Bake at 350

The summer before my senior year in high school I made the mis take of working for my mother and my aunt Margot's catering business, the address of which happened to be our kitchen. It was the most scorching summer ever recorded in New York State. Elderly peo ple were being warned not to venture outside; there wasn't a single air conditioner or fan to be bought at Sears or any of the hardware stores up on the Turnpike, not at any price. No rain had fallen for ten weeks, and the air had turned crackly with dry heat. When you snapped your fingers little white sparks skidded off your skin. When birds took flight they singed their feathers and in no time fell to the ground. But the heat couldn't stop weddings and bar mitzvahs and christen ings, not in our town, and my aunt and mother were doing so well they decided to give their business a name and have cards printed up. They called themselves TWO WIDOWS, a big joke since both their husbands were not only alive and well, but married to younger women. Margot, especially, cooked with such passion you'd have thought it was the heart of her ex she was sauteing instead of mushrooms for a strudel. Margot was ten years younger than my mother and fifteen years older than me, and she'd been through a lot. She'd married in her senior year of high school, like a dope, she always said. But the truth was, when she spoke ofTony, her ex, her face got so misty and vulnerable I couldn't stand to look.