The Thing About Luck

“I never lie.”

“But you just said you have eyes on the back of your head.”

“Did I know who come in without looking?”

“Yes.”

“Then I no lie.”

At almost eight, we drove dinner out to the combines. I’d seen Robbie on a dirt bike ahead of us. At the combines, Obaachan and I arranged all the food on the open bed of the pickup, buffet style. We’d set out a bunch of folding canvas chairs for everyone. The drivers all stretched their necks and backs before turning to the food.

“It’s lasagna,” I said proudly, even though I hadn’t made it. “And brownies for dessert.”

Mrs. Parker was already looking over the food. “Oh, dear, the broccoli is overcooked.” She turned to me and Obaachan. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s overcooked vegetables. Wasn’t that included in the directions at the start of my menu book?”

Obaachan didn’t say a thing, so that left it to me to admit, “We didn’t get a chance to read the whole preface. The broccoli is still kind of crunchy.”

“Oh, honey, you must read the preface. It’s my whole theory of cooking. I just wrote it this year. It needs to be a tad crunchier.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll read it, I promise.” I felt totally deflated. She leaned over and lightly sniffed the lasagna but didn’t comment. She only glanced at the brownies.

Everybody grabbed the reusable plastic plates and utensils and sat down. I stood watching. Mick stuck a big forkful of lasagna in his mouth, then made an unpleasant face. When he had swallowed, he said, “A bit cheesy, isn’t it?” Right then and there, I decided I hated Mick.

Mrs. Parker looked offended. “It’s my own personal recipe.” Then she took a bite, smacked her mouth together a few times, and shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no. This is all wrong. Too much Parmesan and no basil at all.”

Since Obaachan obviously wasn’t going to participate in this conversation, I said, “There actually wasn’t any fresh basil at the store.”

Finally, Obaachan said, “Not enough Parmesan in your recipe. Lasagna need—what you call it?—tang. I put more in.”

Mrs. Parker looked at Obaachan as if she couldn’t believe her ears. There was a deadly silence.

Then Mr. Parker said, “Oh, come on, honey, it’s actually good. I like the tang.”

She looked at him as if she was going to take a butcher knife and plunge it into his heart.

“Tang. No tang. All I know is this is good food and I’m hungry,” he said. “Sit down and eat, sweetheart. Mick, cheese is good for you.”

Mrs. Parker turned to Obaachan. “This must be the last time, and I do mean the last, that you deviate from a recipe.”

Obaachan said, “What ‘deviate’?”

“It means change,” Mrs. Parker answered. “You must follow my recipes exactly. I just want you to know that before I married my husband, I went to cooking school and worked as a chef for seven years.”

Obaachan nodded her head and said, “You great cook. I know that. But your school no teach you about tang.”

I was stunned that Obaachan would talk back to Mrs. Parker.

“In future I follow all your recipe exactly,” Obaachan continued. “But I have very strong feeling about tang. But you pay me, I leave the tang out. I give you my promise.”

I’d never even heard Obaachan use the word “tang” before.

Obaachan and I sat down and began eating with the others. It really wasn’t half bad. Yes, it had more tang than the usual lasagna, but it still tasted good. Everybody scarfed down their food. All the guys even went for seconds. Then it was brownie time. Nobody commented as they ate their brownies, so I guess that was good. Personally, I thought they were excellent brownies.

Then Robbie suddenly said, “Good brownies.”

“I made them,” I said. And I had to admit, they were excellent.

I wanted to make him brownies every day for the rest of the harvest.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning I woke up first to cook. It was Sunday, so that made it a full-breakfast day, with all twelve of us looking forward to our weekly treat. I was still in a happy mood because Robbie had liked my brownies. In fact, I started to think that perhaps they were the best brownies I had ever tasted. And to tell the truth, I mistakenly put in a little more sugar than the recipe called for.

Jiichan walked into the kitchen and stared at the pan I planned to use to scramble thirty eggs. It was made of Teflon. We didn’t have anything made of Teflon at home because Jiichan refused to eat anything cooked on weird pots and pans that were coated with who knew what kind of chemicals. Jiichan stumbled backward with a hand on his heart. I knew it was because of the Teflon. I waited for him to recover. “Don’t worry,” I said. I took out a smaller stainless-steel pan to cook his three sunny-side-up eggs in, using the special oil we’d brought for him—a mix of butter from grass-fed cows, organic coconut oil, and organic extra-virgin olive oil. Jiichan ate as much junk food as anyone, but he balanced it with this magical oil.

Unfortunately, dishwashing was one of my chores both at home and on harvest, so I had scraped quite a few pans in my life and pretty much thought that whoever had invented Teflon had done the world a big favor. I wondered if the inventor of Teflon was someone like Jaz, some brainy dude locked up in a lab twelve hours a day while he chewed gum and blew bubbles exactly the same size, over and over.

“I got very bad feel about Teflon,” Jiichan said. “Teflon invented by someone who care more about easy than about good.”

I cooked everyone else’s eggs at the same time and toasted and buttered a loaf of wheat bread. I fried thirty sausages and started the coffee and the hot water for tea. I radioed the Parkers. “Breakfast is ready,” I said. Then I felt kind of shy about going over to the drivers’ quarters. Finally, I crept forward and peered into their room. “Breakfast,” I said, but not loudly enough to wake anyone. I took a big breath. “Breakfast!” I said, even more loudly than I’d meant to.

“Girl, we’re not deaf,” Mick said. The guys started getting out of bed, some of them in their underwear. For half a second I stared, but then I hurried from the room. There was hair all over their chests! A lot!

Obaachan was setting the kitchen table. Breakfast was always indoors, I didn’t know why. I guess that was just the way Mrs. Parker liked it. No harvesting operation I had ever heard of cooked a hot breakfast for the workers, even on Sundays. But like I said, the Parkers had started out as drivers themselves, so they really liked to take good care of their team.

Rory, Sean, and Mick came into the kitchen at the same time. I sat down with my plate and slid to the very end of one of the benches. I didn’t know whether I wanted Robbie to sit next to me or not. It was kind of stressful sitting next to him. On the other hand, it was also fun and exciting. Mick took some eggs and five sausages and slid in next to me. He hadn’t bothered brushing his hair, and tufts of it stood up on his head.

“Summer. What’s the craic?” he said.

But I couldn’t stop staring at his plate. Who eats five sausages? I thought. Now there were only twenty-five left for everyone else. But I could make that work by not eating any until after everyone else had eaten theirs.

“Summer?” Mick asked.

“The usual,” I replied. “Got up at six.”

“Summer, is there milk in it?” Rory asked.

“Yes, in the fridge.” I forgot what exactly “in it” meant to Irish people, but it didn’t exactly mean “in it” like we thought.

“Jaykers! Ya want milk? The amount of milk ya drink, ya’re going to turn into a cow,” Mick exclaimed.