The Cookbook Club Read online

  Dedication

  To Lucia Macro, for guiding this project and all of the fun

  and flavor that went into it, and to Annelise Robey, for so

  much support in getting it together and out into the world.

  I propose wine and fondue to celebrate as soon as possible.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  June

  Chapter One: Margo

  Chapter Two: Margo

  Chapter Three: Margo

  July

  Chapter Four: Trista

  Chapter Five: Margo

  Chapter Six: Max

  Chapter Seven: Aja

  August

  Chapter Eight: Trista

  Chapter Nine: Margo

  Chapter Ten: Aja

  September

  Chapter Eleven: Trista

  Chapter Twelve: Max

  Chapter Thirteen: Aja

  October

  Chapter Fourteen: Margo

  Chapter Fifteen: Max

  Chapter Sixteen: Aja

  November

  Chapter Seventeen: Trista

  Chapter Eighteen: Margo

  December

  Chapter Nineteen: Aja

  Chapter Twenty: Trista

  Chapter Twenty-One: Max

  January

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Aja

  Epilogue: Margo

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise

  Also by Beth Harbison

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  June

  Chapter One

  Margo

  Margo Brinker always thought summer would never end. It always felt like an annual celebration that thankfully stayed alive long day after long day, and warm night after warm night. And DC was the best place for it. Every year, spring would vanish with an explosion of cherry blossoms that let forth the confetti of silky little pink petals, giving way to the joys of summer.

  Farmer’s markets popped up on every roadside. Vendors sold fresh, shining fruits, vegetables and herbs, wine from family vineyards, and handed over warm loaves of bread. Anyone with enough money and nothing to do on a Sunday morning would peruse the tents, trying slices of crisp peaches and bites of juicy smoked sausage, and fill their fisherman net bags with weekly wares.

  Of all the summer months, Margo liked June the best. The sun-drunk beginning, when the days were long, long, long with the promise that summer would last forever. Sleeping late, waking only to catch the best tanning hours. It was the time when the last school year felt like a lifetime ago, and there were ages to go until the next one. Weekend cookouts smelled like the backyard—basil, tomatoes on the vine, and freshly cut grass. That familiar backyard scent was then smoked by the rich addition of burgers, hot dogs, and buttered buns sizzling over charcoal.

  So there was nothing to complain about on this June 11, when it was unseasonably mild enough to have the kitchen windows cast open. No need for the air conditioner.

  She was playing housewife. No matter how legit she tried to feel, she always felt like she was playing house. No matter that she’d been married for ten years—which she googled and found out was the tin anniversary. It felt like someone else’s life when she stood in her kitchen, surrounded by her own appliances, and made dinner for her husband. The dog was in the living room, the fence had finally been repaired, and she had an opinion on air-filter brand. The dishwasher was running, the sound of the washer and dryer rumbled from the laundry room (at the corner of the yard it smelled like dryer sheets under the vent), and she was dicing farmer’s market veggies for a salad for Calvin.

  Calvin was having a weight crisis.

  It was impossible to count how many times in the last decade that Calvin had had what he perceived to be a weight emergency. But then, if it wasn’t weight, it was the fear that his higher-end-of-normal cholesterol levels were dangerous. Or that sugars were going to age him prematurely. He’d just read an article about activated charcoal and how it could save your life. He’d just read an article about activated charcoal and how it might kill you.

  There was a twenty-gallon Rubbermaid in the garage filled with Calvin’s retired, preemptive lifesavers. Things that, if they worked, would presumably give him the gift of immortality. Ergonomic keyboards. Ridiculous-looking orthopedically correct shoes (Margo said they were high heels designed by Dr. Seuss; Calvin said she didn’t understand the human body). Running suits to increase sweat but that made him look like a stand-in for Mister Fantastic. This Rubbermaid stood beside a personal sauna and a machine that vibrated the fat away—this one Margo had genuinely thought was a joke. “Wasn’t that the same machine used for comic relief in Mad Men?”

  She used to think it was cute. When they’d first gotten together, little more than kids themselves, they’d run together, tried meditating together, then hung it all up and eaten together, enjoying a lot of wine before toppling into bed.

  Maybe it was the wine that had made him so pleasant. He didn’t drink it much anymore. Something about clear liquors being less fattening.

  They hadn’t had a real meal together in years. Those late, boozy nights with sloppy cheeseburgers and too many appetizers were long gone. No longer would they get pasta and wine by the bottle, telling their Sicilian server not to judge them for how much cheese they wanted ground over their gnocchi and carbonara. They would drink beer and share those plasticky nachos and watch awful bands cover extremely good bands.

  Their indulgence might kill them one day, but wasn’t it worth it? That had been her opinion. She’d never really considered what would happen once the indulgence was gone.

  Margo, luckily, was always up for whatever challenge made her days more interesting. She was constantly trying to make dupes for whatever she—or he—was really in the mood for. Egg white huevos rancheros, turkey meat loaf, chicken chili, and on one disastrous Thanksgiving, Tofurkey. Nutritional yeast weakly filled the big shoes of good Parmesan. Lettuce did the minimum to live up to the utility purpose of a tortilla while textured vegetable protein tried pitifully to be taco meat.

