Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro

so, I’m already contemplating asking for carryout before our orders arrive. At least it would cut short this “kindly meant but really I don’t have the time to argue with my eldest child” lunch. It turns out this is a health intervention of sorts.

      Sarah is ten minutes older than her twin Riley, but sometimes she seems ten years older. The genetic code split right down the middle with my girls. A performance artist who uses her family as her canvas, Riley inherited the Blake family temperament, which I’m told is a quite helpful state of mind for an artist. My mother has it. Sarah and I, no. Riley, oh yeah! For the past four years most of her Sturm und Drang has been directed at her decamped father.

      Sarah got all the practical, disciplined, standards coding. Everything, from her thermal reconditioned straight hair to her dove-gray suit with tasteful pin to her kitten heels, screams reserved and rational. She has managed to find a rationale for being friendly, if not friends, with Brandi while Riley’s hatred for Brandi puts my dislike in perspective. Sometimes I think Sarah is trying to make up for her twin’s lack of self-control. But we all have issues, right? This no-nonsense approach works well for her career as a paralegal. But her brand of practicality also stops her from achieving her full potential. After one smack-down with the New York bar, Sarah decided that her law degree didn’t require that she practice law. I think that she just lost her nerve, but a mother doesn’t say that to a grown child. However, at the moment, she’s lecturing me as if I’m her child.

      “You need a vacation, Mom.” That’s her punch line.

      “Vacation? I’m working the night shift starting tonight because my new baker walked out after a fight with Shemar over the flour-to-water ratio for making ciabatta in August. I don’t have time for a nap. Forget a vacation.”

      “That is exactly why you need one. When is the last time you took time off?”

      I take a deep breath. Sarah and Riley both live and work in the city so I don’t see my girls that often. I don’t want to argue. No point in mentioning my spa day. The face Sarah made when she saw my watermelon toes was priceless. “I was in Phoenix two years ago.”

      “That was for Grandpa Fred’s bypass surgery.”

      I reach for a plump roll, perfectly formed and weighty enough to be genuine yeast bread, and place it on my plate. “What about the weekend in Kauai three years ago?”

      “Didn’t you go there as part of the New Jersey independent bakers association to broker a supply deal for macadamia nuts?”

      “For my Hawaiian bread.” I nod, happy to be reminded of a past culinary victory. “The secret is the bananas. Not the—” Sarah’s frown cuts short my recipe revelation. “Okay. I’ve got it. Not long ago I spent a few days in Savannah. And before you say it was business I want you to know I took a whole day to sightsee.”

      “Mom, that was four years ago and you were scoping out relocation sites in case you went into merger with that Savannah frozen-dough plant.” Sarah reaches out to touch my arm. “I’m sorry if it’s still a sore subject.”

      “Just because they backed out on the deal without even a discussion? Of course not.”

      Out of habit I break the roll open with a thumb through the crust, expecting a moist but lightly risen center. Instead it’s damply dense. Clearly, it baked at too high a temperature and without enough moisture.

      Disappointed, I lay it aside. “Okay, so I don’t do down time well. What’s the issue?”

      “Let’s see. Health? Mental regeneration? Health? Refreshment of the soul? Health? A social life? Health?”

      “Enough with the health. My doctor says I’m fine.”

      “Really? When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

      I look up as a waiter puts my order before me, hoping to avoid the trap I dug myself by mentioning my doctor. I’ve canceled my yearly checkup three times in a row. With my small-business insurance, I need to be deathly ill to be covered.

      “Look, sweetie. I do appreciate your concern but I’m doing fine.”

      “What’s this you’re eating, Mom?” Sarah picks up half of my sandwich and lifts a brow. “Is that pork?”

      “It’s an Italian roast pork panini with organic basil pesto. Organic, get it?”

      She shudders delicately and puts it down. “At your age, pork should be a rare indulgence, not a midweek lunch.”

      I hunker down in my chair as she forks the first portion of her field greens salad. “I don’t eat this sort of thing often. This just sounded good and—”

      “—I’m tired and wanted to give myself a little pick-me-up,” she finishes for me. “I know that speech, Mom. You’ve used it all my life. For chocolate. For ice cream.” Sarah shakes her head. “You’re in need of far too many pick-me-ups lately.”

      I gaze longingly at the lovely pork sandwich I was relishing, get instead a mental picture of myself in paper-towel bikini, and put it down. “Fine. No pork.” I snap my fingers to gain the attention of the waitress nearby. “Bring me a field greens salad. No dressing.” I turn back to Sarah. “Happy now?”

      Sarah reaches to squeeze my hand. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s got to be hard, with Dad and Brandi announcing that they’re trying to have a baby.”

      “Baby! Baby?”

      Now it’s Sarah’s turn to look stricken. “I thought you knew. Oh, Mom, Brandi called me last week. She’s always wanted a child…. Oh, damn!”

      “No, it’s fine.” I reach for my pork sandwich, the indulgence of which has just been justified by Sarah’s revelation. “What’s the big deal, right?”

      Sarah leans forward. “I’m so sorry, Mom. She said Dad would call you before they left for their vacation in New Mexico. I should have broached the news more gently.”

      I wonder if news of this sort has a gentle approach.

      A sudden too-tight sensation of warmth flames up inside me. Fricking great! A hot-flash reminder that I’m rapidly leaving the baby-maker category she’s snugly in the middle of.

      As I reach for my water I notice Sarah chewing her lip. “How upset are you?”

      She shrugs. “I’m grown. What’s another family member, more or less?”

      “And Riley?”

      “Riley’s being Riley.”

      Which means Riley is furious. So, on to the next bit of family news. “Dating anyone?”

      “Sort of.” Sarah frowns but says nothing as I pick up my sandwich again. “He’s a commodities dealer for the state of Montana.” Her shy smile says volumes that I’m not suppose to comment on. “At the moment he’s in Great Falls for a grain growers meeting.”

      “Interesting. And Riley?”

      Sarah rolls her eyes.

      Unlike her sister, who vets men as if she were trying to buy a condo on the Upper East Side, Riley’s man-radar tracks exclusively for Mr. Wrong. No matter their backgrounds, the men in Riley’s life are inevitably the same: emotionally unavailable, self-centered and generally relationship-phobic. She says nice men are boring. I say relationships shouldn’t have to end with dramatic statements like “Come near me again and I’ll set your hair on fire!” That one was aimed at a Goth high school boyfriend with skin the color of an altar candle and black hair that looked like an untwisted wick.

      I tell her there are other types of men out there. I hope she will eventually discover this the way she discovered that a pierced tongue wasn’t worth the cost of repairing the shattered enamel of her teeth.

      “What’s wrong with Riley’s new man?”

      “He’s an ex-con.”

      I