Gator Bowl (Biscuit Bowl Food Truck)

by J. J. Cook

  “Haven’t you ever added spice to sweet?”

  “Sure. Maybe not that much—and not any alcohol.”

  “You have to loosen up, Zoe.” He put his large hands on my shoulders and massaged them. “You’re too tense. You can’t be a great cook if you’re nervous. Everything is trial and error. Don’t fret about making mistakes.”

  I turned and looked up into his big face. “I’ve never made many mistakes,” I confided. “I have to be perfect with the food truck. Everyone is waiting for me to fail.”

  He hugged me close. I could feel his heart beating. “Just think about all those fine people out there waiting for you to succeed and serve them the best damn meal they ever ate. Think about that, Zoe. You’ll be great.”

  “Thanks, Ollie. I don’t know why you aren’t married, and don’t have a family. It’s their loss for sure.”

  I saw his eyes darken before he turned away. “I think I should go for a walk before I call it a night.”

  He walked outside as though we hadn’t been just laughing and confiding in each other a moment before. It was weird.

  Maybe Ollie was harboring a terrible secret about his past. I’d seen something heartbreaking in his eyes for just an instant. I wondered if I’d ever know what it was. I hoped something good would happen for him that would make up for it. He was too good a person to be so sad.

  Uncle Saul got up and stumbled into his bedroom. I left the peaches simmering as Crème Brûlée and I got ready for bed. I was up another two hours after that, working on the menu for the next day, and dreaming about my food truck.

  Ollie didn’t come back before I’d turned off the big pot on the stove and gone to bed. I heard a sound—like a tree falling in the forest—as he crashed on the sofa at about three A.M.

  I went back to sleep right away, but I dreamed of him. He was still in the Marines, wearing his uniform, and saluting smartly. Someone was trying to kill him. He had to keep eluding them. I woke at five A.M. with his name on my lips.

  That was it for me. I was up, washed, and dressed by five thirty. Again, no amount of hair gel would make my hair compliant. I tied a pretty blue scarf around it and dared the black curls to creep out.

  I was so excited about the day. We would be taking the motorhome out for the first time. I’d be cooking with Uncle Saul. I was sure we’d manage to free Alabaster from her prison at Bonnie’s compound.

  My hopes were soaring as high as any bird. I knew I would figure out my specialty food that day. I expected to have a name for my food truck, too. Tomorrow, I’d be heading home, but today was going to be special and amazing.

  By the time Uncle Saul and Ollie were awake, I was cooking a big pot of grits. I diced and fried some ham to throw in it, along with some hard-boiled eggs.

  The two men sniffed the cooking food—and almost collided in front of the bathroom as they both headed that way. Crème Brûlée snickered from his rug, and I laughed. I imagined that living with Tommy Lee and several children would be the same way, though I hoped to have more than one bathroom.

  “Where are the biscuits?” Uncle Saul wiped sleep from his eyes.

  “I’m waiting to make them until right before we’re ready to go. You know the fresher they are, the better they are. We need them to be the best they can for Alabaster.”

  “Good thinking.” He sat at the table, cradling his head in his hands. “I have a hard time sleeping without Alabaster here. I know it sounds crazy, but I love that gator.”

  Ollie dropped down on a chair opposite him. “Good thing Zoe’s capable of thinking this morning. I hope there are gallons of coffee.”

  I put the grits into bowls and set them on the table. “Don’t worry. We’re not coming home without Alabaster today. It’s in the bag.”

  “Thanks, Zoe.” Uncle Saul smiled. “I’m glad you were here, even if this whole incident kind of messed up our time together.”

  Ollie poured coffee for the three of us. Since I’d made it, it was my special blend of coffee and chicory. He set our cups down before he took a long, slurping sip from his. “Wow! Best coffee ever. Zoe, you are a genius.”

  “Thanks.” My face flushed a little. I was grateful for the culinary praise.

  The grits were gone almost as fast as the spoons hit the bowls. We didn’t talk—only the sounds of eating and Crème Brûlée’s snoring interrupted the silence of the early morning.

  “That was mighty good.” Uncle Saul sat back and patted his nonexistent belly. “You know your way around some grits.”

  “I get it from you.”

  He laughed. “No doubt about that, since your mother can’t cook a lick. Your father can at least make frozen food in the microwave.”

  Ollie took the dishes to the sink. “My mama and daddy loved good food. They both loved to cook. I remember helping them when I was barely old enough to reach the stove. They’d put a chair next to it for me so I could see what they were doing. I still remember how good everything smelled and the smiles on their faces as they tasted what they’d made.”

  Uncle Saul and I exchanged glances. It was easy to see that Ollie wasn’t a person who usually shared things like that. It had been completely spontaneous.

  “Are your parents still with us?” Uncle Saul asked.

