The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

15
I meet up with Blake aer work on Friday at the local park for our picnic, eager to be anywhere but
home, obsessing over the Matt drama as I sit in my empty living room.
With the uptick in house showings, and our boxes very nearly packed, I would’ve thought we’d be
looking at places to move into. But we haven’t looked anywhere yet.
When I sent Dad a few listings I’d found online this morning, even one for a nice apartment just
above the hardware store in town, he’d just ignored me.
“I’ve got it handled,” he murmured before heading off to work.
Whatever that means.
Blake has gone for the full stereotype for our picnic, a checkered blanket unfurled on the big grassy
field just up the hill from the playground. I bring some of the apple tarts Nina made with the apples we
picked, and Blake brings a square container, her fingers tapping on the edges.
“I called my grandma. e one in Hawaii. She walked me through how to make them,” she says as
we sit. “And it’s her recipe, so I definitely don’t think you’ve had this before.”
When she opens it, there’s a tiny hiss of steam.
“I think they’re best if they’re still warm. I pretty much wrapped the nori around them, threw them
right in the container, and floored it over here,” Blake says while I peer down at the rectangular blocks
she’s brought for us to eat, rice and a pink hunk of meat wrapped together with a thin piece of seaweed.
“Is that…? Is that Spam?” I ask. I am no stranger to Spam, especially when a twelve-ounce tin is
under three dollars at the local grocery store.
But I can’t say I’ve ever had it quite like this.
Blake nods, placing the container down on the blanket in between us. “Spam musubi. You can kinda
just…” Her voice trails off, and she reaches out, picking one up and taking a big bite out of it.
“My mom would never eat something like this. She was such a picky eater,” I say as I imitate Blake,
reaching out to grab one, the tiny brick warm underneath my fingertips. I bring it cautiously to my
mouth, taking a much smaller bite than she just had.
It’s a lot of things all at once. Sweet, salty… sticky? But it’s not bad. I’m surprised to find I actually
really like it.
Blake stares at me expectantly, a concerned crease forming between her eyebrows, like she’s actually