Too Many Cooks by Dana Bate Page A

them, poussin ) and then head back toward Pomona, the small food shop I visited this morning, remembering the fresh, crusty loaves of bread on their shelves. I grab a loaf of challah, its braided crust shiny and golden brown, along with some celery, an onion, some mushrooms, and a few spices. Before I pay, I also throw a bunch of speckled bananas, a pot of Greek yogurt, and some flour and sugar into my basket. The ingredients are slightly different here than they are back home—“self-raising flour,” “caster sugar”—but I’m sure I can re-create the banana bread I developed for a famous morning-show host back in Chicago. It’s one of my most popular recipes to date, and I’m sure it would taste great with a cup of tea.
    When I get back to Natasha’s house, Olga buzzes me through the front gate and grimaces as she eyes my shopping bags.
    â€œNatasha say I do shopping for house.”
    I shrug apologetically. “I don’t mind. Natasha gave me an ATM card. Sometimes it’s actually easier to go myself.”
    â€œThen you clean after, too, yes? Is easier .”
    She purses her lips as I walk through the front door, where I run into Poppy, who is scanning through e-mails on her phone.
    â€œOh. Hello.” She raises an eyebrow as her eyes land on my bags. “You used the Barclay’s account, correct?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œGood.”
    I make for the stairway. “Is Natasha around? I have a few questions about the recipe I’m working on today.”
    â€œNo, she’s at Celine.”
    â€œCeline . . . ?”
    Poppy stares at me, apparently appalled. “The designer? ”
    â€œOh. Okay.” I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never heard of this designer before. When I was a kid, we mostly shopped at Kmart and Sears, so “designer” wasn’t really a part of my vocabulary.
    â€œShe’s getting fitted for a charity event she’s attending later this month,” Poppy says. “The dress her stylist originally selected was a total disaster, so we’re hoping this one is acceptable. The incompetence Natasha has to put up with—you have no idea.”
    I think back to my childhood. The time my mom forgot to pick me up in kindergarten, and I had to walk home by myself, only to find her passed out on the couch in front of General Hospital . The time she sent me to school on Halloween dressed in a trash bag because she’d forgotten to buy me a costume and said I should tell everyone I was “white trash,” which I did and then got sent to the principal’s office. The time I found my twelve-year-old brother high and reeking of pot, while my parents watched Judge Judy in the family room. Incompetence? Yeah, I know a little about that.
    But I don’t share any of that with Poppy because she wouldn’t be interested, and even if she were, she’d never understand. Instead, I simply say, “Wow. I can only imagine.”
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    Here is what I can piece together of Natasha’s day so far:
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    7–9 a.m. Exercises with trainer
    9–10:43 a.m. Takes stunningly long time to shower, dress, do hair and makeup
    10:43–11:43 a.m. Discusses cookbook with me
    11:43–12 p.m. Complains to stylist on the phone
    12–12:45 p.m. Goes for fitting at Celine
    1:00–4:00 p.m. Spends three hours (!!!!!) getting a massage and facial
    And that’s all I have so far.
    Meanwhile, here is what my day has looked like:
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    7–8 a.m. Wake up, take cold shower, reply to e-mails from editors and agents about previous projects, make pot of tea that ends up burning my tongue
    8:15–9 a.m. Have weird interaction with Tom, the building manager, about my cold shower, head for the tube, make my way to Natasha’s via Pomona
    9–10:43 a.m. Wait for Natasha, sketch out ideas for cookbook, draw doodle of cat with antlers
    10:43–11:43 a.m. Discuss cookbook with