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Flowers of Anderson, Indiana by Junior Mclean 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Debbie Roppolo's works have appeared in ezines, newsletters, newspapers and magazines: including Sasee, Story Station, Adoption Today, Holiday Crafts 4 Kids, and JustForMom.com 

She is also a contributor to anthology collections such as Laughing and Learning: Adventures in Parenting, Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul, and Chicken Soup for the Coffee Lover's Soul.

She currently resides with her husband in the Texas Hill Country, and is the mother to two beautiful children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Debbie Roppolo

 

I'm a TV food show junkie. I find the female cooks interesting, but let's face it, if I wanted a quick and nutritious meal in less than thirty minutes, I'd chip a Lean Cuisine out of the freezer and toss it in the microwave. No. It's the male chefs who grab my attention.

 I don't know what it is about them. Perhaps it's because it’s the men who are wearing aprons, or the way they wield a knife like a circus performer, or the fact they have a direct line to my soul with food.

My fascination didn't begin recently.  It started when I was four and a half. I remember watching Sesame Street one morning. Cookie Monster appeared onscreen wearing an apron and chef's hat. Eyes bugging out, I rose from my seat on the floor and walked closer, gaze never wavering from Cookie Monster's face, a thin river of saliva running out the corner of my mouth.

"Isn't that cute," my mother whispered to Daddy. "Our daughter really wants to learn her letters."

Learn letters my Aunt Fanny. Even at that age I was probably envisioning mine and Cookie Monster's wedding. Our registry would have been listed at Nabisco, our house made of snicker doodles, and he would've never taken off that darn hat or apron.

My senior year in high school, I dated a young man (Alec Rolatini) who had a lot going for him: looks, a nice house, and (joy of my heart) a father who was a master chef at a popular restaurant in our town and sometimes appeared on a local morning news show.

Imagine my excitement when after only three months of dating, I was asked to join Alec and his family for supper one night.  I breezed through the door, head held high, acting slightly disinterested when Alec introduced me to his father, but inwardly I was a bowl of melting gelatin.

 "I hope you don't mind," Chef Rolatini said, tying on an apron, "but making meals together is a family tradition, and we like to involve guests so they can benefit from the experience as well.”

 Mind? Of course I didn't mind.  They could have turned into a family of cannibals at that moment, and I would've died one happy person.

Chef Rolatini calmly gave out instructions while he cooked.  Alec and his mother sliced and diced while I was as nervous rabbit on a caffeine high and tried not to spill anything or fall on my face. Thankfully, I was assigned to salad detail.  That seemed safe enough.  I never dreamed that when I yawned, my breath mint would fall out of my mouth and play hide-n-seek among the lettuce leaves.

 Beads of perspiration formed on my lips as I pawed through the salad.  Damn.  Why did I decide to use a wintergreen Tic-Tac?  My heart leaped into my throat when I heard a voice behind me say:  “When you toss a salad, you really toss one.”  I hung my head, not wanting to turn around.  I hoped the person behind me wasn’t who I thought it was.  I prayed it was Mrs. Rolatini.  That she’d had a sudden onset of male hormones, making her voice much deeper.  Of course it wasn’t—it was the chef. 

 “Did you lose something, or do you always throw lettuce all over a counter?” he asked lightly.

 I expected him to explode, to banish me from his kitchen and his house forever.  Instead, he took the bowl to the sink, and with nimble fingers sifted through the greens.  “Is this what you’re looking for?’ he asked, showing me a half-melted breath mint.  “It’s okay, no harm done,” he said kindly, then rewashed the bowl of lettuce.

 My stomach lurched and I felt on the brink of a panic attack when (a few minutes later) Alec and his mother left the kitchen to prepare the dining room. I was alone with the Chef Rolatini.  I found it hard to breathe as I watched him, still apron clad, stirring sauce on the stove.

 "Y-you want me to help Mrs. Rolatini?" I asked, wringing my hands nervously.

 "No," he said not taking his eyes off the sauce. "But you can poke my buns to see if they're done."

 I jabbed his buns—unfortunately, he’d meant the freshly baked rolls on a cooling rack, not his rear end.  After that night, I was never invited over again, and shortly after that, Alec broke up with me.

 My fascination with chefs continued to plague me for most of my life.  So, it was only logical when I married a man who’s highly skilled in the kitchen. 

 Some women like men in uniforms. I chase after those who wear aprons.


 

 Chasing After Aprons