Happiness

Anders Toff greased each soufflé dish, holding it lightly in one hand while the buttered fingers of his other hand moved across the surface in slow circles, these circles, his mentor/teacher Judith Mensch had assured him, were the key to success, the difference between a strawberry soufflé that rose delicately like a cloud or one that gelled like an overcooked egg white left on a plate all night, the remnants of a sloppily made late night feast that came after many vodkas had been drunk, songs sung, cigarettes smoked, all the appetizers depleted, the only thing left in the fridge a carton of eggs, some margarine, the lonely skillet waiting on the stove, everyone delighted to hear the sizzle, smell the fried egg smell of childhood, those egg whites a perfect late night feast, not a fit special dessert to be served to his mother, who Anders had not seen in ten years, escaping as she had to Italy with a podiatrist named Lars, who was rumored to be wanted in three states, something about Medicare fraud, his mother was always impetuous, exacting too, which explained the slow movement of his fingers, coating every inch, all the time thinking about his fourth birthday, the blue tricycle with a small horn that he tooted over and over again as he rode in circles on the grass in the front yard, his mother sipping gin tonics, refilling her glass from a sweaty pitcher, the same pitcher she used to refill her companion’s glass, while Anders rode happily, watching the wind blow through the grass, small clouds float by overhead, he would come to recognize this total immersion as happiness, to see that it came unbidden, had little to do with the rest of the world, which receded as he pedaled, circling, circling.