Me:We’re cooking tomorrow.
Me:And we’re calling it Fable.
Chapter 14
Everything’s Better with Onion
Poppy
Jack throws a sack of onions on the prep table, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
I give it a polite examination. I’m in another ugly castoff today, a boxy Nirvana T-shirt stolen from Ryan and a navy apron Jack thrust at me before even saying hello. My hair is in two braids instead of one, both tucked tightly under the branded bandanna I borrowed from Kiara’s vet clinic. I’m both a walking advertisement for Coastal Pet Care and a middle finger to Jack’s hairnet rule, which I’m convinced he’s enforcing purely for the power trip.
His eyes are a jungle today. The heart of a rainforest, deep where no one dares explore. As he takes in the sight of the bandanna, his lips twitch.
I think he can smell my fear. He’s a wolf, and I’m a malnourished, inept little rabbit. He’s going to tear me to shreds. I lace my fingers together behind my back, wishing I hadn’t gulped down two cups of coffee on the walk over.
It seemed like a great idea to push the cooking lessons last night. I had visions of myself using tweezers to place herbs in perfect harmony along a plate. Effusive words of praise from Jack for being such a quick study. Now, in the light of day—or at least the light of the overhead lamps—I know with absolute certainty that I’m going to fail.
“I expected more of a reaction,” he drawls. “You’re the one who said you wanted to chop onions.”
“Is that what we’re doing, then?”
“For now.” He sets a rolled canvas on the tabletop. “You know, it took me three months working here before I was even allowed to touch a knife.”
“Must have been a steep bill you tried to bail on.”
That earns me a small smile, there and gone. He unties the canvas. My breath catches as I take in the polished, razor-sharp blades nestled inside. There are tiny little knives and big, heavy ones; knives with wooden handles, knives with serrated edges, knives that look like they’ve seen better days and knives that look like they’ve never touched food at all. There are scarier objects, too, like a meat cleaver that I’m sure can easily hack through bone, and what might be a syringe. I’m afraid to ask.
“Knowing how to properly handle a knife is one of the most important skills you can have in a kitchen.” He chooses a long knife with a heavy black handle. It looks like the kind of knife a serial killer would use to stab his victims. I involuntarily take a step back as he uses it to slice open the mesh bag holding the onions.
“Jumpy?”
“Around weaponry? Yes.”
“Anything can be a weapon. Right now, this is just a chef’s knife.” He places a wooden cutting board down, setting an onion on top. “You always want to make sure you’re working with a sharp knife. They’re less dangerous than dull ones.”
“Why?”
“The sharper the blade, the less pressure you need to use to cut through whatever it is you’re working with.” He mimics a chopping motion with the knife. “Less force means less chance you’ll slip and hurt yourself.”
“Got it.”
“Form is important, too.” He gestures at the way he’s holding the knife. “The fingers that aren’t controlling the knife are curled and pressed against the flat part of the blade as a guide. Thumb and pinkie behind the others. See?”
I whip my phone out and bend to take a quick picture.
“Poppy.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
His gaze is stony. “What are you doing?”
“Getting some content.” I show him the picture I just took. The lighting needs help—for official photo shoots, I’ll need to bring in my camera and reflectors—but with a few filters, it’ll be serviceable. “Pretty good, right? I’m not sure yet how to introduce you, but it can’t hurt to have options. Sometimes I have to take, I don’t know, ten million shots before I land on the right one.”
“Pay attention.”
“But—”
