This piece is a book excerpt from Recipe for Confidence by author Samantha Picaro.
Anginetti are fun to make and worth the messiness.
None of us opposed Lana’s idea to make them as we walked into her house half an hour after her surprise arrival. Her house, only five minutes away from ours, looks like it was made out of chocolate. It is the color of fudge with vanilla-colored shutters and trim and a porch with a dark pink door, which Lana says she painted.
We make the anginetti at the marble island in the kitchen, the tan marble hidden by the flour, sugar, egg yolk, lemon extract, and other confections. Anginetti, aka lemon cookies, are a delicacy in my family’s ancestral region of Puglia in Italy and one of my family’s favorite sweets. Mom has relaxed thanks to baking, one of our ways to de-stress, and the red wine she and Lana share.
We don’t talk because I suck at multitasking and following directions past two steps. I have to reread each step before doing it, like cracking the eggs and making sure which ingredients go in the blender, and which ones don’t. I constantly double check with Mom and Lana that I’m doing everything right. I still mess up when I forget to put the lemon extract into the mixer.
Lana ruffles my hair. “You’re getting better at following directions. You didn’t ask me or your mom to double check the steps before doing them this time.”
“I guess so.” Then I remember I’m supposed to be positive. Nobody likes a pouter so I put cheer into my tone like a cheerleader. “You’re right. I am getting better. So, tell us your news.”
“I finally found my calling!” Lana claps her hands. “I’m opening a bakery! Yours truly is the owner of Lana’s Sweets and Desserts!”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. “What?”
Her grin threatens to split her face in half. “I’ve been busy the past year getting a license, doing paperwork, blah, blah, blah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I’m hurt. We chat a few times a week via text, DMs, and email; she knows I do not like phone calls. Not once did she mention this.
Aunt Lana grimaces at the hurt on our faces. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I was also afraid of jinxing it.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time you gave up on something.”
Lana’s face falls. “Do you have to ruin my moment?”
“What makes you think the bakery will fare better than Caputo’s? You’ll probably bail again if history repeats itself.”
“You know me staying wouldn’t have changed anything.” Lana quit and left New Oak as our family’s restaurant was getting closer to closing. This happened five years ago when I was twelve. My parents have never forgiven her for abandoning the business, making visits and holidays awkward. I’ve been torn between understanding her need to escape the stress and judging her for leaving us to pick up the pieces. I have never told her how I feel because I love her and what good would bringing it up do?
Mom slams her palm against the counter. “Not the point! Family doesn’t abandon each other!”
The outburst forces me to recall a memory from five years ago. My pulse quickens as I remember Mom sobbing on the living couch, telling Dad she’s had to comfort me every single night since Caputo’s closed. I recall biting my fingers and wrists until marks were left, sitting on the floor in the corner of my room, and crying every night.
That night, Dad told her that “Bryn needs to get thicker skin, that it’s selfish to demand comfort but never give it. She’s almost a teenager. We need to stop babying her.” I ran to my room to cry before Mom checked on me. When she came to my room, I told her I was fine and not to worry about me.
Since that night, I’ve done my best not to worry Mom about anything. She’s more relaxed without worrying about meltdowns. When she allowed Lana back into our lives a few months later, I didn’t tell Lana how angry and upset we had been. I thought telling her would prevent us from moving forward and I was happy to have her back, even if she lived in a different town.
“Bryn, how do you feel about Lana being back?” Mom says. I’m pulled from the memory like being pulled from icy water. She and Lana look at me like I’m a judge with their fates in my hands.
Staying mad at them won’t help, plus I have a role to perform as peacemaker. It never worked when I used to tell them to stop fighting. Expressing my feelings results in being accused of overreacting, being treated like a baby or being accused of being blunt. People lie when they say honesty is the best policy.
I paste a smile on my face. “I think it’s great. This could be a fresh start for all of us. Could we please support Lana’s dream and move on?”
Mom sighs. “You’re right. I guess you’re the only cool head in this room.”
Since Lana left five years ago, I’ve been Positive Bryn. Positive Bryn is the mask I use with everyone including my family. She was born after I was tired of people disliking me, feeling uncomfortable around me, or treating me like a child.
