She waits for a long, slow second. It stretches like taffy into another second, then another, until nearly half a minute has elapsed. The silence becomes so meaningful that she can picture it like expanding like a balloon, taking on more air as it swells uncomfortably.
“Okay,” she says stiffly, the word coming out crisp and business-like: the verbal equivalent of rapping sharply on the top of a creme brulee, cracking the sweet candy coating around her heart.
“It’s not…I’m sorry. I tried but I can’t change it,” he stumbles over his words but rather than sounding apologetic, he sounds impatient, like he’s placating a child and wishes to be done with it.
She nods slowly, and then, realizing that he can’t see her, swallows and replies as brightly as she can manage. “Great! Next weekend then, or, whenever. I’ve got to run,” and hangs up before her voice has a chance to waver. She presses a hand against her forehead, as if she could hold back the tears gathering behind her eyes.
From the kitchen comes a loud clanging and then laughter. She pokes her head out of her room and sees the kitchen glowing warmly at the end of the hallway. The entire apartment smells savory and rich, like melted butter and rosemary. She stands still for a moment, listening to the clanking of dishes and the sound of a cork popping.
The scene unfolds in front of her: friends clustered around the kitchen island, clinking glasses of wine, the conversation bubbling merrily as they reach over each other to snack on dishes of green olives and tear off hunks of the crusty, long-fermented baguettes that she and Hadley had picked up that morning at Clear Flour Bread. (This was mostly an excuse to buy a box of cannelés and share them on the T on the way home; she has a weakness for their darkly caramelized, almost burnt exterior and custardy crumb.)
If she walks into the kitchen, the night will progress to any number of places: dancing to funk music at The Sinclair where they spin vinyl records once a week, flirting with bankers in their crisp suits over gin and grenadine cocktails in the lobby of the Liberty Hotel, grabbing seats at the bar at Yvonne’s for glasses of Cabernet. They might end up taking tequila shots at the Silhouette Lounge, where someone will bring over bags of the free popcorn they hand out from the ancient vintage popcorn maker behind the bar, or end up crowded into narrow tables for late night nachos at Lone Star.
She hesitates, and glances back at her silent bedroom. If she stays, she’ll take a long, hot shower and steal some of Hadley’s Kerastase shampoo (the smell is deeply comforting, reminding her of college and Hadley leaning against her knees as they’d watch Grey’s Anatomy re-runs to avoid finishing problem sets; the first time she saw a bottle in a store and flipped it over to see the price tag, she almost dropped it on the floor) — she’ll turn on some Van Morrison and pick up the book of Lorrie Moore short stories that she’s been meaning to finish.
Neither option is appealing or unappealing: There’s a numbness coming over her that makes her want to sit on the floor and close her eyes and let the hours pass until something — anything — crowds out that phone call and whitewashes over the way she feels now.
She considers calling Em, who is one of those friends with whom she can go years without seeing but remains as close as a sibling— as if an invisible thread tethers them together, regardless of distance. They met over a decade ago at summer camp on the shores of Alford Lake, when they were assigned to sleep next to each other in one of the white canvas tents perched on the pine-covered hillside.
Each tent had four narrow cots: two on each side. One belonged to their counselor, a petite blond named PJ with sturdy thighs who played varsity soccer at Colgate. The other two were her tentmates: Susie, who was quiet and freckled and spent her days on the sailing docks with her twin sister, and Em, short for Emilia, who was already, at age 14, beautiful enough that other girls treated her either with a tentative curiosity or a defensive snub.
Em had silky, pin-straight dark hair and a deep dimple in her right cheek. Her mother was Chilean and arrestingly pretty too; her father was from South Carolina and had a thick Southern drawl. Em’s parents split their time between Tribeca and a sprawling leafy house in Darien — her father was a law professor (tenured, famous for penning the civil procedure textbook used across most 1L classes); her mother a senior fellow for international security law at the Council on Foreign Relations.
