Friday Loretta came to my porch holding my milk glass cake stand — unwashed, a ring of dried coconut frosting around the rim. “I came to make peace,” she said, then glanced past me at my kitchen like a buyer at an open house. “I was thinking it would be lovely to have your recipes written down for the family. On cards.” “My recipes are in my hands, Loretta. They don’t come on cards.”
Sunday Garrett dropped Clara off for three hours. She told me, in the way five-year-olds repeat what they’ve heard at their own dinner table: “Nana’s going to cook Aunt Khloe’s wedding. Mommy said you’ll let her borrow [the blue pan] because you’re family.”
Monday Britney and Tanner walked up my driveway unannounced. “We need to borrow the big roaster and your stand mixer. Mom wants to practice.” “No,” I said. I don’t think anyone in her family had ever heard me say that word. While we talked, Tanner wandered into my kitchen photographing my stove, my backsplash, my knife rack. “Relax. It’s content.”
Tuesday a stranger rang my bell — a woman near sixty with reading glasses on a beaded chain, holding a sheet of paper. “Is this Loretta’s kitchen?” It was a price list: “Loretta’s Sunday Table. Mother’s Day brunch box $85. Glazed ham tray $95. Coconut cake $42. Pickup Saturday, May 9th, 10 to noon at our kitchen, 418 Alder Lane.” My address. “Now booking summer weddings. Our first wedding, 140 guests, June 13th.” Three photos: my ham in my dented blue pan, my backsplash photographed by Tanner the day before, and at the very edge of the third frame, a blue gingham sleeve with red thread — my mother’s apron, on my arm.
“Mrs. Burroughs,” I said, “no food is made for sale in this house, and no one here is named Loretta.”
On Florence’s porch I pressed the little link under Britney’s name. It opened a Facebook page called Loretta’s Sunday Table — created January 12th, 3,900 followers. There was my Christmas rib roast on my mother’s china, captioned “my table this Christmas.” My Thanksgiving pecan pie. The Easter ham, posted April 6th: “12 hours in my kitchen for the people I love.” Twelve hours. Those were my hours. Pinned at the top: “Chloe and Logan, June 13th, 140 guests, our very first wedding. Thank you, Judith and Robert, for trusting Loretta’s table.”
And that morning, a new post: my stove, my backsplash, my window. “Our kitchen is ready for Mother’s Day orders.”
I sat back on Florence’s swing and everything from Easter lined up like plates on a pass. Judith and Robert Keer hadn’t come for Easter. They’d come for a tasting. They were paying for their son’s wedding reception and had come to taste the cooking they’d already put a deposit on. The caterer was supposed to be Loretta. The cook could not be seen. “Eat in the kitchen,” of course.
In my old business, when a client didn’t pay, I never shouted. I sent paper. On Wednesday, April 15th, my attorney Lucille Ostrander — who has handled my contracts since 1996 — wrote a one-page letter, sent certified to Loretta and Britney. Three points: no permission to use my address, my home, or images of my kitchen; no food for sale would be prepared on my property; everything must come down within seven days. She charged me $350. Best money I spent that spring.
Thursday I had the locks changed — $186. Garrett’s old house key had been living on Britney’s key ring for three years.
That night I called my son. “Did you know my address is on a price list?” The silence went on so long I checked whether the call had dropped. “Britney said you’d be fine with it,” he said finally. “You knew.” “It’s just for pickups, Mom.” “You knew Easter was a tasting.” He didn’t answer. In my experience, a man who doesn’t answer that question has already answered it.
Saturday the letter arrived at 10:14. At 10:31 Britney was shouting: “Khloe’s wedding is in 8 weeks. If mom can’t do the food, it’s on you.” “Loretta signed up to cook it. Let her cook it.” “You know she can’t do 140 people by herself.” It was the first time anyone in that family had said it out loud. “You were going to be in the kitchen anyway. You love that stuff. What difference does it make whose name is on it?” “All the difference in the world.” Then her last card, low and flat: “Don’t expect Clara on Mother’s Day or any day until you apologize to my mother and take back that letter.”