A Sara and Stremmel Holiday Visit
“Twelve and twelve and forty-eight and twenty-four and…nine. Why is this nine?” I glanced up from the trays to find O’Rourke on the other side of the kitchen with a spoon in his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk gathering acorns for the winter. “What the fuck, man? Are you eating my cookie dough?”
“Isn’t that why you made it?” he asked around the spoon.
“You’re here to work.” I wagged a spatula at him. “And what the hell is wrong with you anyway? You shouldn’t eat raw dough.”
“For your information, my stomach is iron and the eggs are pasteurized.” He shoved another spoonful of my famous multi-chocolate chip cookie dough into his dumb mouth. “RIP Louis Pasteur. We don’t appreciate you enough. It’s like we’ve forget how gross and disgusting life used to be before science started fixing shit.”
I swatted his arm with the spatula. “Well, enjoy it because you’ve contaminated that bowl.”
“It’s not like you need more,” he said with a yelp. He jabbed the spoon at me but that only succeeded in flinging chunks of dough across my kitchen. “You have so many.”
“I need ten dozen, you fuck bonnet. I have eight and three quarters.”
“You tell me come over here and scoop your cookies. Then you yell at me about how I scoop them and then you yell at me for testing the quality of your work,” he said, settling onto a stool at the island with the bowl clutched to his chest. “You don’t tell me what any of this shit is for and then you savagely beat me with kitchen implements. What kind of holiday spirt is that?”
“Yeah, I know, I’m the version of Scrooge if he skipped the ghosts and told Jacob Marley to get the fuck out of his bedroom. Can you just stop touching things, please?” I slapped his hand with the spatula when he reached for a cookie on the cooling rack. “You’re like a goddamn baby.”
“Just explain to me why you need ten dozen cookies because by my count”—he pointed the spoon at himself which resulted in a pair of chocolate chips splattering to his shirt—“this is a lot of cookies for you and Shap to eat by yourselves. Unless you’re trying to buy off the med-surg nurses. If that’s the strategy, I have to say I respect the game but in the end you will lose.”
I went back to the pantry to take stock of my supplies. I was almost out of brown sugar but I could send O’Rourke to the market for that. It would take him three hours, seventeen text messages, and a thirty-minute Facetime just to get him to the right aisle but at least he wouldn’t be here, devouring everything in sight.
Objectively, I knew it was a mistake to invite him over, but I was two days behind on my holiday baking and I was getting a little twitchy about it. I had to cover for someone the other day then spent all day yesterday on-call and in the OR because people didn’t know how to use ladders or drive in icy conditions. Always something weather-related in these parts.
So here I was, sleep-deprived, stressed, and almost out of brown sugar—and my solution to that was to spend more time with O’Rourke. I didn’t remember falling and hitting my head on the ice but this sure sounded like the effects of a traumatic brain injury.
When I emerged from the pantry, peanut butter, flour, and sugar gathered in one arm, I found O’Rourke shoving a whole cookie into his mouth. He spotted me and immediately mumbled around the cookie, “I’m not doing anything.”
“You came from somewhere. Can’t you go back there? Don’t you have a family?” I set the ingredients on the counter and pulled a clean mixing bowl from the cupboard. “Aren’t they looking for you?”
“I assure you they are not,” he said, still chewing.
I knew his family lived close enough, at least the way people in New England judged distance. He went home for an event last year and a funeral over the summer for someone he described as “an estranged aunt who will fuck me up in the afterlife if I don’t go to this thing.”
But I also knew he’d traded shifts with a few people on the trauma service so he’d work the entire holiday week straight through. Someone else might read that as a red flag of sorts but I knew he was banking favors so he could park his ass on a tropical island for the better half of next month.
I didn’t think there was anything wrong with taking a pass on forced family fun during the holidays. Not everyone was built for that sort of thing. And not all families knew how to have fun without leaving everyone a little worse for the wear.
We’d talked about going away for the holidays this year but that stretch between Christmas and New Year’s was a busy time in my neck of the woods. Not so much for Sara but I could count on nonstop OR time. Aside from that, Nick and Erin floated the idea of a Christmas Eve tamale party at their place. They knew I was an absolute slut for tamales and they probably planned this specifically to hit me where I was weakest. Then Alex convinced Stella and Sara and a few others to get tickets for a ballet or musical or something and make a “lady’s day” of it. Whatever the hell that was. But Sara seemed excited about it. She picked the restaurant they visited before the show, so she didn’t have that to worry about and she’d grown close with Stella. She liked that Stella wasn’t in healthcare and never wanted to talk about surgeries or hospital politics, and that her children were cute and remarkably well-behaved. I knew without needing to ask that those girls never shoveled raw cookie dough into their mouths and fucked up Hartshorn’s dozens.
