The Darker Side

far,' she offers.

'I have microwave mac and cheese in the freezer if we really screw it up,' I say.

She grins at me and I grin back. We really have no idea what we're doing, but we're doing it together.

'How does that look to you?' she asks me.

I bend forward and see that the center is brown, but not too brown. We have managed to do this without turning the outside surface of the steaks into charcoal. Miraculous.

'They're done,' I decide.

She uses the spatula to remove them from the skillet and onto the waiting plates.

'Okay,' I say, 'now comes the scary part. The sauce.'

'We can do it.'

'We can try.'

She holds up a stick of butter. 'How much?'

I consult the cookbook. 'A tablespoon. But first it says to reduce to medium heat. Maybe we should give it a second to cool down. I think butter can burn.'

We wait a few moments, still mystified.

'Now?' she asks.

'Your guess is as good as mine.'

She digs into the butter with the spoon and drops it onto the pan. We watch as it bubbles and turns liquid.

'I don't know,' Bonnie says. 'Doesn't seem like much butter to me.'

'You think we should add more?'

She frowns. 'Well . . . it's just butter. It's probably safe.'

'Do another tablespoon.'

She does so and we watch it melt and become one with its brother.

'Now what?' she asks.

'It says we're supposed to stir in the shallots . . . oh crap.' I look up at her. 'I don't remember anything about shallots.'

'What's a shallot?'

'Exactly.'

We stare down at the pan of now bubbling butter. Look back at each other.

'What do we do?' I ask.

'I don't know,' Bonnie replies. 'Maybe the extra butter will make up for it?'

'Works for me,' I say. I giggle.

Bonnie points the spatula at me. 'Get it under control, Smoky,'

she says in a stern voice. Then giggles herself. Which of course gets me giggling again and now this train is really in danger of leaving its rails.

'Oh Lord,' I manage to sputter, 'we'd better finish this up or the butter is going to burn.'

Bonnie giggles again. 'Because butter burns.'

'So I hear.' I consult the cookbook. 'Back to high heat.'

She turns the knob.

'Now we stir in one cup Madeira wine and one-third cup balsamic vinegar.'

We pour the cups in and are rewarded with an acrid, stinking cloud of vinegar fumes.

'Wow!' Bonnie sputters. 'That smells terrible! Are you sure that's what the book says?'

I blink my eyes to clear them and consult our current bible. 'Yep.'

'How long do we cook it?'

'Stir it until . . . let me see . . . till it's reduced by half.'

Three minutes later, to our amazement, the mix has done exactly what the cookbook predicted.

'Now we're supposed to whisk in three teaspoons of Dijon mustard,' I say. We plop the mustard into what is beginning to look somewhat swillish. Bonnie whisks away. The odor is not as strong as it was before, but it doesn't smell great.

'Are you sure this isn't some kind of a practical-joke cookbook or something?' she asks.

'Oh, hey,' I say. 'Turns out we're supposed to use three tablespoons of butter after all. The two we already did, and add another one now, just until it melts.'

The butter does not make our witch's brew look any more appetizing. A few moments pass. Bonnie frowns at me.

'Think it's done?'

I peer at the concoction. It's a yellowish gray color. It smells of butter, mustard, and vinegar. 'Too late for prayer.'

We take the skillet off the stove and spread the sauce over each steak as the cookbook directs. Bonnie takes our plates to the table as I pour us each a glass of water.

We're poised over our steaks now, forks and knives in hand.

'Ready?' she asks me.

'Yep.'

We each cut off a piece and pop them into our mouths. There is silence and chewing.

'Wow,' Bonnie says, amazed, 'that's actually . . .'

'--really good,' I finish for her.

'No, like really good.'

'As in delicious.'

She grins at me, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

'Shallots?' she says. 'We don't need no stinking shallots.'

I'd taken a drink of water and I choke on it as I laugh.

'I THINK NEXT TIME WE might even try adding a side of vegetables,'

I say.

We'd had just the steak and some dinner rolls.

'Maybe some shallots,' Bonnie jokes.

I smile. We're sitting on the couch, barely watching some reality talent show. Dinner had been great, and the evening has been wonderful. Normal. I crave normal a lot, but get it rarely.

'So, I want to talk about school,' Bonnie says.

So much for normal.

I chastise myself for this. What could be more normal than a kid wanting to go to a school with other kids? I can see from the anxiety in her face that she's so worried about how what she wants will make me feel.

Oh hell.

I focus on her, give her all of my attention.

'Yes. I'm listening, babe. Tell me.'

She shifts her legs up under her, and pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear while she searches for the right words. This gesture gives me a strong feeling of deja vu; the ghost of her mother. Genetic possession.

'I've been thinking a lot, lately.' She glances at me, smiles a shy smile. 'I guess I think a lot all the time.'

'It's one of your better qualities, bunny. Not enough thinking in this world. What's been on your mind?'

'What I want to do when I grow up. Well . . . when I'm an adult, I mean.'

Interesting distinction.

'And?'

'I want to do what you do.'

I stare, at a loss for words. Of all the things she could have said, of all the professions she could have chosen, this I like the least.

'Why?' I manage. 'What about painting?'

She gives me a smile that says I am deluded but nonetheless charming.

'I'm not that good, Momma-Smoky. Painting is something I'll always enjoy. It brings me peace. But it's not