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“Slow cooking breaks down all the connective tissue and tenderizes the meat. So, I can use leaner cuts.”
“This dish certainly warms you from the inside.” Her smile was kind as she patted my forearm. “You should write a cookbook someday.”
“I did. Well, I co-wrote one. With the chef at my former restaurant in Seattle.” Heat flared in my veins at the thought of how Reef had used me for my recipes and then fucked me, literally and figuratively.
“What’s it called? I’ll buy a copy today.” Her eyes brightened, and I smiled, pushing the ugly memories back.
“It’s scheduled to release in a few weeks.”
“Well, let me know. I want to be the first in line. After all, I know you. I know a famous author.”
I chuckled. “Hardly famous. But I appreciate the support.”
My mom had said the same thing when I told her and my dad about the book. I’d been so excited then like things were finally coming together. I moved away from home, something they didn’t want me to do, and it turns out, I wasn’t just surviving. I was making it big time.
When I realized Reef only intended the cookbook to be an advertisement for his restaurant, one I no longer worked at, I downplayed the accomplishment for their sake and mine.
That cookbook was a source of pride on one level and a reminder of what happens when you trust the wrong people on another. The next cookbook I wrote would be mine alone.
The big room in the barn was full of people moving through the buffet line or eating, and my heart swelled with pride. “The group size is growing. Do you expect that to continue?”
Donna looked around. “I would say so. Looks like spouses and children are dropping in. Let’s bump the order to forty. Will that work for you?”
“Of course.” Catering in Silicon Valley, I made meals for hundreds. A jump in size wasn’t a problem. Especially now that I used the small professional kitchen here and Lucas’s gleaming six-burner Wolf at his house. That thing was a beast.
After the meal, I portioned out the leftovers, and Donna loaded them into a box to carry back to the farmhouse. I lifted one of the large chafing dishes with the unctuous braising liquid still warm in the bottom.
Taking a quick step to the side, I slipped. It happened in slow motion. I jostled the pan and spilled most of the hot brown deliciousness down my stomach and legs, soaking everything through to my undies.
“Oh, dear. Are you all right? Did you burn yourself?”
“Yes, and no. But I lost all that wonderful liquid.” I almost cried. It would have been a perfect base for gravy or stew. What a waste.
“You’re covered in it.” Not the first time I was covered in something from the kitchen. I kept a spare set of clothes in my car since culinary school for just such an event.
“Nothing a shower won’t cure.” I involuntarily shuddered. My hot water heater was out again, and the idea of a cold shower in this already freezing damp weather gave me chills.
“You can’t drive home like that. Come to the house and get cleaned up. I’ll find you something to wear.”
“Oh, are you sure? I have clothes in my car.”
“Grab them and come on over. Finn!” The man appeared at the double doorway into the space. “Can you finish in here? I’m taking Jo to get changed.”
“Sure. What happened?”
“I slipped. Chef’s specialty. I’ll come right back and help.”
“I got it. Your clothes caught most of it. I’ll finish in here,” Finn said.
I grabbed my duffel bag from the back of my SUV and jogged across the lawn to Donna, heading toward the big white farmhouse. The cold seeped through to my skin, causing another shiver while their farm dog, Rex, greeted me with sniffs and a wagging tail like I was his very own treat.
“The bathroom’s in here.” Donna walked down a hallway off the great room.
“Thank you so much. I’ll change and be out of your hair.”
“Take a shower, if you want. Bob will be at the barn with the boys for at least a couple of hours, and I’m heading out to run errands. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
A hot shower sounded divine. For the last week, I took showers in the locker room at The Elliot after work and washed dishes with water I heated on the stove like Laura Ingalls Wilder, for God’s sake.