Which led me to the matter of the Walsh cookie party, an annual tradition that I heartily blamed Erin Walsh-Acevedo for roping me into in the first place. Now that the entire Walsh family looked forward to my cookies, it wasn’t like I could let them down. Riley Walsh’s mental health teetered on the promise of these cookies. He’d camp in my front yard if I didn’t deliver.
“Can I have some milk?” O’Rourke asked.
I glared at him a second before tipping my chin toward the fridge. “You’re not helpless.”
“Okay but you look like you’re going to eat my face if I cross into your proximal zone of baking activities.” He rummaged through the cabinet for longer than any human required to choose a glass and then commented on everything in the fridge before grabbing the milk. He stood beside me while he sipped sixteen ounces of milk like a time traveler from the 80s. “Peanut butter? Ohh, I like this new direction. The chocolate chip is fine, but I like—”
“These are not for you.”
“But they could be.”
“I will amputate your most useful fingers if you come anywhere near this bowl.” I shot him a glare, but he only rolled his eyes. “These are for Sara.”
“Why does Shap get her own batch?”
“Because my wife gets whatever she wants.” I nudged him aside. “Go away now.”
He returned to the stool, stealing another cookie as he went. “She doesn’t like chocolate chip?”
“She likes peanut butter more,” I said. “And chocolate’s rough on her stomach.”
It surprised me but Sara actually liked the Walsh cookie party. She had no desire to bake ten dozen cookies to swap but she loved seeing the different varieties everyone else came up with. My job was to sample everything first so she wouldn’t inadvertently eat something undercooked or with raisins or rum or anything else that could fuck up her digestion.
That was how I discovered she liked peanut butter cookies so much. She wouldn’t let me sample them. I could pluck the chocolate kiss off the top, but she wanted the cookies all to herself. It took her at least two weeks to finish off a dozen of them but they made her ridiculously happy.
So, I got the recipe from Grandma Judy and always had a fresh batch on hand.
“Just answer me one question,” he said.
I flipped on the mixer and frowned into the bowl. “No.”
“Where are these cookies going? Who are they for? What is it all about? What does it mean, Stremmel?”
I stared at him as the mixer whirled. “Did you seriously forget Acevedo reminding you about the cookie party? Because I remember him holding your burrito hostage less than forty-eight hours ago and telling you that you wouldn’t be allowed to leave with cookies this year if you didn’t bring any to share. Then I remember him instructing you to add notifications to your calendar with those exact reminders.”
His brow wrinkled as he downed the last of his milk. Then, “Was it the beef burrito? Or the black bean?”
“That’s why I need ten dozen and why I called your fool ass over here this morning. Because I knew you’d forget.” I waved a hand at the cooling racks. I didn’t know why I was doing this for him when he was such a pain in my ass. “Give me your phone. I’m going to throw it at your head.”
“Maybe all this abuse is why I forget things.”
The back door banged open and I heard Sara grumbling at the snow and cold. She came in with shopping bags hanging from both arms. O’Rourke rushed over to help while she shook off her outerwear.
“I assume these are all for me,” he said, setting the bags on a sofa in the adjoining family room.
“You get nothing,” I said to him. I pointed my spatula at Sara. “Hey, you. Little demon. Get over here.”
Sara turned an amused grin in my direction. “Are these the scrubs you left the hospital in, or did you change into new scrubs to bake cookies?”
“I have a system going here,” I said.
She swept a glance over the cooling racks. “If that’s what we’re calling this, sure.”
I motioned to the space beside me. “Get over here. We need to have some words.”
“I think the issue of your scrubs is worth addressing,” she said.
“I think we both know you’re avoiding me,” I said.
“How can I avoid you when you’ve been in the OR since Wednesday? This is the first I’ve seen you without a mask all week.”
“Bring yourself over here, you diabolical little elf, and I’ll explain it.”
O’Rourke popped up from the sofa. “Are Mom and Dad fighting?”
“Go make yourself useful. I need a pound of brown sugar. That’s the sort of thing you’ll find in a grocery store. There’s one less than ten minutes from here. Ask five people for help before you call me saying it doesn’t exist.”
When O’Rourke only blinked at me, Sara said, “Hurry along now.”
Since he was appropriately afraid of my wife, he snapped to attention, nearly tripping over himself as he jogged toward the door. Not sure he even stopped for his coat but then again, he’d spent his residency in Minnesota. That sort of thing changes a person. He’d been known to walk into work wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie in five degree weather.
Once we heard the door slam shut, Sara strolled into the kitchen, her arms folded over her torso and a slight, expectant smile tugging at the far corners of her lips.