  It would have felt like a stupid waste of mealtime if her mother hadn’t been interested in getting the recipes to make for Margo’s dad, whose cholesterol—unlike Calvin’s—was legitimately high. Last year he’d had a heart attack. And though he seemed for all the world to be okay now, both Margo and her mom lived in constant fear of it happening again.

  Which was how Margo had ended up starting a tiny YouTube channel as June’s Cleaver so she could send instructional videos to her mom, inspired by Leave It to Beaver.

  Anyway, her mom got a kick out of it, and since, when it began, she was the one and only subscriber, that was all that mattered.

  Now she had thirty-six whole subscribers because her mother had passed the word along to friends in her retirement community, so Margo felt she had a small responsibility to them, even though they were living a better life than everyone else she knew. While most people Margo’s age were exhausted, her mom’s friends were taking pottery wheel classes and getting together to drink boxed chardonnay and make her healthy salads.

  It wasn’t going to become a cash cow, but it was a fun hobby, and Calvin kept saying Margo could take tax deductions for their food bills. Something about allowing a loss for three out of five years for a “hobby” business.

  That was Calvin these days—always looking for ways to capitalize by characterizing Margo and the things that defined her as a “loss.”

  She set everything up in place on the counter, turned on the camera, and started talking.

  �
��Hey! Okay, guys, so since this is healthy, it’s—by definition—boring, so we need to add flavor and punch wherever we can. I sprinkle chopped egg whites with cayenne for a little extra zing.” She chopped the egg whites and added the cayenne with a flourish. “You can also chop a brazil nut and add it for both texture and valuable selenium, which is good for the heart and cancer prevention. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. As you know, I’m not a doctor or medical professional so always consult with your physician before making any radical changes.” She felt stupid saying it, but her father had insisted she work it into every video.

  “I’m adding red bell peppers today too. They’re a real superfood, nutritionally. I like them raw, but if you prefer them roasted, pop them on your gas burner or under the broiler for a few minutes to bring out that sweet meatiness. If that description didn’t jar you, you’re not paying attention or you’re falling asleep.” She smiled at the camera, then went to adjust its position to show the pepper she was blistering on the burner. “Turn it with tongs, never your hands, because that will hurt like hell, believe me, and it gets hotter than you think, faster than you think. Rotate it until it’s as cooked as you like it. I prefer these blackened peaks, but leaving the grooves red and raw.” She turned it again, then removed it with her tongs and placed it on the wooden butcher block, adjusted the camera, and chopped.

  “A little all-purpose seasoning—you know I’ve recommended this one, called Spike”—she sprinkled some on the chopped red peppers—“and it’s ready to add.” She added it to the rest, not mentioning that earlier she’d wrestled that pack of Spike out of the dog’s mouth and gotten inspired to cook when his breath smelled like pot roast. It was a confusing feeling to get hungry from the dog’s breath.

  The salad looked gorgeous, no doubt about it. And her addition of her own Marilyn Merlot vinaigrette was almost certain to be a hit with her subscribers, but she couldn’t wait to add a little ranch dressing to it for actual flavor. You can only do so much.

  Her phone dinged and she wiped her hands on a dishcloth and picked it up. Calvin.

  Going to be in a hurry tonight, heat up one of my dinners.

  His “dinners.” She called them his Mean Cuisine. They came in a sad box, and a sadder microwavable tray with film.

  It was good that he was trying to stay healthy. She appreciated that. She just wished he was a little more fun in the process.

  The really bad part was that somehow she was beginning to get used to eating this blah prepackaged food herself. It wasn’t like she was going to rip the plastic off his dinner and plop it on his plate then set about making Florentine stuffed manicotti for one. In fact, she’d recently eaten a bite of something real, and found herself thinking, blasphemously, that it had too much . . . too much . . . what was it . . .

  Flavor.

  For ten years she’d been searching for the middle ground in almost every area of her life so she could settle into something that, if it wasn’t happiness per se, would at least resemble contentment.

  Meanwhile, she was a well-oiled machine, producing everything on a timetable, as requested and predicted. Calvin would be home about six, eat his dinner, leave his dishes, and go do whatever it was he was so eager to do after dinner.

  At 7:00 P.M., she’d get some appetizers out of the refrigerator that she’d prepped and wrapped in the morning, then heat them up for her book club meeting at seven-thirty.

  Calvin might not be her dream man anymore, but he was her husband. They had a life. They had come up with a rhythm. Ever since she’d turned thirty, the years seemed to flow so quickly. Sometimes it was disconcerting, but most of the time it was just . . . life, which was what most of her friends seemed to have as well.

  Life with Calvin.

  Yes, maybe without him she might finally live in London. She never would or could with him, he couldn’t find good in the rain or the cold and he “couldn’t understand the damn accent.” She could live on some little street, have a local pub . . .

