Saturday's numbers: 10,356 Covid-19 cases in New York State (up 1,958 from Friday, a 23 percent increase). Six in 10 of those are in New York City (6,211).
Late afternoon, just before I leave on my bicycle to pick up The Kid, the Co-Parent texts: “Can you bring her a brownie as a surprise?”
“They’re at The Girlfriend’s. I could stop there first.”
“That’s OK.”
The temperature has dropped 30 degrees from Friday, but Prospect Park is packed. The farmer’s market at Grand Army Plaza is closing down, with hundreds of people still congregating. Does Saturday market day still make sense? I keep moving.
“How are things here?” I ask the Co-Parent as we watch The Kid put on her shoes. I know 95 percent of the parenting rests on her, atop a stressful managerial job which is in full-time corona-crisis mode; plus she’s in a household with her fiancé and his 14-year-old daughter; plus her fiancé’s 21-year-old son, who lives elsewhere in Brooklyn, has been sick with a non-viral disease. I’m sensitive to the difficulties, appreciative of her labor.
“Well, we got in a screaming match a while ago, but we’re OK now,” she says.
“Proximal cause?”
“Brownies.”
“Sounds serious.”
Our kid wanted to make brownies from a package in the kitchen. The 14-year-old, who was out with her dad, had requested the brownies be bought. The Co-Parent thought perhaps the 14-year-old wanted to make as well as eat the brownies, thought it best to wait for her return. The kid responded negatively; things spiraled. I listen to them both tell the story, the kid with mild agitation.
“This is exactly the kind of crisis that’s causing sheltering families all over America to melt down,” I say.
“Or over chocolate chip cookies,” the Co-Parent says.
“Rice Krispie treats,” I say.
“Pecan pie,” she says.
Suddenly, The Kid, seriously upset: “Stop laughing at me! It’s not funny!”
Co-Parent: “We’re not laughing at you!”
Kid: “Yes you are! You always gang up on me!”
Me: “We’re really not.”
Kid: “You always do this! It’s not fair!” She stomps out to the street, dudgeon high.
I hold up my hand to stop her mom’s protests, close the door, walk to the street. The Kid is heading — still stomping— north, toward the park. I catch up.
“I was thinking we could go for a treat,” I say.
“No!”
“Okay.” We head north. The stomping abates.
“Adults always take the other adults’ side when they’re fighting with kids, no matter what it’s about!”
“I hear you. I think that’s mostly right. But it’s not universal. When The Girlfriend and her two kids were fighting yesterday, I told everyone they were partly right. The Girlfriend was right that her kids needed to step up and be more active. And her kids were right that The Girlfriend needed to stop being angry about it, since that didn’t help anyone.”
“You and Mom always side against me.”
“Actually, in the Great Brownie Debate, I’m on your side. I think you could have made them today, then gone out and bought more if the 14-year-old wanted to bake.”
Silence for a while. The Kid asks, “What was the treat?”
“Oh. I thought we could stop by The Girlfriend’s. I made brownies yesterday, and they’re at her house. You want some?”
“Yes.”
We turn, head south for the 10-minute walk. When we get there, The Girlfriend’s 22-year-old comes to the apartment-house door with a foil-covered plate; I open it, take three. We chat for a bit from a 6-feet distance, leave.
After a bite of her second The Kid says, “These are the best brownies you've ever made.”
“Why?”
“The texture’s right. And they’re not too chocolate-y.”
“It’s The Girlfriend’s recipe. Actually, it’s Mimi’s recipe. Mimi’s brownies. I can’t remember who Mimi is. The Girlfriend’s aunt? Great aunt? Great-grandmother?”
“Is it one of the twins?” The Girlfriend’s grandmother was a twin; a pastel portrait of her and her sister as teenagers hangs in her house. The Kid’s interest in twins is long-standing.
“It might be. I kind of fudged the recipe a bit. No pun intended. You know how The Girlfriend’s texts are always short and cryptic? Her recipe was like that, too. ‘Melt 1/3 butter. 2 chocolate.’ I’m pretty sure that was one-third cup of butter and two chocolate squares. But my baker’s chocolate squares were small, and I wondered if I should use four. I compromised and used three. I should have used another one.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You always use too much chocolate. These are perfect.”
“You want the last one?”
“Don’t you want any?”
“I had some last night. Let's split it.”
More people wear masks today — maybe one in four? We observe the styles: over mouth but not nose, atop heads or below chins, one double mask, a couple of Halloween-style fright masks. No judgment: Any mask is better than no mask, and we can’t tell who needs them, who might be overreacting. Better to grant the benefit of the doubt. Yesterday, I say, The Girlfriend saw an unmasked man kiss a woman’s masked lips. Everybody’s trying to figure it out, I say.
We stroll back to the Co-Parent’s house.
Later, The Girlfriend says she’d have taken my Co-Parent’s side in the Great Brownie Debate.
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve tried to blend a family. You don’t want to favor your own children too much. Better to err on the side of the step-kids.”
“Another thing to be grateful for," I say. "You and I aren't blending families. Life’s hard enough.”
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