When she came to a stop beside me, close enough for me to realize that her dark purple sweater was exactly that one I’d thought it was, with the open-work pattern of tiny holes on the neck. I loved that sweater. It was indescribably soft and the pin-prick flashes of skin peeking out from the knit triggered something obsessive in me. I just…wanted to touch her.
“Yes?” She arched a brow as she leaned her hip against the countertop.
I switched off the mixer and mirrored her stance. “Did you re-wrap the gifts for Vivi?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The ill-fitting and poorly closed paper on those boxes for your sister was your attempt at wrapping? I had no idea. I simply inferred from the overall presentation that you were hoping I’d handle that for you.”
“They were perfectly fine and you know it.”
“I know you think that’s true,” she said, peering into the mixing bowl. A giddy smile brightened her eyes. Nothing made her happier than food she could enjoy and digest comfortably. “After all, I have seen the way you close wounds. I suppose it’s a good thing you didn’t involve the skin stapler in this.”
Still staring at her, I yanked an empty cookie tray from the bottom of the pile, sending up an obnoxious racket. I tore off some parchment and started scooping out peanut butter cookie dough.
“Is that all?” she asked when I pressed each ball flat with the bottom of a glass. “You sent O’Rourke on a suicide mission because I re-wrapped your gifts for Vivi?
I shot her a glance before reaching behind me for the television remote. When the screen blinked on to the home page of a streaming service, I said, “We had a deal. We agreed to watch the entire new season together. You betrayed me.”
She held up her hands. “Okay. It’s not what you think.”
“What am I supposed to think, Sara? You watched all of season three without me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I started season two again because I couldn’t remember who that one was about and whether this was going to be the one that departed from the way it was written in the books. I didn’t want you to get all wrapped up in your theories and historical deep dives while I had no damn clue what was happening. So, I caught up on the last season a few nights this week while I wrapped gifts—including the ones you’d mangled. But I fell asleep down here with it on last night and woke up at the end of the new season.”
I froze with my hand on the oven door. “You saw the end?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t see anything. It was just the episode page. I have no idea what happened.”
I slid the tray inside and let the door bang shut. “I’m choosing to believe you, but your ass is mine if you aren’t authentically surprised at any of the twists.”
“Is it possible you’re taking this a bit too seriously?”
“Really, Sara? Really? I’m taking it too seriously? You were the one who wanted to watch this in the first place and—”
“And you refused to join me,” she cut in. “You stood right here, watching from the other side of the room for three full hours. Muttering the whole time too. No one had all their teeth in the 1800s. Raw sewage ran down the streets in that era. Those dresses are ridiculous. That color didn’t exist back then. Those fireworks are going to burn down all of London. Any minute now, someone’s going to die of an ear infection.”
“So, it took me a couple of episodes to see the appeal,” I said.
She looked away as she laughed. “And now you’re a menace. Maybe I should’ve watched it without you.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” I said, crowding her against the island. I ducked my head to her shoulder, kissed her neck. “I had to work on five motor vehicle accident victims in the past two days. All I wanted was to come home to my sweet little screech owl and let myself care about the socio-political hierarchy of Regency England for a few hours while—ideally—snuggling you under a blanket for several uninterrupted hours. If you let me watch, I won’t even criticize the historical accuracy this season. I promise.”
“It’s so precious that you think you’re capable of shutting up when you are biologically incapable of doing anything but complaining. We wouldn’t make it through a single episode without some historical critique or a reminder that everyone had fleas and lice.” She ran her hands down my back, her fingertips digging into the knotted muscles at the base of my neck. “Are those peanut butter cookies for me?”
“I don’t bake them for anyone else.”
“Then I suppose we can start the new season when you’re finished with all this.”
“Under a blanket?”
“Yes, under a blanket,” she snapped. “I haven’t seen you all week. I need you to rub my back and tell my I’m pretty.”
“You’re gorgeous,” I said against her neck. “You’re also a demon but I still love you. It’s probably why I love you.”
“Well, you’re a menace.” She yanked my shirt up and skimmed a hand down my side. “And it’s probably why I love you too.”
The back door burst open and O’Rourke tumbled inside. “I got it,” he cried, out of breath. He flopped to the floor, a grocery bag clutched in his outstretched hand. “Last pound of brown sugar in all of Boston.”
“I really thought it would take an hour, if not two,” I said to Sara. I shook my head and glanced down at the man making snow angels on my floor. “That seems unlikely, man.”
“Last one,” he insisted. “And I fought for it. To the death!”
“It’s a wonder he’s still single,” she said. “Considering he’s a thirty-something starfish.”
“Who knows?” he called. “Maybe this new year will be the one for me.”
A laugh cracked out of me without thinking. I held Sara tighter. “Good luck with that, man.”
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