Cory and I would rummage through the cupboards, Lazy Susan, and fridge to put together a quick homemade sauce while we put whatever pasta we had on hand to boil. We always used our Rachael Ray pasta pot and oval saute pan with the orange handles that Tim had bought for us while courting me back into a reconciliation of our marriage. We'd give ourselves steam facials, laughing all the while, while we drained the pasta, protecting our hands with the crocheted pot holders my Mom had made- our go to, no matter how many store bought ones sat in our cupboard.
Cory's favorite part was to "marry" the pasta with the sauce.
She'd stand over the pan, dramatic as always, intoning, "If anyone can show just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their cheese." She'd cock an ear, pause, and then, with a flourish of arm to the room at large, announce, "I now pronounce you delicious!"
Instead of throwing rice at the new couple, we threw cheese. And more cheese. And because you only live once, a little more cheese. We'd ladle the glorious mess into our special pasta bowls reserved for just this type of celebration: a night to cook for just us girls because the boys were off doing their own thing and we were free to indulge our wildest pasta desires.
The house smelled spectacular by the time we were done, all garlic and fresh herbs. Cory'd grab her favorite fork and we'd sit cross-legged on the couch in front of the tv, stuffing our mouths shamelessly while watching Gossip Girl.
Pantry Pasta was the best. Cory was the best.
So fast forward six years. It was been a hard journey to feel any sort of comfortable cooking in my kitchen. The other night this happened:
I felt Cory's presence with me while I was cooking. I strongly felt like she'd put a thought into my head; it was so clear, I could actually hear her voice.
I was making enchiladas. I had the sauce simmering while I made the filling. Tim was on the other side of the room fixing something he'd accidentally broken. I turned to the stove to give the sauce a stir and shook my butt a little as I did. Tim grinned and asked, "Is that part of the recipe?"
I answered, "Why yes, they're saucy!"
No more had I said it then I could hear Cory at my shoulder saying, "If you're gonna make Mexican food, don't you think you need a Latina doing that?"
I smiled to myself, delighted that this pseudo-memory had presented itself with no effort on my part. It was like Cory had come along and placed it there. If I had schizoaffective disorder as Cory did, they'd probably say it was thought placing, but since I don't, it's attributed to grief and we just call it love. Hardly seems fair.
So in my head, I continued the well loved pattern of banter with my girl, imagining that at twenty five, going on twenty six, she might not still be living at home:
"Yeah, Cory, you do shake it better, but I can't call you to come across town every time I'm gonna make tacos. What then?"
In my head, she cocked her head, thinking, her eyes widening slightly and a smile unfolding as she declared, "Well, in that case, maybe you and Jake could do together...like two white people together shaking their booties might equal one Latina."
Still in front of the stove, I laughed out loud as Tim watched me with some concern. These were so Cory's words.
I called Jake into the kitchen and told him the whole story, ending with my request for him to stand at the counter and shake his booty beside me.
He stood there in a t-shirt and boxer briefs (his lounging at home outfit of choice) and smiled helplessly. There was no way to not indulge this ridiculously accurate representation of Cory.
We all laughed as I instructed Jake to "Come on, Jake, really move your hips! Like this!"
"Oh my." Tim said, smiling.
And in that moment, Jake and I shaking our butt like fools at our kitchen counter while the sauce simmered, she was with us.
She's still with us.
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