“How’s it up there in Mumford,” Maga said.
“Not too bad.”
“Oh, excuse me. Medford, not Mumford.”
“Well, Mumford lives in Medford, so it’s an understandable mistake.”
Maga chuckled. “I guess so. What else have you been doing?”
“I’m making granola.”
“You’re what?”
“Granola. You mix it with yogurt.”
“Like cereal?”
“Yes. Close enough.”
“How do you make it?”
“I’m following a recipe from a cookbook.”
“Oh. How nice. What’s the cookbook called.”
“The what?”
“Dude. Diet.”
“With a G?”
“D.”
“T?”
“D. Like dude. Guy. Oh, a dude ranch.”
“Oh, okay. Dude. Do you like to cook?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Do you have many people over?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Oh.”
“I’m making this because I’m not really a morning person and it’ll help me save time in the mornings.”
“You’re getting prepared now so you can move faster in the morning.”
“Exactly!”
“Do you have any upcoming trips planned?”
“New York in February and then visiting you in March.”
“Did you know my birthday is in March?”
“Did you know that’s why I’ll be visiting you?”
“I did not.”
“It is indeed.”
Silence crept over the conversation as I was busy maneuvering my granola in/out of the oven. “I don’t know what we have in common tonight,” Maga said.
“Umm, well, we…”
“I’ve run out of ideas,” Maga said in a forthright and yet backhanded way of admonishing me for not paying attention.
“I guess my brain is tired,” I said. “It’s been hectic at work with a new employee.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s hardworking and nice. I think she’ll be a good fit.”
“There are people who are good fits and those who aren’t.”
“True. What about you and Jobo? Were you a good fit?”
“Yes, I think we were! Don’t you think?”
“Obviously yes.”
“We got along pretty well together. Better than the other way.”
What was going the other way was my granola. It had cooled the sufficient amount of time, but I’d used aluminum foil instead of parchment paper, and apparently, that was a bad substitution. The granola wasn’t “chunking up” like the recipe claimed and was instead raining down around me and onto the floor in teeny tiny individual pieces. Come to think of it, I used rolled oats instead of steel cut ones. Perhaps that was the bigger travesty?
Me and my kitchen are not, as Maga would say, a good fit. Or maybe she’d say me and my kitchen have nothing in common.
Abigail Mumford 