Jessica Conant-Park - Cook the Books

“Chloe, it’s okay,” Kyle called after me. He rolled down his window and continued talking. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Please, come back.”

I waved as I crossed the street. “Of course not. Everything is fine!” I said with a chipper ring in my voice. “Talk to you soon!” I tried to stroll casually to the front door, but my body wouldn’t listen, and I practically ran up the walkway. What the hell is wrong with me? I unlocked the front door and stomped angrily up the stairs to the third floor. I am a sex-starved lunatic who just molested and nearly asphyxiated my boss. I opened the door to my condo, yanked off my stupid puffy coat, and hurled it across the living room, startling Inga and Gato, who went running for the bedroom. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m having an off night, okay, kitties?”

I stormed into the kitchen. It took more than humiliation to kill my appetite; I was hungry. I pushed food around in the fridge and assessed what I had to work with. Aha, perfect. I pulled out a hydroponic tomato that I’d paid a fortune for, some heavy cream, an egg, and grated Parmesan cheese. I turned on the oven and then sliced the top off the tomato, scooped out the pulp, and flipped the tomato upside down onto a paper towel. I sat in a chair and stared at the tomato while it drained.

I was totally annoyed with myself. What had possessed me to fling myself at Kyle like that? Furthermore, what was up with that weird neck thing I’d done? Who does that? Obviously I’d been reading too many of those vampire romance books. Stupid Stephenie Meyer. Well, reading about vampires was going to stop immediately. Who knew what more I was capable of? One more vampire read, and I might actually have bitten Kyle. I dropped my head into my hands and shook my stupid skull back and forth. I’ll just pretend this never happened , I thought. The next time I see Kyle, I’ll behave like a completely normal, nonfreakish employee.

I turned the tomato upright and set it into a small baking dish. I broke the egg into the tomato, poured in a spoonful of cream, and then topped the cream with some of the grated Parmesan. In twenty minutes the egg would be set and I’d have a hot, comforting meal to soothe my frazzled nerves. And the tub of Friendly’s Forbidden Chocolate in the freezer wouldn’t hurt, either. Ah, food.

AFTERattacking Kyle Boucher, the least I could do was devote my Saturday to his cookbook. Gastronomic repentance, I suppose. My success in pulling the book together would prove that I was not some basket case, but a skilled assistant. Besides, the hefty paycheck I’d just received was no small motivator. Even if my bizarre display of affection had spoiled any chance of a relationship with Kyle, I could still whip through the cookbook and rake in some money.

Easier said than done. I frowned at the computer screen as I scrolled down my rough and incomplete draft of the table of contents. The worst problem was the existence of substantial gaps in some categories and an overabundance of material in others. Twenty-six soups and only four desserts? And five different recipes for roast chicken. Five? I like a good roast chicken as much as the next person, but the recipes were nearly identical. I made a note to delete four and to keep my favorite, the simple salt-crusted chicken that was bound to taste fantastic, judging from the aroma emanating from my kitchen. It had taken me all of six minutes to rub the chicken with olive oil, salt, and pepper, stuff it with rosemary and basil, and then cover it with coarse salt. When it was done, I’d break off the salt crust and dive in. The need to test the recipes provided a good excuse to try out some of the more delicious-sounding ones. Plus, the chef who’d been the source of this recipe had actually taken the time to write a coherent list of ingredients and clear directions. Most chefs were impossible. One recipe I’d tackled earlier this morning was for an Asian-style hotpot that would serve sixty people. Sixty! I’d never heard of half of the ingredients, and the instructions were confusing. Chefs just didn’t seem to understand that the rest of us lacked their inherent brilliance in the kitchen; we needed to be told what to buy and what to do.

Kyle and I would have to get new recipes for the short-changed categories in the cookbook, and we’d have to avoid getting yet more duplicate and triplicate recipes, but I hated to sound picky and bossy in asking chefs for the favor of sharing recipes. We need a beef dish that does not have potatoes or leeks but does have cumin and rutabagas. And no roast chicken! What I needed to do was to browse through a great chef’s recipes and pull out what we needed.

Digger, I thought with a smile. Digger had had recipes. If I could find them, if they hadn’t burned with the building, we could include them in the book as a wonderful tribute to him. Plus, Digger cooked damn well. No one would imagine that including him in the book was an act of pity. Ellie would probably like the idea as much as I did. I even had the feeling that, in spite of her grief, she’d be pleased to have Digger gain the posthumous celebrity.

I called Ellie and had to let the phone ring repeatedly before she picked up. “Hello.” Her voice was weak and hoarse.

“Ellie, it’s Chloe. How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m not doing very well,” she said as she burst into tears. “I had to identify Digger’s body.”

“I’m so sorry.” I let her cry for a few moments before presenting my idea. “I think Digger would like the idea of being published, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” she sniffed. “I think that’s really lovely.”

“Do you know where he kept his recipes? Are they at the restaurant, or do you have any?”

“No.” She managed a small laugh. “He would never have kept them where someone else could have access to them. You know chefs. They guard their private recipes with their lives.” She paused. What a choice of words. “Oh God!” Ellie started crying again, and I had to wipe my own eyes. I heard her take a deep breath. “I had to identify his body, Chloe. It was awful.” I waited while she sobbed. “Anyhow, no, I don’t have any of his recipes, unfortunately. Digger didn’t need me to help him cook. He kept them in a messenger bag in his apartment. It was usually in the bedroom by the front door, which isn’t that close to the kitchen, so maybe it wasn’t destroyed. That’s the room he used as his office. I’ll go over there later today or tomorrow and let you know if I can find the bag. This is a really nice idea. Thanks for thinking of including him.”

“Are you sure you’re up to going over there? Do you want me to help you? Or maybe your friend Georgie can go with you?” I suggested.

“No. I need to do it. I’ve been putting it off, but I need to see what I might be able to keep of his. You know, as a reminder or whatever. Besides, I’ve got some of my stuff there, too. Or I had some. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I hung up and went to check on the salt-crusted chicken. I opened the oven, pulled out the roasting pan, took a good whiff, and smiled. The potatoes I’d baked were also done, so I tossed together a salad and enjoyed a fabulous early dinner. It was only five o’clock. Living alone was not heinously depressing, I told myself; it had its advantages. For instance, I could eat whenever I wanted. When I’d finished my meal, I popped Season Four of The Closer into the DVD player and lay down on the couch. Another wild night at Chez Chloe, right? At least I was getting a lot of sleep these days. With Josh in my life, I’d hardly slept, or so it now seemed. I used to wait up at night to see him when he got off work, and then we’d be up late doing wonderfully wicked things to each other, but I’d still have to get up for classes in the morning. Not that I’d cared about being tired, but why not appreciate a good night’s sleep now?