by penny watson
“How about something Scottish, like Arran cheddar. That’s what I desire,” Elliott whispered.
“A snob to the bitter end. I think you’ll be impressed with this cheese, Chef Adamson. It’s excellent. Quit yer complaining,” Sophia whispered back.
Elliott chuckled.
“All of our contestants will be highlighting this wonderful ingredient for their meal. However, there is one little hitch.” Mr. Smith smiled and pointed to the main barn. “What is that I hear? The pitter-patter of little feet?”
The barn doors flew open and dozens of children raced into the courtyard. All of the contestants groaned in unison. Sophia smiled. If there was one thing she knew, and she knew well, it was how to feed children. Picky children. Messy, cranky, unpredictable children.
The kids were yelling and stampeding around. It took a few minutes for the producers to settle them down.
“As you can see, your customers today are eight years old, third graders from Norwich Elementary School. We’re going to be preparing a delicious lunch for these youngsters using the award-winning cheese. The judging panel will be looking at how well you have incorporated the local products into your meal, in addition to how appropriate your dish is for this youthful audience. You have fifteen minutes to discuss your menus with your partners, and then time will start for this challenge. You’ll be cooking in the Rigley kitchens, which are fully stocked with organic proteins and produce. Lunch will be served outside in three hours.”
Sophia piped up. “What will the children be doing for the next three hours?”
“Helping on the farm. Milking the cows, feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. They’ll be good and hungry by lunch time.”
She turned to Elliott, ready for a sarcastic comment or cutting remark. Instead she found him white-faced and panicked.
“Elliott, what’s wrong?”
“I . . . I can’t do this.”
“You can’t do what?”
“This. Making food for youngsters.” He squeezed her hand so hard Sophia was worried he’d crushed her fingers.
“Of course you can. We can do this together.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t like kids. I don’t offer a children’s menu at my restaurants. I don’t like ‘watering down’ my dishes or serving fish sticks for the wee ones. I just don’t do it.”
“Elliott—”
“This is going to be a disaster. All of my best recipes with cheese include whisky!”
“Elliott.” She gripped his arm. “Snap out of it.”
He looked broken already, and the challenge hadn’t started yet.
“What happened to our new winning attitude? It’s gone already?”
“I never expected this. I thought I would be cooking for adults.”
In addition to being stubborn and single-minded, Elliott Adamson was clearly lacking in flexibility, which was a prerequisite for a contest like this. He just needed a nudge in the right direction.
“Well, guess what? It’s your lucky day. You have an ace in the hole.”
He rubbed his hands over his face in a defeated gesture. “What’s that?”
“Me. You have me.”
He said nothing.
“I have kids.”
He perked up somewhat at that comment.
“Two kids. Two picky kids. And I spent years of my life figuring out how to cook for them and entice them to eat.”
Elliott’s expression turned attentive. “Keep talking.”
“First of all, tell me your favorite Scottish cheese recipes. Let’s figure out how we can adapt them. We can do this.”
He nodded slowly and the color began to return to his face. “Cauliflower, cheese, and whisky soup.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“It is. But I don’t think these wee ones are ready for Scotch whisky.”
She smiled. “We omit the whisky.”
“But—”
“No, we’ll add the kick in another way. That soup sounds like something kids would love. My girls adored cheese soup. And I made it with Vermont cheddar.”
His jaw clenched. Sophia waited for him to come to terms with this new development.
He released a haggard breath. “Wh-What else did your girls like to eat?”
“Cheddar soup, grilled cheese sandwiches cut up into little triangles. Crunchy cheese sticks. It’s got different textures, it’s fun to eat. Cady and Em loved it. These kids will love it, too.”
“Grilled cheese? Is that really going to win a competition like this?”
“It could if the kids like it. The producer said that was an integral part of this contest. We just need to elevate the sandwich, but still make it appealing to the children.”
Elliott frowned. “Do you think they’d like grilled ham-and-cheese?”