Positive Bryn makes people comfortable, avoids conflict and convinces people I’m likeable. It’s the most exhaustive form of autistic masking ever but being myself hasn’t worked out.
I’ve been told to stay true to myself but who really means it?
Lana says, “I was wondering if you’d let Bryn work for me at the bakery.” She leans forward like invading Mom’s space will influence her answer.
Mom shakes her head. “No. You know Bryn struggles with doing too much at once.” I wince but it’s the truth. I struggle with multi-tasking and autistic burnout from too many activities and social interaction. I’ve gotten better at handling those things but Mom and Dad don’t want to take a chance, which frustrates me.
“I won’t give her too many hours.”
“The answer is no. Bryn should focus on school.”
Lana recoils like Mom hit her with a jackhammer. I tug my scrunchie to the point I’m surprised I haven’t broken it.
Mom goes into the foyer to answer a call from the school she works for. Aunt Lana cleans the counter and I put the cookies in the oven.
My aunt puts her hand on my shoulder. She makes sure Mom is really gone before saying, “I still want you to work for me. We just won’t tell her.”
“What?” My heart rate quickens, not liking the idea of keeping secrets from Mom, even if she frustrates me sometimes. I’m super close to my mom. Mom and I spent more time together than the average mother-daughter pair growing up because of constant appointments with specialists and rejection from my peers. Even when she’s overprotective, I don’t want to disappoint her.
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that, even if she treats me like a baby. Shouldn’t you be teaching me not to go behind my mom’s back?”
“When have I ever been a proper adult?” That’s a good point. This is the same woman who let me have ice cream for dinner and watch PG-13 movies whenever she babysat me as a kid. Before she quit Caputo’s, she talked back to rude customers and “accidentally” spilled tomato sauce on a customer who touched her butt.
“I’ll show you how to work the register and other stuff. Best of all, you could use your graphic design skills!”
A pit the size of a canyon forms in my stomach. I don’t want to be the one responsible for the business’s online presence. It’s bad enough I helped Caputo’s fail with grainy photos and amateur posts that looked like they were made by a twelve-year-old, which I was. Editing had never occurred to me until it was too late.
My parents shouldn’t have let a twelve-year-old handle the social media. However, they wanted to give me a sense of purpose after I had told Mom I wasn’t good at anything and didn’t feel useful even at home since I was bad at following instructions. I know Caputo’s failed mostly because of slow business and lack of advertising but I contributed.
I’ve improved my picture-taking, social media and graphic design skills with research and tutorials since then but is it a risk worth taking?
“I don’t know. What if I mess things up for you like I did with Caputo’s?”
“That wasn’t your fault. In hindsight, we probably shouldn’t have let a twelve-year-old handle a business social media account. No offense.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “You have to at least try.”
We break apart like criminals trying not to get caught when Mom comes back. The oven dings, making me wonder if the anginetti were waiting for the conspiracy to end.
When the cookies cool off, we add white lemony glaze and red sprinkles. The sweetness dazzles our taste buds with its intensity. Each of us devours at least three cookies, not caring if it’s too much or how many crumbs decorate the tiled floor.
Mom gets a text from Dad. “Time to go. Dad wants to see that new comedy movie tonight.”
“Lana, are you coming with us?” I ask.
Aunt Lana stares at the cookie. “Um, I can’t because I still have boxes to unpack and I want to get some stuff done before the bakery opens on Monday.”
Dad is very intolerant of Lana. He feels the most betrayed by her for quitting Caputo’s because owning a restaurant was his parents’ dream. Their opposite personalities don’t help: Dad is a serious electrician who prides himself on being a provider; Lana is a free spirit who prides herself on having fun.
I smile with a nod before the mood becomes more sour. “Sure thing! Business comes first.” Adding cheer to my tone has become as easy as adding honey to tea.
“Exactly. But don’t think you get a discount because we share DNA. Business is business.” Lana waves a wooden spoon at us but smiles.
Whether or not I work for her, I’m so happy she’s back in town.
