Alice J. Wisler - How Sweet It Is

For all who wish to expand their horizons,

this is for you.

When one door of happiness closes, another opens;
but often we look so long at the closed door that
we do not see the one which has been opened for us.

Contents

W hen single people pack up to relocate, they often have a dog. With deliberate caution, they load cardboard boxes into the car, along with a few framed wall pictures, a blender, one or two trusty saucepans, and a tightly rolled sleeping bag. The dog jumps onto the passenger seat, the driver lowers the window a few inches, and as the car slowly backs out of the driveway, the canine shoves his twitching nose over the glass. When the car picks up speed, the wind ruffles the dogs fur and he opens his mouth as if to lap up the fresh air with his tongue. This animal is as carefree as the day he was born. All he has to do is tilt his head, breathe deeply, and enjoy the ride. No tedious job of consulting the creased road map. No watching road signs. No making conversation. He didnt earn the title mans best friend due to any special skills in flattery.

I, however, do not have a dog. Im allergic to dog fur and men who break hearts. I do own a blenderall chefs should, according to Chef Santiago Bordeaux. Chef B claims that a blender is the most versatile cooking apparatus. Cooking apparatus is what he calls any kitchen device, including a saucepan. My KitchenAid blender is packed in a box along with my cake-decorating suppliesall carefully wrapped in T-shirts to protect them during the trip.

Today Im leaving Atlanta and all the cooking apparatuses I have grown to love in the kitchen at Palacio del Rey. Im headed to the green area on the map, right there in the foldthe mountains of North Carolina. But Im still a Georgia girl, born and bred.

As I carry a box of faded dish towels topped with oven mitts to my Jeep, my Peruvian neighbor, Yolanda, dabs at her glistening brown eyes and reminds me, You are Georgia girl, Deena. What will you do in Carolina? To herself she mutters, No, no sabe. Ay, ay.

Ive been over this with her before. Ive already told her the same thing I told my parents who live in Tifton, my pastor at First Decatur Presbyterian, and my boss, Chef Bordeaux: Im going to live.

What do you mean? they have all asked in some form or another. When he questioned me, Chef B had a ladle in his fist that he waved wildly, as though he wanted to use it to knock some sense into my head.

Ive replied, Im going to live. Im going to North Carolina to live! I wanted to tell them that just because its called North Carolina doesnt mean its a Yankee state. Some consider it as southern as Georgia. Ive even seen North Carolinians drink sweet tea.

Im going to live. Thats all.

Chef B placed his ladle on the counter next to the restaurants stove as the large pot of French onion soup simmered on the front burner. A puzzled expression came over his face. Not since his asparagus souffl fell the previous October had I seen him so bewildered. He said, And you tell to me, why cant you live here?

I almost died here, I thought. But thats not something I would say out loud to anyone. People dont like to talk about death. If you want to see how quickly a person can change the subject, just bring up the topic of death.

Ive no idea what life will be like for me in North Carolina. All I know is Im ready to say good-bye to Atlanta. Say good-bye to Atlanta that sounds like a line from a country song. I consider singing as I wave one last time to Yolanda, who is now biting her lower lip and shaking her head in a way that makes her long ponytail swing like a beagles tail. However, everyone knows I cant carry a tune in a double-boiler. And I think in order to be a true country singer, there is one important criterion: You have to own a dog.