She wouldn’t discover that until a few years after meeting Em’s parents when they arrived one Friday along with all the other parents for Family Weekend. They had an air of fun and glamour that made other parents seem fusty and staid: in a sea of L.L. Bean polos and khaki shorts, Em’s mother stood out like a butterfly in a fuschia pink silk tank top and a pair of canary yellow shorts belted with an oversized bow. Em’s parents liked each other. They teased each other and were always finding ways to touch, constantly kissing in front of Em which didn’t seem to phase her at all.
Most parents brought contraband care packages (not that they didn’t eat well, but there was something deeply illicit and thrilling about food from the outside: Reese’s Cups in their signature orange sleeve, tubes of Pringles, Entenmann’s miniature doughnuts—the dusted cake kind that left streaks of powdered sugar everywhere).
Her household was a from-scratch, Ina Garten-loving sort; her mother’s idea of a treat was buying honey nut Cheerios instead of plain. True to form, on Family Weekend she brought a box of homemade rocky road brownies, peanut butter cookies, and her signature spicy snack mix dusted in ranch seasoning.
She can remember that weekend so vividly: her mother placing the box on the trunk next to her bed and leaning over to hug her, smelling like Head & Shoulders shampoo and Pond’s cold cream, a scent as predictable and comforting as her Sperry shoes and needlepoint belt.
Later that night, after an all-camp singalong and the famous Family Weekend bonfire next to the lake, they snuck into the next tent over and all huddled together on two of the beds, pooling their haul: Abby Denard’s parents had brought her brown sugar Pop-Tarts, pink frosted animal crackers, and Cool Ranch Doritos, which they all agreed ranked top among everyone’s.
Em’s parents were empty-handed when they showed up, but Em brought over a sleek white bakery box tied with a satin ribbon. She rolled her eyes. “My mother uses our oven to store her cashmere sweaters,” she explained as she tugged off the top of the box, revealing three neat rows of perfectly uniform cookies: two golden rounds sandwiching what looked like caramel sauce.
“Alfajores. She buys them from a Chilean bakery in Soho; they’re basically her love language.”
The cookies were crisp and snappy. Almost as buttery-rich as shortbread, they were spiced in a way that reminded her of winter, but she couldn’t say why. Years later, she finds the very same cookies at a little Peruvian shop near Logan Airport and buys two, only to bite into one to discover they taste like…a cookie. No warm winter flavor, no whisper of spice.
She reaches for her phone and taps out a text to Em. (They’ve remained close friends — Em works in communications for Sotheby’s in Hong Kong. Her life is steeped in luxury, and she seems to exist without sleep in an endless whirl of expat parties and restaurant openings and weekend yacht trips.)
“Weren’t those cookies your mom always bought us called alfajores? Just ate one at a bakery and they don’t taste as good!”
A response comes immediately, even though it’s 2 AM in Hong Kong: “colo de mono!”
“Come again?”
“traditional South American holiday drink, like a White Russian? same spices! xx”
A quick search reveals that colo de mono is made with cinnamon, cloves, and coffee. A basic recipe for alfajores is easy to find, and she fiddles with it, adding the spices and instant coffee in different amounts until she lands on a combination that tastes almost precisely like that one in the tent so many years ago.
The cookies sandwich a filling of homemade dulce de leche, which is as simple as pouring a can of sweetened condensed milk into a pan and baking it until it turns amber-colored and begins to smell toasty and sweet.
Whenever she bakes them now, which is often, Hadley begs her to double the filling and leave a bowl of it in the refrigerator, where she spreads it on toast on her way to the hospital.
“You know that’s straight sugar, right?”
“Mmm,” Hadley responds thickly through a mouthful of toast. “Breakfast of hungover champions.”
Suddenly she hears Hadley’s voice—this time in the present, shouting from the kitchen and breaking into her thoughts. “Bruce Springsteen! A young Matt Damon!”
It’s an odd enough outburst that she forgets her hesitation and walks down the hallway to investigate.
“Oh, hey,” Hadley says when she sees her enter. “Who is your most unexpected celebrity crush? I swear on Matt Damon, circa Good Will Hunting obviously. Amie just admitted to hers being Alan Rickman from the original Sense and Sensibility and none of us are ever going to let her live it down.”