“Yes! That’s a great idea. My girls loved that combination. And how about we add some of the orange marmalade I made for the first challenge? That might be a nice sweet condiment.”
Elliott scribbled in his notebook. “Okay.” He nodded. “I have to bow to your experience, as much as that pains me.” He shot her a look. “And believe me, it pains me.”
“I didn’t go to culinary school, and I’m not an expert on Scottish cuisine. But I fed my daughters for two decades. I know kids. We can do this. Together.” She laid her hand on his forearm.
Elliott glanced down at her hand. His face was blank, emotionless. He was struggling with this shift in power. With this loss of control.
“All right. Don’t let me down.”
Please, God, let this work.
They began to discuss their menu. She watched Chef Adamson weigh her suggestions. Dissect her ideas. His eyes darted from her face back to his notebook. He scribbled, and scratched, and then underlined his thoughts. For the first time, she got a sense of what it was truly like to collaborate with this man. None of his ideas were spur-of-moment or quickly considered. He mulled over the ideas, flipped them, let them percolate, added and subtracted. It was an exhausting process. But she began to see the way his brain worked. How he pulled from years of experience, different cultures, different techniques, and by the time he was done, he had a menu that was thoughtful and clear. And as they finished their discussion, it was obvious that she had gained a grudging respect from her partner. Only because she was an experienced mother. But she had to start somewhere. Earning his trust.
She was starting with a grilled cheese sandwich.
They were given the go-ahead to begin cooking. All of the chefs scrambled about collecting ingredients and commencing their prep work. Elliott chopped vegetables for the stock . . . cauliflower, carrots, parsnips, artichokes. Sophia grated the sharp cheddar cheese and scooped it into a wooden bowl.
“Dammit, Harold. You need to do something about her. She’s in way over her head.”
Sophia glanced over her shoulder to find Jonathan Rutgers in a hushed and heated argument with their producer Harold Smith.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now, Jonathan. We’ve already taped half the show. She’s staying.”
“She’s obnoxious and completely lacking in any sort of culinary knowledge.”
“It’s good to have someone more relatable and accessible on the judging panel. You and Tarquin are culinary big-wigs. Our audience at home can relate to Jenny.” Mr. Smith wiped his forehead with his favorite linen hankie. “It will be okay. You’ll see.”
“She’s been inappropriate with me. I’m married. She’s been inappropriate with Tarquin. He’s gay, for God’s sake. The woman is a complete ding-bat.”
“Look. There are only a few more days of taping. You can do this. Think about how great the exposure will be for you when you release your cookbook. Just try to ignore the blogger.”
Chef Rutgers shook his head. “Fine. But keep her away from me. Tarquin doesn’t seem to mind so much. He thinks the whole situation is amusing.” Jonathan frowned. “I, however, do not.” He stormed off. Mr. Smith sig
hed and hustled over to the camera crew.
“Ignore them, Sophia.” Elliott continued to chop vegetables for his soup.
“Did you hear that? I wondered what Tarquin and Jonathan thought about Jenny,” Sophia whispered back.
“Try to ignore the melodrama. There’s always something going on in the kitchen. Fighting, loving, jealousy, hostility. You need to block that all out and just focus on the food. That’s all that matters. The food.”
“That’s easier said than done in a competition like this. There’s drama on-set, off-set, even at our field locations. I saw Harold fighting with a farmer yesterday at Loden Farm. Tempers are high.”
“It’s human nature, and the culinary industry thrives on the competitive aspect. The farmer probably felt marginalized by the crew and producers. The amateurs are resentful of the professional chefs.” He stopped and studied her. “The classically-trained chefs pooh-pooh the new trends with molecular gastronomy. And of course the American palates see haggis and gag.” He raised an eyebrow at Sophia. “We ignore the fighting, the feuding opinions, the bickering and conflict. We cook. And we cook well.”
Sophia laughed. “Good advice, Chef Adamson. We cook.” She held up a hunk of cheese. “We cook cheese.”
Elliott released a strained chuckle and continued mincing.
