Page 32 of Driving Beats

We arrive at his house and he accompanies me to the kitchen. I rummage around the walk-in pantry and come out carrying a small packet of yeast high in the air. “Ah-ha! It’s a shame you don’t cook. You have everything back there.”

“I’ll help you, if you want. Mom used to say I was an excellent sous chef.”

He looks as surprised as I am at his offer. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I clap. “Many hands make light work.”

“Very true.” He tilts his head, but doesn’t question me.

Good.

My mother used that saying often after we moved to Oklahoma, to try to motivate me to do more around the house. As there were several others living there, she thought it was funny.

I did not.

Ignoring the tug of my past, I set out all the ingredients and begin to follow the recipe. Coop mixes everything in the bowl, then I pour in the beer, slowly. He tries to steal the bottle from me, but I keep it out of his reach. The remainder is mine!

“Scram! Get yourself a fresh bottle from the bar.”

“I’m not old,” he protests, peering into the bowl.

I hit him with a wooden spoon. “Go!”

After he leaves, I dump in the raisins. When he returns, I ask him to make sure they’re spread throughout. He opens the beer, takes a swig, then replies, “You got it.”

While he’s working on the raisins, I flour the cutting board. “Are they good and dispersed?”

“Damn, girl. There’s another fifty-cent word.” He pokes the bowl with the spoon one final time. “They’re distributed evenly.”

“Thanks for your more expensive word! Now, bring the bowl over here and dump it onto the cutting board. I have to knead the dough.”

He walks toward me and does as instructed. I begin to knead it. “Can you please butter the bowl over there? I’m going to let it proof in there for about an hour, until it doubles in size.” At his quizzical expression, I explain what “proofing” means, which he absorbs with his usual mixture of curiosity and understanding. So different from anyone else I’ve ever met.

We work in tandem until the bread’s covered with plastic wrap. “Now we wait.” I begin to clean up the mess.

Coop lifts a small bowl filled with some remnants of flour. “What did you use this for?”

I check out what he’s holding. “Oh, I used the flour on the cutting board so the dough wouldn’t stick.”

He nods. “Makes sense.” He picks up a handful and, grinning, tosses it at me. “Don’t want you to stick either.”

Coop threw flour at me? “You have got to be kidding!” I grab the larger container of flour and throw some at him. “Take that!”

His cheeks inflate as he grabs more flour. Soon, there’s an all-out flour war. We’re both laughing as flour sails through the air.

“I see some dough on your arm that needs to be floured.” He rubs my arm.

“Oh yeah? I think you sat in some dough. Don’t want your tight ass to be sticky!”

I rush his bum, but he catches me by the waist, lifting me off the floor. My legs kick out, but don’t make contact with anything. Our laughter fills the kitchen.

“If you promise not to touch the flour, I’ll put you down.”

I make some quick calculations. “I’ll stop.” Didn’t say what I would actually stop, though.

He shakes me. “Somehow, I don’t believe you’re sincere.”

“You’re smarter than you look, Grandpa.”

He carries me over to the dinette. “I’m going to set you down. If you so much as step in the direction of the kitchen, I’ll throw you into the pool to cool off. Understood?”