  She could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Follow some ridiculous decorating trend in the house without his observation. But they had been together since they got married at twenty-three; life without him was unthinkable.

  She so envied the girls a decade behind her who had Pinterest at their fingertips.

  She couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to be twenty-two now. She imagined the optimism that must be felt by a girl that young who could imagine a bachelorette’s studio. Gilded mirrors. Etsy prints. No husband’s-great-aunt’s afghan—just a lush, warm, faux-fur blanket.

  Her kitchen—she couldn’t even think about that. In a perfect world, she’d have special, collected pieces. Those beautiful wineglasses she wanted from Crate&Barrel. That French-looking ceramic rolling pin from Anthropologie. Special pinch bowls into which she could happily toss a handful of freshly chopped mirepoix.

  She could have art up that she liked. She could have a big closet that didn’t make a man ask why she had so many clothes she never wore—and she wouldn’t have to answer that the problem wasn’t how many clothes she had but how few outings and events.

  She would be happy with less money, less space, less everything. It gave her such a thrill to imagine the stack of Condé Nast magazines she could artfully arrange beside rose-gold coasters. Drinking rosé alone in a living room, binge-watching whatever show she wanted . . .

  Margo snapped out of it, realizing the twenty-three-year-old full of hope had just morphed into a more hopeful and independent version of herself.

  But the moment Margo’s mind ever started to drift there, she started to think again about paying the bills by finding something she was qualified for. She thought of being alone. She thought of how fleeting the freedom might truly feel. She was just starting to assemble the book club appetizers when Calvin came in, looking unusually buoyant. She smiled at him, a pang of guilt ringing through her. He had to come in looking so happy, right after she’d been having naive fantasies about leaving him and—what, traveling in time to be twenty-two again?

  She felt like an idiot.

  “Hey there,” she said, gathering her camera and tripod and putting them aside. No question of whether or not she was in the middle of using them.

  “Is it ready?”

  “In a couple minutes.”

  He came to the counter, but not to her. “Something smells good.”

  “Maybe it’s the Caesar dressing.” She pointed with her elbow at the bottle marked ZERO CALORIE ROMAINE EMPIRE.

  He bent over it and sniffed. “Mmm.”

  And there’s your serving, she thought, since, according to the label there was no nutritional difference between smelling it and eating it.

  “How was work?” she asked him, putting the little frozen black plastic dish on the counter. It clattered like she’d set a slab of marble on the granite.

  “Really good,” he said, dipping his finger into the bottle and tasting the dressing. “Really, really good.”

  He didn’t elaborate immediately, so she had to nudge him. “What? What happened?”

  “Well.” He smiled the smile of a person who just couldn’t help it. “They’re promoting me to VP of the San Francisco office.”

  Margo actually gasped. “Congratulations!” She felt like she’d tripped over an uneven sidewalk. A promotion? San Francisco? How was this the first she was hearing of it?

  “Thanks.”

  Something about that set her into an old mind-set she had chosen long ago to grow out of. She always assumed she was about to be left, and could hear a simple word like “thanks” and take it to mean, “Thank you, because this is my thing, and has no effect on you, and now I’m leaving you for a twenty-two-year-old with an interesting Pinterest presence.”

  She needed to remember that wasn’t how people engaged with each other. Especially married people.

  “I had no idea this was even in the works!” She studied his expression, curious as to what was making his jaw muscle twitch behind
his smile. “Did you?”

  He leveled his hand and tipped it side to side. “I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t work out, but . . .” Then he beamed and shrugged. “It happened. It’s a huge change, but meant to be. A brand-new start.”

  “I’ll say.”

  He wasn’t bothering to try to sell her on it.

  Did he just expect her to drop everything and go across the country?

  She went to the sink and washed her hands, buying a couple of extra moments so she wouldn’t sound too sharp. “When were you thinking we’d leave? There’s a lot involved in closing up shop here, so to speak.”

  He hesitated. She froze, eyes locked on the window crank above the faucet.

  “That’s the tricky part.”

  “Tricky?” She turned the water off with her forearm and wiped her hands on the towel hanging on the bar in front of the sink. She remembered a restaurant she’d gone to in San Francisco, years before. Delfina? That was it. She’d had delicious sourdough bread there, painted with butter. Fragrant, crisp-on-the-outside Saffron Arancini. Bright fresh salad with real oil and good vinegar and fresh cracked pepper.

  She was avoiding it.

  There was no denying that the food scene by the bay was on a par with New York City, and though Calvin would probably not join her, she could picture getting carryout for herself now and then.

  Maybe even sitting in a nice little café with a book and a sandwich or pasta. And real cheese instead of the no-fat stuff Calvin put on his air-popped popcorn on “special occasions.”

  He wasn’t saying anything bad. That was in her head.

  “Yeah.” He seemed to be musing to himself. “Tricky.”

  She fluffed up his salad and handed it over.

  “Elaborate.”

  He took a short breath. “I guess I’m just going to have to be right up front with you. Fast and honest, like Robin says.”

  A cold finger of dread ran down her spine. “Robin?”