Mr. Smith interrupted their work to encourage the chefs. “How’s it going, contestants? Is everyone ready to feed your very short customers today?”
“Ugh. That was a piss-poor joke.” Elliott rolled his eyes.
Short Chubby Guy yelled, “It’s all about the cheese!”
Mr. Smith waved the damned flag over his head. “Get cooking! We’re ready for A Taste of Heaven!”
Elliott leaned close to Sophia and captured her gaze with his indigo eyes. Blazing so fiercely they took her breath away. “We’re winning today, goddammit. Do you hear me? Winning.”
Sophia nodded. “I heard you.”
The flag slashed through the air.
❦
This might be the first time in history that judges table disintegrated into a food fight. Sophia had a fleeting recollection of the movie Animal House. The children smelled horrible, probably covered with compost and muck. They were sweaty and antsy and obviously starving. She wasn’t sure what the producers had planned for the next part of the show, but she hoped lunch would be served within the next thirty seconds, or all hell was about to break loose at Rigley’s Creamery.
Mr. Smith swallowed nervously as he surveyed the banquet table. Out came the linen handkerchief as he wiped his forehead. He cleared his throat, but the children completely ignored him.
A loud, screeching whistle brought everyone to a standstill.
Mr. Smith turned to the chefs, eyes wide with surprise.
“It looked like you could use a spot of help with the kidlets. Noisy bunch, aren’t they?” Elliott’s face showed no emotion.
Sophia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“Um, thank you, Chef Adamson.” Mr. Smith faced the children. “Who’s ready for lunch?”
The answering war cry was deafening. A river of sweat ran down the side of the producer’s face.
Mr. Smith turned to the contestants in desperation. “Who’s up first?”
One after another, the pairs brought plates to the table. Lunch never broke down into an all-out food fight, but Sophia did spy some vegetables on the ground. She heard compliments, insults, and plenty of laughter. She envied the children those simple moments. Eating with friends. Giggling at jokes. When your day’s biggest obstacle was whether or not you could swallow a spear of asparagus.
Finally it was their turn to present. Elliott regarded the children with a mix of mistrust and hostility. Sophia would have to do the bulk of the presentation today.
“Elliott and Sophia, what are you serving for our hungry clients this afternoon?” Mr. Smith was most likely dreaming about his first scotch at cocktail hour.
Sophia stepped forward, and Elliott let her. She glanced at him and he gestured for her to get on with it. Clearly he had no issue with her speaking up.
“We have a delicious treat for the kids today. One of my daughters’ favorite lunches . . . soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. We also made crunchy cheese sticks.”
The children cheered. She noticed some of the boys having sword fights with the cheese sticks. Whatever made them happy. She had assembled fruit “flowers” on the plates as a garnish, and they loved those. She huffed out a sigh of relief.
Tarquin ushered the chefs to the side of the table. “And how about a more detailed description for the adult judges?”
Relieved to leave the children’s table, Elliott turned his back on them and addressed the judges. “The soup is based on a traditional Scottish cauliflower cheese soup. I made a rich stock with ten assorted vegetables from the Rigley organic garden. We used their extra sharp cheddar and the double cream to thicken the soup. The sandwiches include soft muenster, slices of smoked ham, and a dollop of the Scottish marmalade for sweetness.”
Jenny smiled. “How did you make those crispy cheese sticks? The kids seem to really love them.”
Sophia answered. “We incorporated Parmesan and fresh dill in the dough.”
“And the fruit flowers? I have a sneaking suspicion that was not the work of our Scottish chef.”
Elliott grumbled under his breath.
Sophia raised a brow. “I made the flowers. My girls loved it when I made vignettes with fruits and vegetables on their plates.”
“Well,” Jenny answered, “these kids love them, too. Very sweet.”
“Who was in charge of this menu, Chef Adamson?” Jonathan Rutgers began his interrogation.
