A Taste of Heaven

by penny watson

  The intern disappeared.

  Lin Lin growled.

  Sophia rolled out of bed and hurried to dress. She pulled on a pair of cargo pants, a white T-shirt, and a cotton sweater. Vermont mornings were always cool, even in the summer time. She’d peel off the layers later in the day. She clipped her hair and slid on her most comfortable sport clogs. She had no idea what was coming up, but her appearance was the least of her concerns.

  Thirty minutes later, a cavalcade of vans bumped along the back roads. Elliott was in another vehicle and hadn’t bothered to acknowledge her in any way. Fine. Soon enough they’d be forced to interact. God help her.

  It didn’t take long to arrive at their destination. When they pulled into the gates for Pumpkin Hill Farm, Sophia’s heart lightened. This was a wonderful location and a real working farm, not just for show like some of the touristy spots. It also boasted a lovely restaurant and gourmet market. She and David had visited often with the girls when they were little. One of her favorite family portraits was the four of them perched on the stone wall at the entrance. David held Cady in his arms, her face covered with candied apple and dirt. Emilia, who was always the fastidious child, had a corduroy shirt buttoned up to her chin, and two perfect braids decorated with Halloween ribbon. Sophia’s face was in profile, watching her family, smiling at her family.

  Loving her family.

  And now as she watched the television crew mount cameras and lights around the farm, she looked for ghosts along the wall. But all she found were candy wrappers and chipmunk holes, lichens, and chipped chunks of granite.

  “Sprite!” Elliott’s voice boomed over the set. He stood next to the café entrance and looked about as welcoming as a tree trunk.

  “Good morning, Chef Adamson.”

  He inspected her, top to bottom, and grunted. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  She sighed. “An hour or so. Why? How bad are the circles under my eyes?”

  Elliott shook his head. “You look like a strong breeze will blow you over. Are you ready to cook?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “We’ll see. Just remember what we talked about last night.”

  “I will. The part about working together.”

  “And me being team captain.”

  There was an edge to his voice that made Sophia nervous.

  They entered the kitchen area to find it bustling with crew members and contestants. The chefs were rounded up and herded outside for the filming to commence. They stood in front of the main barn to introduce the show.

  Mr. Smith waved to the contestants. Today he wore a gray suit and pink tie. Sophia wondered if he realized how out-of-place he appeared while standing in front of the pig stalls on a farm.

  “Are you ready for Challenge Number One? Breakfast is the perfect way to start the day . . . and to start our Vermont challenges. We are currently guests at Pumpkin Hill Farm, a lovely little farm with fresh dairy, livestock, and produce. Pumpkin Hill employs fifty-nine hard-working farmhands who have already been up for hours. So here’s your first challenge. You and your partner must prepare a family-style platter to serve at least ten people. You have three hours and will be working in the café kitchen. We are looking for breakfast fare. Something satisfying that takes advantage of the bounty around us—something creative and unique and inspiring. Don’t forget. You and your partner must each plan and contribute part of the dish. Who’s ready to cook?”

  Sophia turned slightly to Elliott, ready to discuss their options, but he ignored her.

  “We’re ready! We’re ready!” Short Chubby Guy pumped his arm in the air.

  The rest of the contestants laughed.

  “Excellent! Your time starts now!” Mr. Smith waved the Taste of Heaven flag.

  The contestants sprinted away.

  “Elliott!” Sophia yelled after him but he wasn’t interested in conversing. “Elliott, please.”

  He almost knocked over a gangly chef with acne scars on his cheeks. The chefs fought for rations of bacon and thick slabs of ham. They pushed and shoved and jockeyed for position, trying to hoard the best ingredients. Sophia saw more than one egg fall to the ground and splatter.

  She clenched her fists in exasperation. To hell with him. She raced to the farm stand and began to gather fresh mushrooms still covered with soil, ripe tomatoes, and tiny purple potatoes. She also gathered bins of fresh citrus fruits.

  When she got back to their station Elliott was chopping furiously.

  “Elliott. We need to talk.”