The kitchen island is covered with the disarray of dinner prep: a cutting board with piles of thinly sliced onion and minced garlic, cilantro leaves torn from their stems, a knife sticky with fresh ginger. A bowl of fingerling potatoes sits next to a pot of boiling water on the stove, waiting its turn. Someone has opened and poured a can of coconut milk, trailing cloudy drops behind it.
It wasn’t rosemary that she was smelling at all, but lemongrass and sesame oil and the hot, savory scent of roasting chicken.
She recognizes the dish immediately: coconut milk chicken, which is a dish on the menu at the wine bar where Mack works. Boston Magazine just named it their top new meal of the year, and Mack says almost every table orders it now. The chef, a slim tattooed woman named Dorsey, showed him how to make it, and he’s done it once before in their kitchen. The chicken is browned with butter and sesame oil in a Dutch oven, then everything goes into the pot: ginger, garlic, lemongrass, cilantro, coconut milk, lemon zest, potatoes, and a cinnamon stick. After 2 hours in the oven, the meat falls off the bone at the touch of a fork.
She inhales deeply, relieved to feel hunger piercing through the gray numbness that has cloaked her.
“So? Who is yours?” Aime asks.
“Oh, let me think.” She pauses and accepts a proffered glass of wine from Adam, Aime’s boyfriend. “Maybe Paul Rudd in Wet Hot American Summer. You know, high socks and short shorts.”
“Paul Rudd isn’t a weird celebrity crush! That doesn’t count. He was literally named Sexiest Man of the Year once. Try again.”
Another friend of Aime’s, a tall and lanky runner named David who works in consulting, jumps in, reaching over Aime to drag a cracker through the gooey spinach gruyere dip that Mack is famous for making. “Does Meryl Streep count as weird?”
“Only because she could be your mother!” calls Hadley from inside the open door of the refrigerator, where she’s rummaging for more cheese.
“A young Meryl Streep,” he counters. “Like, Bridges of Madison County.”
She takes a seat next to David and lets her shoulders settle. Her phone is back in her room, lying on her bed. Its silence thrums palpably, as if to broadcast loudly all of the things he isn’t saying to her. She wills herself to sink into the atmosphere of the present: the conversation, the wine, the buzz of happy people. He is either somewhere loving her, or he is not. In some ways the heart is the most complicated instrument of all, she thinks, and in other ways it’s terrifyingly simple: on or off.
Spiced Alfajores
Adapted lightly from King Arthur Baking; makes about 2 dozen sandwich cookies
For the dough
120g (1 cup) all-purpose flour
112g (1 cup) cornstarch
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cloves
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
99g (1/2 cup) granulated sugar
85g (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 large egg yolks
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 teaspoons Cognac (optional)
For the filling
One 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
For the cookies: Whisk together the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cloves, and cinnamon.
In a stand mixer, cream the sugar and butter until pale and fluffy. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, scraping down the bowl as you go. Add the vanilla and Cognac.
Add the dry ingredients and mix until the dough comes together.
Press the dough into a disc and wrap tightly in plastic wrap, the refrigerate for at least 2 hours or up to overnight—the dough should be firm. It’s a sticky dough, so it’s important to chill it.
Once chilled, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Lightly flour your countertop and roll out the dough to a uniform thickness of about 1/8”. Cut the dough into rounds and place them on a parchment-lined baking sheet.
Bake for 10 minutes, or until very lightly golden brown.
Remove from the oven and let cool fully while you make the filling.
For the filling: Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Pour the condensed milk into a pie or cake pan (9” ideally) and wrap it tightly in foil. Place the foil-wrapped pan into a larger roasting pan or casserole dish and add enough water to come partway up the side of the smaller pan.
Bake for 90 minutes to 2 hours — check it starting at an hour to make sure the water level isn’t too low, and add more as needed. You want the milk to thicken and to reach a deep golden brown color.
Remove the filling from the oven, stir it, and let it cool. You’ll have extra, which you can use for more cookies, or on toast as Hadley does, or…eating it directly from a spoon.
Once cooled, spread a layer of filling onto a cookie then sandwich it with another, repeating until you’ve used up all the cookies.