Elliott hesitated. He glanced at Sophia, and she was surprised to see gratitude mixed with some underlying discomfiture. He answered stiffly. “My partner and I . . . collaborated on this meal. I adapted an old favorite to be . . . child-friendly. The original soup recipe includes whisky. We decided to leave that out today.”
The judges laughed. “That was an intelligent decision,” Tarquin said.
“You covered all your bases with this challenge. You included a nice assortment of the Vermont cheeses, you made a well-balanced and healthy meal in terms of textures and sides. And most importantly, the kids love it.” Jenny was clearly impressed.
“Why don’t we ask the kids what they thought?” Tarquin said. He approached the table and began to interview the children.
“This was my favorite! I love this soup.”
“The bread sticks are good. I want my mom to make this for me.”
“I like the grilled cheese, but I took off the ham. I don’t like ham.”
Elliott rolled his eyes, but Sophia was charmed. And relieved. This reminded her of lunch times from more than a decade ago, when David was still alive and the girls were little. Emilia and Cady and their merry band of friends would run into the house, dirty and hot and ready to eat. She smiled at the children as she reminisced.
A little girl waved to Sophia and she waved back.
“Thanks, Chef Brown. I love this lunch.”
“You’re very welcome.”
All of the kids waved and laughed, and she giggled with them. Elliott looked utterly perplexed. She had to lift his arm to wave it, which made the kids laugh even harder.
“Well, well, well, someone is quite charming on camera. Very well done, Sophia.” Mr. Smith whispered close to her ear, and he looked exceedingly pleased.
The final contestants delivered their platters, and soon it was time for the finalists to be announced. Sophia noticed that the majority of the chefs made sophisticated meals and ignored their audience. She wondered if the adult judges would still give them good marks for preparing high-quality food, or if they would be critical of that point.
Tarquin smiled for the camera. “Today’s challenge seemed to throw our chefs off their game. I’m surprised. Cheese is an easy ingredient. That was a give-away.”
; Jenny shook her head. “But cooking for kids was the tough part. And I know. I have three gorgeous pumpkins at home—Grace, Joseph, and Mary Kate. And each one of them wants to eat a different meal. Kids are a big challenge in the kitchen.”
Jonathan Rutgers’s face was expressionless, but Sophia could see the tick jumping on his cheek.
“Honestly, three of our remaining pairs were a huge disappointment today. But the one pair that really missed the mark was Lin Lin and Tammy. That meal was way too sophisticated for third graders. Most of them refused to eat it. I’m sorry to say that you two are the losing pair for this challenge,” Jenny said.
Lin Lin shot an angry look at the remaining chefs and shuffled off the set with her partner.
“We really only had two pairs that fulfilled the requirements today. Brian and Herman. And Elliott and Sophia. Why don’t you four step forward?” Mr. Smith gestured for the finalists to join him.
Elliott blew out a long, slow hiss. His face was pale and tense. He pressed a hand against Sophia’s lower back and escorted her to the judging table.
They were so close. So close!
“Chefs Brian and Herman made pizza, a perfect way to please a younger customer, in addition to incorporating the fresh Rigley Creamery mozzarella. And Chefs Elliott and Sophia prepared a rich soup and golden fried cheese sandwiches. With some whimsical fruit garnishes. Well-played.” Jonathan nodded in their direction.
“The other contestants were a bit too focused on making complicated dishes that showed off their cooking techniques.” Jenny frowned. “Kids don’t care about that. They just want food that’s tasty and doesn’t scare the pants off them.”
Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Well, judges, who is the winner today? It’s Battle Pizza Versus Grilled Cheese.”
Jenny clapped her hands. “The kids’ decision was unanimous, and the judges agreed. Sophia and Elliott won this round.”
Finally!
Sophia laughed out loud. Elliott sagged with relief. He crushed her in his arms, and she could feel his body trembling. When he pulled away to face the judges, she was surprised to see tension lines still creasing his forehead.
“You’re lucky you didn’t serve haggis to the kids. We would have had a rebellion on our hands.” Jenny shot Elliott a venomous smile.