  “I need to cook.”

  “Yes, so do I. Do you want to discuss our menu for today?”

  “Not really.”

  “We could play twenty questions, or you could just tell me what you’re making.”

  “I’m making a traditional Scottish breakfast. Black pudding, tattie scones, and homemade sausages. With broiled tomatoes and fried mushrooms. The farmers will love it. No damned way they’re gonna eat bacon foam.”

  “You’re not making black pudding.” Sophia blanched. She remembered the ingredients for black pudding . . . mainly blood and fat and oatmeal.

  “I am.”

  “Elliott, think about your audience. The judges. Jenny, the blogger. Do you honestly think she’s going to like black pudding?”

  “I am not going to compromise my cooking to accommodate that ridiculous woman. Any well-seasoned international chef should be able to appreciate this dish.” He continued dicing onions.

  Sophia was astounded by his speed and accuracy. And horrified by the containers of blood and suet.

  “I have an idea.” Sophia rinsed her fruits and vegetables in the sink behind them.

  “No.”

  “Listen to me—”

  “No.”

  “Elliott! Listen to me!” She heard the tremor in her voice. Her legendary patience and calm demeanor had deserted her.

  “Why don’t you make a pretty little fruit salad we can squeeze on the side of our platter, Sprite?”

  His hands flew over the cutting board.

  “Elliott, I spent some time researching Scottish food last night. Instead of tattie scones, why don’t we grill the purple potatoes and serve them with fresh rosemary? And the traditional sautéed mushrooms and broiled tomatoes could be lightly grilled instead. I’ll season them with herbs from the garden. Just to lighten things up a bit.”

  His hands stilled, mid-chop. His eyes flicked up. “Really?”

  She swallowed nervously. “Really.” Her voice was steady.

  “No. We make them the right way.”

  She forged ahead, ignoring his anger. “I can also make a sauce . . .”

  “Just make the fruit salad, Sophia. I have a lot to do. Don’t bother me again.”

  And just like that, she was dismissed.

  They had attracted the notice of the other contestants, and Sophia cringed at their smug smiles. They were all thinking the same thing. Thank God I wasn’t paired with Elliott Adamson. They thought she’d made a fatal error when she chose him as a partner. Had she? No longer the pair to beat, but the pair who would sabotage themselves?

  She took a deep breath and began to slice the mushrooms. The black pudding would be a hard sell. But she was sure her vegetable sides would work with his rich dishes. Even if she had to physically fight him at the end, she would get her vision on that platter. Sophia knew in her heart it would work.

  They labored side-by-side, not speaking. Other contestants laughed and teased. Some argued. Some cried. Sophia heard the splatter of oil, the crash of pans. From time to time she tasted his food. The sausage was delicious, seasoned with ginger and spices. His sides were all buttery and rich—the mushrooms sautéed in butter, the tattie scones cooked in butter. She tried the black pudding with trepidation. It wasn’t her favorite item, but it wasn’t awful. It tasted a bit like liverwurst mixed with oatmeal. All of his dishes were rich and heavy. She had to lighten up their menu.

  Her vegetables looked beautiful—red and yell
ow tomatoes, grilled Portobello mushrooms, purple potatoes. Colorful, bright, bursting with flavor. She prepared an orange marmalade, another Scottish specialty, and paired it with crispy challah toast. Cady and Em would have loved that part. The fruit salad was all citrus and lemon basil. The sauce fruity and tart.

  “Ten minutes! Ten minutes!” Short Chubby Guy announced as he dashed across the kitchen area.

  She watched from the periphery of her vision as Elliott chose a brown platter for his brown food.

  “No. Not that one. Think about the visual.” She crouched down and pulled out a blue-glazed platter, probably made at one of the local potter’s sheds.

  A tic on Elliott’s cheek danced in anger. “Fine. We’ll use the pretty plate. I couldn’t care less about that.”

  “I know,” Sophia answered.

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?” Elliott placed slices of his black pudding on the dish, next to plump sausages and fried mushrooms. He drizzled sauce on the side of the plate. There was no room for anything else.

