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“Why didn’t I go with them?” Grant lamented, and she grabbed him by the arm. His arm tingled.
“Chicken!” she admonished.
“Don’t tell me we have to roast a chicken?” he groaned, and was rewarded with her stepping behind him and using both hands to push him toward the kitchen. He loved how authoritative she became in the kitchen.
“Almost all of my spices and sauces are prepped.” She steered him into her lair. “Kat and Aarjav were all over that the second they crossed the threshold. I started the dough earlier, and braided it before you got here, so it’ll be ready to go in the oven after the roast, which is coming out soon.”
Now it was his turn to tilt his head. “Braided? Does it want to play with dollies?”
Melinda laughed and Grant dared to feel relieved. “We make a braided bread that’s kind of like challah. It’s rich and yeasty and amazing.” She took a deep breath and scanned her kitchen. “Don’t worry about the bread, Mountain Man. I barely trust you to boil the water. Let me find you an apron. Can’t get that pretty lumberjack outfit messy.”
~
Melinda floated in the most pleasant déjà vu ever. Wind swayed the trees outside, but blessedly warm water ran from the taps. She and her mountain man danced around each other, creating food in her very own kitchen. Fresh food stocked her refrigerator to the gills. She had every cooking implement known to womankind. Mulled wine warmed her palate and spirit. And Grant looked darn near edible in his jeans, flannel, and dainty purple apron that barely reached mid-thigh. Okay, the apron didn’t make him look edible, but it did make her smile.
The roast filled the air with its heavenly scent. New potatoes parboiled on the stove and the Bengal gram simmered in the pressure cooker. Together Grant and Melinda had sautéed spices and dried coconut in ghee, set them aside, and would add them to the chickpeas later to make the cholar dal. Fish for the doi maach rested on the countertop. She planned to buck tradition and poach rather than fry it, and then cross her fingers that her father wouldn’t mind the difference. Its sauce warmed at the back of the range. Her father’s rice pudding was setting in the fridge.
Grant had started rice for the doi maach under her instruction and was manfully resisting the urge to lift the lid to check its progress. Melinda blushed. Why was she blushing? Oh. She blushed again—she was intimately acquainted with his restraint.
Melinda’s parents had combined the ingredients for panch phoron yesterday and now she stirred the combination of nigella, black mustard, fenugreek, fennel, and cumin seeds into an oversized sauté pan coated with hot mustard oil.
Grant padded across the floor in his socks and turned off the potato water at her direction. He slid in close to warm her back as the spices sizzled in front of her. She braced herself against the headiness of his presence and stirred her sauté.
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Mountain Man?”
“I’m trying to anything you, Blogger,” he breathed into her ear, and Melinda’s core melted.
Beeping interrupted her intoxication.
“Was that your phone?” She sprinkled dried red peppers into the pan.
“I think it was.” Grant collected the device from his coat pocket.
“Everything okay?” Melinda tilted her head to one side as she drained the half-cooked potatoes of their steaming water. Grant didn’t immediately answer, and she turned to see him staring at the screen.
“They think they’re so clever,” he said to himself.
“What?” Melinda slipped the potatoes into the seasoned pan to brown.
“Hey Rant,” Grant read, and Melinda giggled. “We gave Katrina a tour of the lights but the wind started so we’re hiding at Melisa’s. Paul is feeding us drinks. Fancy pad, but he’s a good one. I like him. Keep the food warm until seven. We’ll show up in time to eat.”
“They’re giving us time together, aren’t they?” Melinda twisted at loose tendrils of hair, which had to be a frizzy disaster with all the steam.
“Yeah, that and time to make them a feast fit for a king,” he said, but she knew from his smirk that he was happy.
“It’s four-thirty now. We’ll make it,” she said. “Grab the bread from above the oven, and trade it for the roast. There are trivets against that wall there.” She gestured with a wooden spoon. “You can put the roast on them. We’ll let it rest until dinner.” She directed him to raise the oven’s temperature and put the bread in. For a moment she attended the potatoes and then continued. “Reach into that cabinet and pull out those two steamers. Yes, those metal pots with the holey inserts. Plus their lids.”
She paused to tug her apron into place and glanced at his face. Grant took the time to grin more slowly than necessary at her, but then filled the lower basins partway with water. Was she being bossy? Maybe, but food was food.
“One of these is for the bhapa aloo packets,” she continued, “which are made from banana leaves, so that’ll be fun. The other is for broccoli. Which do you want to be in charge of?”
Grant stared at her, deadpan.
“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “I’ll do the banana leaf part.” She coated the browned potatoes to perfection, using the seasonings her parents had prepared, then ladled them onto softened banana leaves, securing them into multiple packets with toothpicks.
Grant watched from her elbow.
“Cool, right?”
