When you’ve flamed out in spectacular fashion in front of a national TV audience over a fucking cheese soufflé, redemption is a must. After a three-week absence from the restaurant, during which she’d participated in the reality television cooking show In the Heat of the Bite-and been booted off-Rita had been determined to swing for the fences her first night back. Tonight’s dinner-service plans had been ambitious.

It was all that remained of Wayfare, four walls that had witnessed her professional triumphs. Who needed warming up this close to a structural fire? The egg-coated whisk still clutched in her right hand prevented her from pulling the blanket closer, but she couldn’t force herself to set aside the utensil. Some well-meaning citizen had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders at some point, which struck her as odd. Rita Clarkson stood across the street from Wayfare, the three-star Michelin restaurant her mother had made a culinary sensation, and watched it sizzle, pop, and whoosh into a smoking heap. The roof! The roof! The roof is…literally on fire. If I had one wish, it would be for my four children, Belmont, Rita, Aaron, and Peggy, to jump into that same ocean, on that same beach, on New Year’s Day.Īnd no, Rita, I’m not joking. When I walked back up onto that Coney Island beach, dripping wet and exhilarated, I could see my future. Now here’s where shit gets corny-apologies to my daughter, Rita, who of my four children, will likely find and read this first. I was a guest of a guest of a guest, as eighteen-year-olds trying to make their way in New York often are. On New Year’s Day in 1984, I jumped into the icy waters of the Atlantic with the Coney Island Polar Bear Club. When I was eighteen, I spent a year in New York City. Please be patient and try to remember that I often have-or had, rather-a plan. But I have no such qualms with a cheap notebook I bought at Rite Aid. That’s how it works, right? Well, I don’t wish to put that weight on my kids. People make dying wishes and their loved ones carry them out. I am-or was-a culinary genius, after all. I never cooked family dinners, which is pretty damn ironic when you think about it. But looking back-hindsight is more like 40/40 when you’re about to croak-I know I only fixed minuscule problems and ignored the mammoth ones. I love that I didn’t have to say it every day for them to know it. But I’m succumbing now, in this book, because I’ve had too much bourbon. If I did succumb to those clichés and killed everyone’s vibe, I’m sorry. Hope there were no last minute confessions or wistful wishes that I’d seen more sunrises.

I hope I didn’t make a big deal out of dying. I’m obviously not there anymore to stop you. Unless something bad has happened, in which case, screw it.

Tessa bailey too hot to handle