  “It means that you ignore the visual. Elliott, there is no room on that platter for my food.”

  He scowled. “Just toss some of the fruit on the side. It will be fine.”

  She edged closer to him. So close she could see the sweat glistening on the hair of his forearms.

  “I thought you told me you wanted to win. Had to win.”

  “I plan to. This meal is perfect.”

  “This meal will get us disqualified, and we’ll both be going home. Today.”

  “Just play along. Put your fruit on the—”

  She pushed Elliott out of the way and removed his mushrooms and the tattie scones, spooning them onto another plate. She cut the pudding in half to make more room for her vegetables.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His eyes glittered dangerously.

  “Making sure we aren’t disqualified.” She placed her vegetables next to the black pudding.

  “No!” Elliott’s voice boomed as swept her food off the platter.

  The kitchen froze. The chefs stopped plating and talking and stared at the mess on the floor. Sophia’s face burned with embarrassment.

  Elliott ignored them all. He calmly took his mushrooms and slid them back onto the platter. Sophia could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel the tightness in her chest.

  Did it matter?

  How hard you worked, how much you wanted it?

  In the end, did it matter? There was another plan, one you couldn’t anticipate. One you couldn’t predict.

  Did you really have any control? Over the outcome? Over this outcome? Or were you nothing more than a pile of discarded mushrooms, brown and crushed on a dirty kitchen floor?

  Short Chubby Guy shot them a nervous look as he announced, “Two minutes.”

  Sophia stepped in front of Elliott, blocking his access to the food.

  It mattered.

  She was more. This time. She would be more.

  She had officially reached her limit with Grumpy Scottish Bastard.

  “You coward. You should have told me you had no intention of playing by the rules. I would have asked for a different partner. One with less talent but more competitive spirit. One with every intention of playing to win instead of undermining our chances.” Her voice broke. She was close to hyperventilating.

  Elliott’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you dare to fucking psychoanalyze me. You don’t know a bloody thing about me or my life.”

  “I know you just sabotaged our chances for this competition. That’s all I need to know.” Sophia untied her apron and flung it onto the table.

  “Wait.” His chest heaved. For the first time he glanced at her work area. “What did you make?”

  “Grilled potatoes with rosemary, grill-roasted cherry tomatoes and Portobello mushrooms. I made orange marmalade with challah toast and a citrus fruit salad. And a fruity sauce to complement your savory one.” She tried to catch her breath. “I promise you these things will all work together—a fresh twist on a hearty Scottish breakfast.”

  “One minute!” A deep southern accent shouted out the warning.

  “You made real marmalade? From scratch?” Elliott looked shocked.

  “Yes. I found a recipe last night while I was researching Scottish food.”

  Elliott closed his eyes. “Hell. Keep my tattie scones. Use your tomatoes, mushrooms, and the rest of it. Do it!” His fists were clutched so tight, his knuckles turned white.

  Her hands trembled as she scraped the fried mushrooms off the plate. Thank God she had prepared extra food. Sophia took her remaining vegetables and arranged them on one side of the platter, the fruit on another, the toast with pots of fragrant marmalade nestled on another edge.

  The platter looked divine. Colorful, balanced.

  She felt the hot brush of his beard against the side of her face as he whispered furiously into her ear. “This better goddamned work.”

  She shivered uncontrollably. All of the stress and exhaustion had finally caught up with her. “It will work. Trust me, Elliott.”

  He growled into her ear.

  “Time’s up. Utensils down!” Mr. Smith beamed at the contestants as he swept his gaze over the array of platters.

  She had forgotten her fruity sauce. Damn.

  Servers lifted the platters and carried them to a banquet table set up outside, under a bright Vermont sky and framed by a charming red barn. This would make for good television. The display was simple—plain white dishes and bouquets of burgundy dahlias. The laborers began to congregate at the table, and the judges introduced themselves and settled everyone into their spots.

  The chefs were a mess. Sweaty, exhausted, hyped up with anxiety. They huddled to the side of the set, watching with nervous apprehension as the farmers tasted their food. Sophia wiped clammy hands on her apron and looked around her. None of the contestants were smiling.

