10

Gourmet Week was a resounding success across the street. Suddenly, our seedy little neighborhood was the hottest place in town, just as we'd envisioned in the summer. Cars, even a few limos, were double-parked on all the side streets, and customers lined up around the block to get into, not Celie's Deli, but Monica's, her business rival across the street. It was driving Celie crazy.

"I can't stand it! It's more than a person can bear!" Celie grumbled. "The mere mention of Gourmet Week makes me sick. That woman charges ten dollars for a lousy bowl of pumpkin soup. She charges twenty for two chicken wings and five just to walk in the door and listen to stupid music! She's a criminal! She should be put on the electric chair!"

We ate all our meals in the deli, serving ourselves since Celie was still raving mad. By the weekend, our landlady could take it no more. I was pouring some coffee for Karmen and Elise when I overheard her disguising her voice in a French accent on the kitchen phone.

"I just had supper at that miserable Monica's, and there was a cockroach in my food as big as a Volkswagen. You're the health inspector. Do something about it," then in a normal voice at me, "Go and sit down and mind your own business, Miss. Kononovich. And don't be so generous with my coffee. You think it grows on trees?"

During that week, I had to suspend the job search because of my black eye. Outwardly I complained bitterly, but I was rejoicing on the inside. While Karmen scoured the city for another job and Elise went on fashion shows, I toured around my apartment, went to museums and art galleries and saw the movies.

"It doesn't seem fair, does it?" Celie snickered. "Your friends are busting their bums, and you're on a vacation."

"It's my eye," I explained. "Who would hire me with a face like that?"

She snorted. "You can hardly see it anymore. You're just making excuses."

"Look," I said defensively, "As soon as I'm back to normal, I'll be right out there with them."

The bruise continued to fade. I actually toyed with the idea of enhancing it a little with mascara and eyeshadow. But then Karmen got hired on as a receptionist at a publishing company. The next morning, I was once again looking for a job.

Almost immediately, my mind started playing the usual tricks on me. A little dust here, a rumpled sheet there, anything to keep me away from that employment goal. Then I started cooking again. During the black eye, I hadn't felt the slightest urge to turn on the stove. I started with dinner, but soon an elaborate luncheon became a habit, too.

I began preparing lunch boxes for Karmen and Elise. I told them it was because I felt bad about not contributing to the expenses. But the real reason was that, by preparing them the previous afternoon, I could use up even more job-hunting time.

Then I diversified into the laundry. It was a godsend. Laundry takes hours!

What was the matter with me? There was a time back in my parent's house when my clothes got piled up like a mountain. Why was the sight of dirty socks or a rumpled sheet suddenly so intolerable?

Cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing - these used to be nothing more than scolding words in my mom's list of Things to Nag About Today. Now not only did I do them - they were my whole life!

Was I goofing off? No way! There wasn't a job on earth that would have me working this hard! I couldn't believe maintaining one little apartment could be so complicated. Could you imagine a whole house? Talk about the chronic disappointment. You wash clothes, somebody wears them, you make beds, somebody sleeps in them, the more you cook, the more dishes you have to scrub. All your accomplishments reset to zero. How could every housewife in the world live like this?

I had sworn that I would never be a housewife!

But now that was technically what I was.

And it doesn't help when your roommates are such slobs.

One day I got the bright idea to rearrange some of the furniture. But the problem was that the section under where the couch used to be was cleaner than the rest of the carpet. So I had to shampoo the rug, which made everything else in the apartment look lousy, so I had to vacuum the upholstery, wax the floor, and wash the walls. I barely had time to make dinner.

Karmen and Elise hardly noticed the change in me. Between overtime and Clarice Kingsley, they weren't around much and rarely showed up for dinner. No matter what I said about their girlfriend, those two idiots just wouldn't listen to me.

I didn't have a hope of domesticating them, but it wasn't much of a bother becoming their personal housekeeper.

When I went groceries shopping, I walked past the baking section. A nostalgic feeling stirred in me. Before I knew it, I was stacking flour and chocolate fudge cake mix, which I hadn't been able to resist buying them.

I remembered working in my parents' bakery. I remembered the smell of fresh baked bread and cakes and all sorts of pastry, and it made me miss home. When I was little, my mother always used to make vanilla and strawberry shortcakes based on a traditional Russian dessert topped with sweet mascarpone and finished with a naughty warm chocolate sauce. Before she even put it to chill, she would allow me to lick the spoon and scrape the bowl. I always used to say that, if I had my way, that glorious stuff would be gone before she could get it chilled.

I was homesick, but I still didn't want to go home. So I decided to make that memorable dessert myself.

After carefully layered up the cheese mixture with the nectarines and strawberries, I put the stuff to cool off for an hour. When the pots were ready to serve, I ran around the ramekins with a sharp knife then unmolded onto plates. I topped them remaining almonds and drizzle with warm chocolate sauce. I sat down and started with the first bite. It was ten times better than I remembered it.

I ate three of the shortcakes and only two more left. I gave one to the Jogging Grandma. She ate it in two bites.

"I never knew you were a great baker, Azra dear!" she said. "That is so fantastic! Which reminds me a lot of my childhood. This...this brought sweet memories."

To my surprise, she started sobbing. I didn't know my dessert tasted so good, it moved her to tears. I spent half an hour consoling the elderly and listening to her childhood stories and love life. But an idea burst into my mind. What if I could sell these cakes? A plan began to take shape. I would have to find a place that I could sell these goodies.

I went down to the deli with the last vanilla cake. I was too proud of my baking skill and wanted someone to notice the result. Celie frowned at me when I put the cake in front of her.

"What's this?" she said.

"I name it 'Azra's Secret'," I said. "It's a special dessert recipe from home."

"Fatness might not be an imminent danger for you, but not for me," she said.

"Oh come on, Celie," I said. "You always complain about how customers keep turning away to Monica's but have you ever noticed how boring your menu is? There are no cool desserts whatsoever!"

She glared at me. "What are you, a dessert police?"

"What I mean is I have something refreshing for your menu," I said. "If you let me sell these in your deli, I will have money to pay my rent on time. It's a win-win solution."

She was silent, probably weighing the option. Then she looked at the cake, which was all cute and delicate on the plate, it looked like it could sit on a queen's table. After a moment, Celie shrugged and gave in. She scooped a tiny piece and put into her mouth.

I held my breath, but then I could see a spark in her eyes. The landlady ended up wolfing off the whole thing in a blink. I poured her some tea.

"If I die of diabetes, it's all your fault," she said. I knew that was how good my dessert was.

"Told you," I said with a smirk.

"Well, be sure that you keep the consistency," she said. "I want the cakes on my counter freshly bake every day and I take ten percent of the sale."

"Ten percent?"

"Do you want it or not?"

"Okay, okay," I said. "Deal."

And that was how I became self-employed.