There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
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Wouldn't it be great if you could build your life like a recipe? Two cups of happiness. A pinch of struggle. Three tablespoons of romance. This is the question that passes through Mara's brain as she bakes a new batch of biscuits. She wants to have control in what feels like an uncontrollable environment. She can adjust the temperature of the oven. Take a risk and add whatever secret ingredients she pleases. Yet, as she stares down at the tarnished tray of treats, she realizes how complicated recipes can be. You can have all the components mapped out in front of you and you can still confuse yourself. Lose sight of what you initially tried to accomplish.
Your attempts are filled with burnt batches. Some are too salty. Some too plain. While the ingredients to a good existence may lay right in front of you, it is ultimately up to you to find the correct portions. To figure out the right combination of salt and sweet in order to create the perfect delicacy.
Baking is all Mara seems to have the energy to do recently, outside of submitting applications and going on interviews. No matter the level of support Harry and The Mare's Nest residents gave, the rejection began to wear on Mara's already deflated ego. Editing is what she wants to do, right? Does she even know her own passions?
Dozens of biscuits fill her kitchen and dining nook. Some too dark from being overcooked or too much butter. Some doughy from too much kneading. None were the texture or flavor she wants. All she desired was a perfect half dozen or so to give to Harry as a thank-you gift for listening to her constant venting the last week and her hermit behavior. She was a manic combination of over sharing and shut off. Extroverted and introverted.
She presses her finger against her oven's off button, officially giving up on the endeavor, and falls back on her springy, old couch. Flour dusts across her face like poorly applied blush. Her phone rings and she sits up abruptly, leaving a cloud of baking powder behind her like a fast-moving cartoon character escaping its hunter.
The word "Mom" flashes across her screen, the sight of which makes Mara's heart stop briefly. It's been months since she and her mother, Kathleen, last spoke. Kathleen wasn't a touchy feely type of person. When she called, it wasn't to catch up on the latest gossip. When she called, it was with purpose.
"Mom?" Mara's voice shakes through the mic of her cell.
"Mara Jane," Kathleen's stoic voice sends a chill up her daughter's spine. There's something not right here, and Mara recognizes it immediately. "How's my daughter doing?"
"I'm okay, mother," Mara responds. She tries to match her mom's conservative tone. "What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing, dear. Can't a mom call her daughter with no ulterior motive?" Kathleen pours herself a glass of sweet tea. Mara can practically feel the ice cold pitcher in her hand as she pours the cup of weak caffeine for her repressed mother. "I spoke with Rob and he mentioned he was worried about you and I thought to myself 'I haven't even seen your new apartment.'"