  An elbow slid into her right side. “I’ll bet you’re regretting your choice of partners right now.” Michael Baldwin pressed up against her and chuckled.

  It made Sophia’s skin crawl.

  She could feel Elliott tense on her left.

  “We all knew right away who made the Scottish dish. He’s the most predictable bastard on the planet. And the most infuriating. You’ll be pulling out those gorgeous black curls before the end of the week.”

  Sophia refused to look in his direction or respond to his observation. She was most certainly having reservations, but she had faith that Elliott would come around.

  Please, Elliott. Come around.

  “Too bad you didn’t pick Baldwin as your partner, Sophia. You’d be flipping burgers and curling French fries. Baldwin’s specialty is Crap American Food. He’s extremely talented at that.” Elliott glared at Chef Baldwin over Sophia’s head.

  “Shhh! They are calling our names!” Helene, the French chef, waved a hand at the feuding men.

  The two bottom pairs were called first. Sophia’s body relaxed each time she heard a name called, and it was not her own. One of the pairs was eliminated and left in a cloud of disappointment.

  Mr. Smith leaned over the banquet table and gestured to Tarquin. “Would you like to announce your favorite pair first?”

  Tarquin nodded. “I certainly would. This was a most delicious breakfast. If I had these platters to choose from I would forgo my usual cup of coffee and indulge. My favorite meal today was prepared by Helene and Nathan. The fresh Vermont ingredients really shone with their preparation. Well played.”

  Helene and Nathan—a.k.a. Short Chubby Guy from Oregon, hugged each other awkwardly and walked to the judging area.

  “Could you please tell me who created which part of your dish?” Mr. Smith asked the finalists.

  Helene answered. “Of course. I made the Gruyère cheese soufflé and the grilled ham with apricot sauce. Nathan prepared the yogurt parfaits with fruit compote.”

  “Nathan, how’d it go with this first challenge?”

&nbs
p; “Good. I think I managed okay.” His eyes were wild and he looked slightly shell-shocked.

  “Did you get a chance to taste Helene’s food?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded vigorously. “She’s good.”

  The other contestants laughed at the understatement.

  Jenny clapped her hands together. “My favorite dish was an American specialty. Buckwheat pancakes with a trio of toppings . . . classic maple syrup tapped right here at the farm, a blackberry sauce with mint, and a delicious maple walnut butter. And the bacon-Brussels sprouts side was crispy and salty and delicious. Congratulations to Michael and Kevin.”

  Chef Baldwin shot Elliott a smug smile as he and Kevin shook hands with the judges.

  Elliott countered with an insult. “Pancakes and syrup. How original.”

  Mr. Smith patted Kevin on the back. “What part of this dish did you cook, Mr. Holt?”

  Poor Kevin was shaking. Sophia felt awful for him.

  “I made the bacon and Brussels sprouts. That’s one thing we’re good at in North Carolina. Frying up the bacon. And I helped to flip a couple of pancakes, too.”

  Everyone laughed, including Michael. Sophia wondered to herself if that was considered an acceptable contribution to the dish. Evidently it was, since Mr. Smith nodded encouragingly.

  Elliott reached for Sophia and squeezed her hand so hard she winced. She was torn between frustration and empathy for this man. Somehow she had to get through to him. If they’d been working together the entire time, their dish would have been the one to beat. She was sure of it.

  Chef Rutgers took a sip of coffee before announcing his finalist pair. Elliott could barely contain himself. “My favorite was somewhat unconventional. Not everyone likes black pudding, but I happen to like it very much. This platter took very rich dishes that are old-fashioned and well-loved in the UK and paired them with some fresher, lighter sides. I especially loved the homemade marmalade. I’m a sucker for good marmalade.”

  “Fuck. Me.” Elliott’s words would need to be censored out by the editors.

  Sophia sagged in relief.

  “Chef Adamson and Chef Brown. Nicely done. You two are an unexpected pairing. I like it.”