Keeping one eye on the whipped cream and one ear toward the dining room, I tamped the coffee down, readying it to brew exactly four ounces of espresso. When my phone buzzed against the stainless steel counter, I saw who was calling again and slammed the trap shut on the expensive Breville machine.

“For heaven’s sake, can I call you back?”

“Well, that’s a fine howdy-do to your one and only mother,” a cheerful voice sang out.

I closed my eyes in frustration. “Howdy-do, Mother. I’m working. Can I call you back?”

“That depends. Will you call me back tonight?”

“I’ll try,” I replied, struggling to get the foam nozzle locked into the espresso machine.

“You’ll try?”

“I will, okay?”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise that I’ll— Oh, man . . .”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay, Roxie?”

“I’m fine—just a little kitchen mishap. I’ll call you later.” I hung up, staring into the bowl.

I needed to figure out how to explain to Mitzi St. Renee, a woman whose lifestyle hinged upon her ability to look beautiful and maintain an exquisite body, and whose only indulgence was her evening coffee, that instead of making billowy soft whipped cream . . . I’d made butter.

Fired.

Fired?

Fired.

F O R. B U T T E R.

I sat in my car outside Mitzi’s house, tucked high up into the hills. I’d packed up my knives, plucked my last check from her perfectly manicured gel tips, then trudged to my 1982 Jeep Wagoneer.

Fired. Over butter. I should have known better than to turn my back on cream being whipped. It can go from stiff peaks to buttery squeaks in seconds.

My phone rang again and my mother’s face appeared on the screen, with frizzy brown braids and a daisy behind her ear. Second-generation hippie. Woodstock Part Deux. I’d inherited my hair from her, but my eyes came from my father. I’d never met him, but my mother said she could always tell our moods based on our eye color. Hazel when I’m calm, a little blue when I’m blue, and a little green when I’m frazzled. I was very celery at the moment.

I heard the front door shut and saw Mitzi coming down the driveway, likely to tell me it was time to leave. Starting the engine, I waved good-bye with a specific finger and left. Unprofessional, but I didn’t have to care about what she thought anymore.

I grumbled to myself all the way home, down from the hills, across town to the other side of Highland, where the homes were considerably smaller, giving way to blocks and blocks of apartment buildings filled to bursting with hopeful young beauties. As I approached my building, my phone rang. Again.

“You really couldn’t wait for me to call you back?” I said as her voice came through the speakers. California’s hands-free law meant that I got to hear my mother’s voice ricocheting off every corner of the car, in stereo.

“Who knows when that would be? I’m literally bursting to tell you my news!” my mother cried out, giggling excitedly.

I chuckled in spite of myself. My mother was many things, but her enthusiasm was always hard to resist.

“It must be big news; it’s late back there. Why aren’t you in bed?” It was almost eleven back east: way past her bedtime.

“Eh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Listen, Roxie, I’ve got something fantastic to tell you!”

“Phish is touring again?”

“Roxie . . .” she warned.

I bit my lip to keep from saying something snarky. “You found a new brand of wheat germ and you can’t hide your excitement?” Lip biting does not, in fact, always work.

“I’m so glad you enjoy making fun of your mother, especially with your generic hippie quips. You’re very quippy tonight,” she replied, her voice getting a bit sharp.

I needed to ease off a bit. After all, it wasn’t entirely her fault that I’d been fired.

“Your news?” I asked sweetly, before she could go off on a tangent about maybe the reason I was so quippy is that I wasn’t getting enough iron. Or sex. Typical mother-daughter stuff.

“Right! Yes! My news! Are you sitting down?”

“Yes, I’m sitting down.”

“I’m going to be on television!” she burst out, ending in a squeal.

“Oh, that’s nice. Is Craft Corner back on the air again?”

Our little town in upstate New York had its own public access channel, and Mom had been contributing ideas for years. Every now and then, when the budget hadn’t been cut in half to seventy-five dollars, they’d ask her to come on and demonstrate. How to make a sweater dress, how to make a ceramic birdbath, etc. Her segment on Jiffy Pop paper lanterns generated the most calls the station had ever received. Three.

“No, no, not Craft Corner. Ever hear of The Amazing Race?”

“Sure, sure. Is Channel 47 doing a local version?” I asked, turning into my parking lot.

“It’s not Channel 47, dear, it’s the actual show! I’m going to be on The Amazing Race—the real one!”

“Wait, what?” I asked, swinging wide into my spot and almost taking out a trash can.

“You heard me right! I auditioned for the show last fall when they were in Poughkeepsie, with your aunt Cheryl, and they picked us! We’re going around the world!” she yelled.

“Okay, stop shouting. Mom, seriously, stop—okay. Okay, hello?” I tried to get a word in edgewise, but it was impossible. She was spouting names of cities and countries right and left, her voice getting ever more excited. Cairo. Mozambique. Krakatoa.