Life From Scratch Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t know how to remind my father that I am just as important as a brief. That I’m part of that environment he protects—a living, breathing human. Instead I accepted his apologetic shoulder shrug and walked through the house to find my mother. She was sitting in front of the computer, reading the New York Times both on the screen and in paper form simultaneously.
    “You have to go online to see the comments,” she explained.
    “Why not read it all online?” I asked.
    “I can’t stand the computer. I need to hold my newspaper. Smell the news.”
    “You would think Dad would have convinced you to cancel your subscription by now,” I said. “Chopping down trees. Bad for the environment.”
    “I recycle,” she insisted. “Are you heading out, pumpkin?”
    “Actually, I was going to ask you to drive me into the city. I have so much stuff to take back and I can’t really fit it all into the bags. It’s really heavy.”
    “I can’t, honey. After I finish the Times , I’m getting back to work.”
    “And then you have the Perlmans,” I finished for her.
    “Right, the Perlmans,” she agreed, relieved that I wasn’t pushing the issue.
    “Can I borrow your car?” I finally pleaded. “I’ll drive into the city and then drive back and take the train back in.”
    “I don’t see why not,” my mother told me. “As long as you’re back before we leave for the Perlmans.” She beamed at me as if she was so proud of my self-sufficiency. One needed to be self-sufficient when surrounded by those who treasured paper over people.
    That was months ago, but I hadn’t been brave enough to attempt angel food cake until recently. And, of course, once I decided to try making it, cake flour disappeared off of every shelf in New York City .   This was not the first store I had traveled to in search of baking ingredients.
    I lean against the wall and take out my phone, opening Twitter so I can complain about Zabar’s lack of flour choices.
    “I think it is merely a strange coincidence, this city-wide disappearance of cake flour,” Arianna admits, nuzzling the top of Beckett’s head. He twists around to try to grab the ends of her honey-colored hair.
    “Blech!” he exclaims in Beckettese.
    “I couldn’t agree more,” I tell him, hitting send.
    We walk back out into the damp, cold afternoon, which is slowly bleeding into evening. I can see my breath in the air, and Arianna fusses with Beckett’s hat, tying the strings underneath his chin again. He swings his little legs against her stomach as he hangs from his carrier. They’re always together. A unit.
    Even though he was created with sperm that came from an anonymous donor, it seems as if all of Beckett’s features come straight from Arianna. Her narrow, blue eyes; her stick-straight blond hair that looks like it benefited from some obscure Japanese straightening treatment; and her thin, straight nose have all shown up in miniature on Beckett. They share the same smile down to matching dimples on their left cheek.
    “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I nominated you for a blogging award,” she says as we walk down the subway steps, trying hard not to knock our bulging shopping bags into the other riders.
    Arianna knows how much the blog has grown on me, how much pride I take in the relationships I’ve built through the site or the comments I get on my posts. I turn my head slightly so she can’t see my huge, slightly-embarrassed grin.
    “Er . . . what sort of a blogging award?”
    “I don’t know. It’s called ‘the Bloscars.’ I saw a post about it on one of the fashion blogs I read. I nominated you in the food category.”
    “Well, there’s no way I can win,” I tell her. “I mean, my blog is about frying eggs, not making soufflés. Probably one of those big-name bloggers will win. Pioneer Woman Cooks or Smitten Kitchen . People who can really cook and have a million readers.”
    “You have a million readers,” Arianna insists.
    “I have like