  “Nah. They both passed years ago. But I still think about them sometimes.” Ollie looked up from his memories and seemed a little embarrassed. “Sorry. We should be getting the truck loaded. We got a gator to save.”

  Chapter Nine

  The New Hope church was in a lovely glade of pine trees. The scent of pine mingled with azaleas and honeysuckle. Lush, green grass grew around the old white wood building. Moss dripped from a few old oaks. Log picnic tables were scattered across the lawn, mostly under the trees.

  The church was definitely in need of renovation—or demolition. The sides were no longer straight, and the old bell steeple looked as though it could fall in at any moment. The roof was only partially shingled. The rest was covered by blue tarps.

  There were already groups of church members setting up for the event. They were putting white tablecloths on the old wood picnic tables and bringing out pitchers of ice water, plastic cups, and plates. Children were picking daisies and putting them on each table.

  Some adults were singing hymns to guitar music, shaking their heads and clapping their hands. Their green choir robes flew out around them like birds.

  They all looked up—I was suitably impressed by their expressions—when they saw our motorhome. It thrilled me, thinking about how great it would be when the Airstream was a real food truck. I realized then how important presentation was to my potential customers. That was why food truck owners put so much effort into decorating their trucks. It gave them the wow factor and made them memorable.

  We parked the motorhome beneath a spreading oak tree. Ollie set chocks (his word, not mine) in place to keep the vehicle from rolling. Uncle Saul turned on the generator and started the deep fryer.

  People who’d purchased tickets for the event were starting to pour into the parking lot. I got Crème Brûlée set up in the front seat so he’d be safe while I was cooking. He wouldn’t stay at the cabin. He was probably too excited about what was going to happen. I didn’t blame him.

  I had baked ten trays of biscuits before we left the cabin. They were still fresh and hot, though I knew they would get cool and a little crumbly before the day was over. I might need some way to keep them warm when I was working the streets in Mobile. I could be out all day, and I didn’t want to ruin my signature food. I might need a warming tray.

  Ollie was setting up piles of plates with plastic-wrapped silverware and napkins so they’d be easy to grab when it got busy. I was making the mixture that would coat the chicken and feeling pretty good about what we were going to do.

  That was when Norman rolled in with his double-cab truck, hauling the bigg
est grill I’d ever seen behind him on a trailer.

  The grill was the size of a small room at IKEA. At least one or two people could have lived in there. Uncle Saul was right—Norman could cook a whole cow on that thing.

  A woman was with him; I assumed she was his wife. She started getting plates and plastic silverware ready to go. Norman grinned as he fired up the gas grill. The flames shot up into the deep blue Alabama morning like a forest fire.

  “What do you think he’s cooking?” Ollie watched from the open side window.

  “Beef. The man only makes beef.” Uncle Saul was watching Norman anyway.

  “Those are the biggest bottles of barbecue sauce I’ve ever seen.” I watched as Norman rolled the barrels of sauce out of the truck.

  “He makes the stuff himself.” Uncle Saul sighed.

  As we waited and watched, Norman produced a side of ribs, and tossed it on the grill. People actually applauded when they saw it. Showmanship didn’t hurt his food production, either. Long before the ribs were ready, people were waiting in line with coleslaw-filled plates to heap a big slice of ribs with it.

  “That doesn’t look good for us,” Ollie observed. “He has it goin’ on, doesn’t he?”

  “Don’t count us out yet.” Uncle Saul put his first load of chicken into the fryer.

  There was a knock on the open back door. It was Bonnie—wearing a big smile—and Alabaster walking on a leash. “It smells real good in here. What’s for lunch?”

  “Chicken, biscuits, and peaches.” Uncle Saul smiled back at her. “What’s that you’ve done with Alabaster? She’s not a dog, you know.”

  “I’ve been telling you for months how much like a dog she is,” Bonnie said. “You should treat her more like one. Keep her tied outside when you’re gone. She won’t eat Norman’s chickens that way.”

  Alabaster grinned and swished her tail.

  “Thanks for bringing her by,” Uncle Saul said. “If I get her back, I’ll take that advice.”

  Bonnie smiled and seemed a little shy. She definitely had a thing for my uncle. He was hard to read. I hoped he had a thing for her, too. Surely he wasn’t still pining after my mother.

  Just thinking about that made me feel uneasy.

  “Okay.” Uncle Saul brought out the first batch of chicken. “We’re ready to go. Mind that fryer, Zoe. It’s popping a lot with that fresh oil.”

  The warning came too late as I reached across to grab a biscuit for the first plate. The oil hit me on the wrist, and I dropped a biscuit into the deep fryer.

  I hated to lose it. I was worried enough about there not being enough biscuits. I grabbed a metal scoop before I really had time to think about it, and snatched the biscuit from the fryer.

