too promising,” she said. “And I could be home right now, watching Valentine’s Day and fantasizing about Taylor Lautner.” She was around fifty, plump, and encased in a low-cut blouse that sealed her torso in a sausagelike casing. “I know, I know,” the woman continued, not looking at either Posey or Kate. “He’s still a child. But come on. I don’t understand that Bella, do you? I’d like to slap her.”
“Preach it, sister,” another woman agreed, nodding sagely.
“Oh, finally! It’s starting. Thank God, my bunions are killing me.” As the AA members left (a much more cheerful lot than the singletons, Posey couldn’t help noticing), the Taylor Lautner fan looked down at her cleavage, frowned, adjusted her left breast, then glanced at Posey. “Good luck.”
They trudged in. One wall showed a mural of rainbows, flowers, white lambs and the head of John the Baptist on a platter, the words Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord! in a balloon coming from his slackly opened mouth.
“Romantic,” Posey murmured, suppressing a laugh.
Small tables had been set up with cutting boards and knives and a variety of vegetables and herbs at each one. Jon clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people! Thank you so much for coming! This is Italian Cooking for Singles, and my name is Jon. I’m so happy to see you all here!” He beamed, and Posey watched as several women and one man fell in love. “The rest of our classes will be at the Bellsford Community Center—tonight’s the only night we have to look at poor J the B here. Not appetizing, am I right?”
Jon went on to detail the class. Tonight would be basic prep, slicing and dicing, how to sweat garlic to preserve the flavor, what kinds of tomatoes to use for different purposes, why fresh herbs were the core of any great Italian dish, when to tell if pasta is ready. “I’ll tell you, gang,” he said confidentially, “overcooked pasta is a great American tragedy. Now! We’ll partner up for each stage, boy-girl, boy-girl, and rather than do the boring old questions—because we’ve all been there, done that—let’s be creative! Not ‘What do you do for a living,’ but rather, ‘Which tree are you most like?’ or ‘If you got a new puppy, what would you name it?’ Be imaginative! Have fun! You never know…tonight you might meet your future spouse!”
“I’m looking for some maples, possibly a dogwood,” Posey said.
“I heard that, Posey.” Jon grinned at her. “Guys, Posey is my sister-in-law, so everyone has to be nice to her, or I’ll poison you. Okay? Posey, let’s put you with…Wayne, is it?” He waved to the fishy older man, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “This is just to get you started. I have my eye on a cute guy for you, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m playing favorites, which I totally am.” He smiled brilliantly. “Wayne, this is Posey! You kids have fun. Okay, everyone, start slicing the garlic. I’m not a believer in crushing, I want you to peel, then slice, and I want wafer-thin, I want translucence, I want you to inhale the smell of the greatest food ever invented. Cooking is all about love, after all, and who doesn’t love garlic!”
“Is he gay?” Wayne asked.
“Yes,” Posey answered. “Hi. I’m Posey.”
“Hi,” he said. “I’d like to be honest here. I’m looking for a wife, let’s cut right to the chase, and, yes, I’d like someone
She didn’t feel desperate…well, a little. Her birthday was in May. She’d be thirty-four, and that was mid-thirties, which sounded much more advanced. As in, Sorry, it’s advanced. And terminal. And it was, because after mid-thirties came late thirties, then forties, then death.
“If you crack those knuckles one more time, I’m slapping you.” Kate sent her a murderous glare.
Posey put her hands in her pockets. “Sorry.”
The woman on Posey’s other side sighed loudly. “This doesn’t look too promising,” she said. “And I could be home right now, watching Valentine’s Day and fantasizing about Taylor Lautner.” She was around fifty, plump, and encased in a low-cut blouse that sealed her torso in a sausagelike casing. “I know, I know,” the woman continued, not looking at either Posey or Kate. “He’s still a child. But come on. I don’t understand that Bella, do you? I’d like to slap her.”
“Preach it, sister,” another woman agreed, nodding sagely.
“Oh, finally! It’s starting. Thank God, my bunions are killing me.” As the AA members left (a much more cheerful lot than the singletons, Posey couldn’t help noticing), the Taylor Lautner fan looked down at her cleavage, frowned, adjusted her left breast, then glanced at Posey. “Good luck.”
They trudged in. One wall showed a mural of rainbows, flowers, white lambs and the head of John the Baptist on a platter, the words Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord! in a balloon coming from his slackly opened mouth.
“Romantic,” Posey murmured, suppressing a laugh.
Small tables had been set up with cutting boards and knives and a variety of vegetables and herbs at each one. Jon clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people! Thank you so much for coming! This is Italian Cooking for Singles, and my name is Jon. I’m so happy to see you all here!” He beamed, and Posey watched as several women and one man fell in love. “The rest of our classes will be at the Bellsford Community Center—tonight’s the only night we have to look at poor J the B here. Not appetizing, am I right?”
Jon went on to detail the class. Tonight would be basic prep, slicing and dicing, how to sweat garlic to preserve the flavor, what kinds of tomatoes to use for different purposes, why fresh herbs were the core of any great Italian dish, when to tell if pasta is ready. “I’ll tell you, gang,” he said confidentially, “overcooked pasta is a great American tragedy. Now! We’ll partner up for each stage, boy-girl, boy-girl, and rather than do the boring old questions—because we’ve all been there, done that—let’s be creative! Not ‘What do you do for a living,’ but rather, ‘Which tree are you most like?’ or ‘If you got a new puppy, what would you name it?’ Be imaginative! Have fun! You never know…tonight you might meet your future spouse!”
“I’m looking for some maples, possibly a dogwood,” Posey said.
“I heard that, Posey.” Jon grinned at her. “Guys, Posey is my sister-in-law, so everyone has to be nice to her, or I’ll poison you. Okay? Posey, let’s put you with…Wayne, is it?” He waved to the fishy older man, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “This is just to get you started. I have my eye on a cute guy for you, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m playing favorites, which I totally am.” He smiled brilliantly. “Wayne, this is Posey! You kids have fun. Okay, everyone, start slicing the garlic. I’m not a believer in crushing, I want you to peel, then slice, and I want wafer-thin, I want translucence, I want you to inhale the smell of the greatest food ever invented. Cooking is all about love, after all, and who doesn’t love garlic!”
“Is he gay?” Wayne asked.
“Yes,” Posey answered. “Hi. I’m Posey.”
“Hi,” he said. “I’d like to be honest here. I’m looking for a wife, let’s cut right to the chase, and, yes, I’d like someone
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