I just shake my head, fighting my smile and feeling my blush return. This boy.
After locating my room, I spend a few minutes settling in. I shoot a text off to Natalie and Clara, who have requested updates on what they refer to as my romantic weekend getaway with Benny. The thought of telling them that there’s only one bed left between the two of us makes me laugh. Best to not put any more ideas in their heads.
Before long, Aiden calls us all back and informs us that we—the six Friends plus Benny and me—will be filmed going fishing for a special episode ofCross-Country Cookery.A local chef who fishes as a hobby will be joining as our instructor.
Less than an hour later, we’re all decked out in hilariously ugly,chest-high rubber waders and most of us are waist-deep in the chilly sound, with some taking to the activity better than others.
“OhhhGod, this is so gross,” Benny groans, holding a worm between two fingers and trying to psych himself up to put it on his hook.
“Benny,” I call out, “no one’s gonna revoke your man card if you don’t use the live bait.”
A few yards away, Nia and Katherine snicker, making my life complete. I’m actually having fun out here, hanging out with all the Friends at the same time.
“But the artificial ones are neon and sparkly. There’s no way the fish believe they’re edible,” Benny argues, his expression still one of disgust as he wades back over to his spot beside me with his fishing rod and its freshly baited hook swinging awkwardly. I’ve already given him two warnings about impaling one of us by accident if he doesn’t learn to wield the rod properly.
“Tell that to the two I’ve already caught!” Aiden yells cockily.
He’s being annoying about the fact that he is the only one of us who has caught anything so far, but I can’t help being a little impressed. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
Benny settles back into position, and our kindly instructor resumes talking about the migratory fish that come through here. Over the next couple of hours, it feels like we’ve learned all we could possibly need to know about fishing techniques in general and Bainbridge Island in particular.
As far as carrying out said techniques, we all have room forimprovement. Benny doesn’t catch anything. By what feels like total chance, I catch one teeny-tiny baby trout. Benny makes a big show of saying how it’s cheating since I’m from the country and do this all the time, at which point I whack him with my (hook-free) rod and remind him that I grew up in a landlocked suburb and he’s being a sore, fishless loser.
But it’s all in good fun, as confirmed when Benny asks me to take a picture with him while we’re wrapping up and then poses with his arm as tightly around my waist as is possible with our massive rubbery overalls.
Back at the cabin, we strip out of the borrowed gear and start to split off when Aiden springs another surprise on us.
“Interns!” he calls from the driveway, and Benny and I turn from the cabin’s front door, which we were about to walk through. “Can you be back in the kitchen in fifteen? Dinner’s on you tonight.”
I shove down the growl that wants to come out.Really?It’s been a long day already, we’ve been on camera a bunch, and I was hoping to be off the clock now. Benny looks none too pleased either, but we both know we’re getting orders disguised as a question, so we murmur our assent.
The others are generous and let Benny and me have first dibs on showers—we’ve all gotten varying degrees of sweaty and muddy today. I get ready as quickly as possible, securing my hair into a still-wet bun and already calling this video a loss on the personal appearance front.
Back in the kitchen, Benny, of course, looks refreshed and somehow even better than this morning. It’s infuriating.
Aiden explains that this will be a crossover segment ofAmateur HourandCross-Country Cookery.Normally Phil, the Bainbridge Island chef and fisherman who’s been with us for the afternoon, would teach Rajesh how to cook his signature dish, but today Benny and I have been tasked with preparing our own versions of a meal using the fish the whole group caught. Raj and Phil will be on hand for guidance and sous-chef duties.
The funny thing is that we didn’t actually catch that many fish, and certainly not enough to feed the whole house. So most folks’ dinner is going to be the dozen or so pizzas Aiden will order after filming, while whatever Benny and I make will go to a select few judges.
“So, I’ve literally never cooked a fish in my life,” I say as soon as we’ve split up to discuss our plans, Benny with Phil and me with Raj.
Raj laughs. “It’s not so tough. I’ll even clean and ready ’em into little fillets for you, how about that?”
“Perfect. Can I convince you to be my sous in all our episodes from now on?”
“Get back to me with salary and benefits and we’ll talk,” he calls over his shoulder as he grabs a cutting board and heads to the sink.
We have a fridge and pantry full of vegetables, spices, and other ingredients at our disposal. Running through the optionsin my head of meals Mamaw has taught me that I could pull from, it hits me that I know exactly what to do with the fish.
Pretend it’s chicken.
It isn’t the most sophisticated tactic, and I’m not even sure it’ll work. But I can fry me some tasty chicken, and I imagine it can’t be too terribly different to fry fish. And if there’s any rule of thumb in my grandparents’ kitchen, it’s that anything can taste good if it’s made with enough butter and salt.
After another hour or so of chaos around the kitchen with the four of us chopping, mixing, battering, stirring, and playing it up for the camera all the while, Benny and I set the plates out for our judges, who end up being Katherine, Seb, and—as a wild card, since she hardly ever appears in videos—Teagan.
I feel like it’s comically obvious whose meal is whose. Benny’s fish is beautifully seared, with a lemon-rosemary glaze and sitting on a bed of wild rice with grilled asparagus on the side. It’s becoming clearer to me all the time that the boy understated his abilities that first day, telling me he could only do pasta and pastries. Anyone who can whip something like that up without a recipe at their side is a pro in my book.
On the other hand, my dish is straight out of a heart surgeon’s worst nightmares. Piles of fried fish still shimmery with grease and heavily salted and peppered, next to mashed potatoes with an extra pat of butter on top, as if the multiple sticks that went into their preparation weren’t enough. It’s stick-to-your-ribs, clog-your-arteries goodness. Or at least the bit I sampledtasted good to me. I cross my fingers under the counter, hoping at least two of the judges agree.
