The Groaning Board

knock
anything over, Wetzon raised the window a couple of inches. The cool evening
air had the damp, earthy smell of spring after a shower.
    She was out of herself, in a strange
place with a woman she hardly knew who was cooking up a gourmet feast just for
her. What could be bad? She leaned over to smell a funnel-shaped flower.
Something was lying on the floor between two stone pots. A toy of some sort.
She picked it up and it tinkled.
    Micklynn gave a startled cry,
spinning around. “Jimmy?” When she saw what Wetzon held, she said, “I’m sorry.
I thought it was Jimmy.”
    “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Who’s
Jimmy?”
    “My cat. He’s dead.” She said it so
flatly that Wetzon, who had started to offer consolation, kept her mouth shut.
“I thought I put all of his things away. I guess I missed one. Drop it on the
counter for me, will you? I’m about to serve dinner.”
    They dined sumptuously on arugula
salad with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing tossed with tiny bits of peeled and
seeded tomatoes. Dinner was a zucchini-and-mushroom risotto laced with
prosciutto and topped with thin ribbons of parmigiano reggiano.
    “I love you, Micklynn Devora,” Wetzon
said. “No one has ever cooked for me like this. How do you do it? You made a
feast out of what looked like odds and ends.”
    “Thanks.” In her element, Micklynn,
whom Wetzon had thought rather a plain woman, had become beautiful. “I have
this passion for food, but really, anyone who loves food can be a great cook.”
    After dinner, they sat over their
wine smiling at each other. Purring.
    “How did you get into this?” Wetzon
asked.
    “I grew up in New York, went to
Barnard, married Simon—my first—the one who died. I got an entry-level job at Gourmet as a secretary. I used to cook for the fun. It was great. I could actually make
people happy. Coffee?”
    “Decaf.”
    Micklynn filled the kettle and
measured coffee into the filter. “Then Simon died suddenly and I was this young
widow with his life insurance—one hundred thousand dollars.” She took a bowl
from the fridge and set it on the table. Apricot halves sprinkled with sugar,
then stewed and topped with toasted slivered almonds. “I took myself to Paris and studied at La Varenne. Then came home and did a stint at every cooking school in
the area, including the CIA. Hyde Park, not Langley.”
    “The Culinary Institute of America,”
Wetzon said.
    “Right.” Micklynn spooned the apricot
mixture onto two cut-glass compotes. When the kettle began to hiss, she turned
off the gas and waited until the boil stopped, then poured water into the
filter.
    “And The Groaning Board?”
    “I started a little catering service
in my building. I lived in the Apthorp at the time. I used to supply all the
yuppies with great dinners they could claim as their own. That’s how I met
A.T.” She filled mugs with coffee and brought them to the table. “What about
you, Leslie?”
    “Grew up on a farm, went off to
Douglass—colleges for women are the best, aren’t they?—then came to the big city
to dance on Broadway. That’s how I met Carlos.” She smiled-Carlos always made
her smile. His friendship was like having a lucky penny in your pocket. He was
always and forever her best friend.
    “You stopped dancing.”
    “I just didn’t want to be an aging
gypsy with sporadic jobs-if I was lucky—arthritic joints, and no life. I got
out before it could happen to me.”
    “Try these,” Micklynn said. She
opened a tin, folded back the waxed paper.
    “I love biscotti.” Wetzon took a
wedge from the tin and tasted it. “This is terrific. What’s different about
it?”
    “It’s made with cornmeal.”
    “Cornmeal? Really?”
    “Can you keep a secret?”
    “I can.”
    “I’m a chef with a food allergy. I’m
allergic to gluten. If I eat anything with wheat, oats, rye, or barley in it, I
get sick.“
    “That’s horrible. You mean you can’t
eat sourdough bread or bagels or pasta? I’d die.”
    “Among other things. And you wouldn’t
die. You’d make the adjustment if it meant you felt good again. It’s been about
a year now since I’ve had the diagnosis, and I’m adjusting. I’ve been
experimenting with different flours, like rice flours, tapioca flour, potato
starch flour, bean flours.”
    Rice flour, tapioca flour... where
had Wetzon seen these on a shelf recently? She’d had too much wine. Suddenly
she knew, but what did it mean? “If someone has all those things in