Sugar McKenzie and August Wakefield couldn't be more different - Sugar, a meticulous, caring, but lonely paramedic and August, a charming former reality star still chasing his dream. But they've both closed themselves off emotionally from others...t...
"It's all right to fail. You just have to get up again and try. That's the bottom line."
- Tyler Joseph
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"Fidel sticks!"
I slammed a tin bowl on the counter. The bright white electric spinner stood at a 100-degree angle as if it waited for further instructions. My sink was full to the brim. The left side engulfed in soapy cold water with spoons, measuring cups, and ceramic bowls floating like small islands. The right side coated in failed meringue – too thin, almost an icing substance. It was sticky too.
"Why aren't you cooperating?" I yelled down into the bowl.
The super thin inanimate object stayed quiet ... it mocked me.
My royal purple apron loosened around my waist. I pulled my hair into a messy bun at one point. Ingredients – eggs and sugar hardened on my hair. Pieces of hair stood up and sideways. I leaned over the counter. My fingers covered in the first attempt and thickened with the fifth trial; the squishy substance found their way in between my fingers and in the palm of my hands' creases.
In the living room, Amadeus chilled under his artificial light, his shell dry and warm. He positioned himself directed under the "sunshine." His head hid in his shell. He was invisible to the world.
I stared at Amadeus. My eyes squinted.
"Lucky," I mumbled and let out a groan.
I glanced over to the couch to see Dottie sleeping on a pillow. Her gray face turned towards the other cushions. Her tail curled and had a small "bob" to it. Dottie transformed into a gray blob that hummed to itself.
"Really?"
The goal was to relax.
After two days of an eight- and twelve-hour shift, back to back, plus August's surprise visit, I desired nothing more than to bake and sleep. I'd been craving a citrus dessert that would put my stomach and mind at ease. I recalled my Mama's kind words that inspired me: "Lemon meringue pie. Sweet and sour. A unique taste. My mother made them every week for my father. I think of her every time I smell one."
I would be the co-baker whenever Mama created the treat. I observed from the side lines. My elbows tucked in, I wore an apron that was three times the size of my waist and hair pulled back into a ponytail. Mama would talk so quickly that I had to reach for any piece of paper – the newspaper, napkins, or receipt to write down all the ingredients and instructions. I repeated the steps back to Mama. As time went by, I started to recall the small details. Mostly the ingredients were the easiest to remember. The exact time was difficult. It wasn't in normal increments, like five, ten, and fifteen or two, four, and six. There was no pattern. Then that's how I figured out her trick. Nothing "normal." This was Great-Grandma Margaret's recipe. She made it up as she went.
