“One word—pasties.” He moved his hands like he was making a rainbow in the sky.
“Pasties?” Ava crinkled her nose.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a pasty before?”
“That’s the thing with rutabaga and beef in a pie, right?”
He put his hand to his chest. “You wound me! ‘That thing with rutabaga’? It’s so much more than that. It’s practically the state food of Michigan. And it’s perfect for this contest.”
“Uh-huh. Convince me.”
Fine. He liked a challenge. “We can take some of the food ideas you had, the rosemary and umami, and even some of the flavors from your mom’s malfatti—browned butter and sage—and make an elevated pasty. We’d pair the traditional fillings of rutabaga and potatoes and beef with upscale seasonings. A simple food that we make shine.”
As he talked, Ava leaned toward him. She jotted a few things down on her notepad. “I like where you’re going with this. A local favorite made with a Zach Sullivan flair. You could even say a local favorite made by a local favorite.”
Her words made his chest swell. But…“I don’t think I’m a local favorite.”
“Oh, please. I saw you with everyone out there.” She waved his words away, then jotted down something else on her paper. “I think the whole town came to say hello to you today. You’re Jonathon Island’s golden boy.”
“I think you’re blind.” He reached for her paper. “What are you writing down?”
She pulled the paper out of his reach. “Don’t you know better than to take things that don’t belong to you?”
“Sorry. You’re right.”
She gave him a smile. A dimple he’d never noticed before appeared on her cheek. “I’m just getting some ideas for my article.”
“If you’re going to call me a local favorite, I might have to protest.”
“Fine, I’ll just say the island’s golden boy.”
He groaned. “That’s even worse.”
“Sorry, not sorry. You’re not my editor.” She flipped the page. “Okay. What do we need to do to be ready for the competition?”
“I’ll need to find a good recipe to riff off. I have one in mind, but I don’t know if it’s in the binder I packed for this trip.”
Her mouth hung open.
“What?”
“Do you just, like, carry around a recipe binder all the time?”
He squared up. “I don’t know. Do you just, like, carry around a pen and paper all the time?”
She looked him hard in the eye. Then her face softened. “Touché. You’re right. Tools of the trade and all that. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t have something to write with nearby. You’re probably the same about your recipes.”
The clock on the wall ticked as a few seconds passed. “I know some people keep notebooks and journals with their recipes and inspiration, but I prefer to keep it all in a binder. Then I can add to it with various mediums, using those clear pockets and whatnot. Sometimes I’ll jot a note in my phone, but mostly it’s in the binder.”
“I’d love to see it sometime.”
“Maybe when you’re ready to show me your notes.” He raised an eyebrow at her.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Touché again.” She yawned. “Do we need to discuss anything else? I’m beat.”
He checked his smartwatch. How had it gotten to be midnight already? “I think we’re fine. I’ll plan the recipes and then check in with you tomorrow with my ideas. You’ll just need to be my helper.”
She patted him lightly on the shoulder as she passed him on her way out of the kitchen. “G’night, Golden Boy.”