  “I don’t think we should use it this way.” I mourned the biscuit. “Here’s one for the plate.”

  I put the deep-fried biscuit on a napkin, planning to throw it away later. Ollie was right behind me with a tube of stuff for the burn. It wasn’t that bad, but I let him put the salve on it and wrap it with enough gauze to cover my whole arm.

  “Thanks. That’s much better.” I waited until he was busy handing a plate and dinnerware to Uncle Saul before I removed the gauze. I was afraid it might cut the circulation to my arm.

  People were lining up outside the window. It was exciting to see them there. I hoped it was foreshadowing for what would come when I got started with my own business.

  Hungry people from town continued to roll in. They wanted to eat—and to find out who won the not-so-friendly wager between Norman and Uncle Saul.

  I could see Minister Windom taking money from the newcomers and directing them to picnic tables. Mrs. Windom stood behind him in the same shabby outfit she’d worn to the cabin. I wondered where her new clothes, and tinted coif, had disappeared to.

  We were so busy in the hot kitchen that I barely had a chance to notice anything for almost an hour. At that point, we still had food, napkins, and plates. But we were out of plastic forks.

  “Zoe,” Uncle Saul called out as he cooked chicken and Ollie manned the open window. “Go over to the church and get some silverware. They always have an extra supply. Ask Evelyn.”

  I ran out of the Airstream and over to where the Windoms were seated, enjoying some of every food being served. They scrupulously kept an eye on the big box where diners were putting in pieces of paper that contained the name of their favorite cook.

  “We’re out of forks,” I told Evelyn. “Uncle Saul says you have some we could borrow.”

  Minister Windom’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know if that isn’t going against the spirit of the contest.”

  “Borrowing forks?” I debated. “It’s not like we want you to get more biscuits for us. It’s only forks.”

  Evelyn put her hand on his shoulder. “I gave Norman some plastic wrap a while ago. I don’t see any difference.”

  He shrugged and glanced away as two diners approached to post their ballots. “Do what you please. Come back as soon as you can. We’re about to get really busy.”

  Evelyn and I walked into the church. The interior was as plain and ordinary as the exterior, but in better condition. The old wood pews were polished and smelled of lemon oil. There was a single stained glass window at the front of the sanctuary. It depicted a lion lying down with a lamb.

  “You must work hard keeping up with all of this.” I smiled at Evelyn as we walked by the huge spray of fresh flowers on the altar.

  “My husband is very busy writing sermons and handling other issues for the church,” she said. “It’s what I should do as his wife.”

  I noticed that she hadn’t lost everything she’d been sporting at the big-box discount store. There was a pretty gold and white daisy on a nice chain around her neck. When I looked a little closer, I could also see that she was wearing a wig. There was a spot by her forehead where her new hair was peeking through.

  “Those forks are back here in the kitchen.” She led the way. “We have lunches and potluck suppers here all the time.”

  I followed her back and saw the matching daisy ring on her finger. She definitely hadn’t been wearing either piece the first time I’d seen her.

  “It must be hard being a minister’s wife,” I said. “My mother had a friend who was the wife of a minister. She always talked about being the last on the list when it came time for attention—or something new.”

  Evelyn handed me the forks after taking them down from a tall cabinet. Her brown eyes met mine. “It’s true. After a while, you come to wonder if you don’t deserve something better for all the years of work and neglect.”

  I touched the ring on her finger. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  She shook her head. “I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t tell him.”

  “Someone will have to. You took the building fund money for the church, didn’t you?”

  “W-what?” she stammered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.” I didn’t want her to get into trouble, but if it came down to it, she’d have to confess.

  Tears came to her eyes. “I was counting it. Getting ready to make a deposit at the bank. I thought about all the things I’d never have—pretty new dresses, jewelry, things other women take for granted. The next thing I knew, I was having my first manicure.”

  I smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting those things, Evelyn, but to steal the church’s money was wrong.”

  “I know. I planned to give it all back—until I realized how much I’d spent. I could never come up with that kind of cash. Mr. Windom keeps a very tight rein on the purse strings.”

  “Well, he might have to open those strings a little. You have needs, too.”

  “You won’t tell until I can figure it out, will you?” Her voice was breathless and fearful.

  “I won’t. But sooner or later,
I’m sure you’ll have to.” I took the forks and ran back to the Airstream. “Sorry it took so long.”

  The group of diners had thinned out while I was gone. Uncle Saul was taking a breather as another batch of chicken was cooking. Ollie was eating the biscuit I’d accidentally deep-fried with peaches on top of it.

  I laughed at him. “What does that taste like? Didn’t it absorb all the oil?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But it tastes like heaven to me.”

  Before I could protest, he’d shoved the last piece of fried biscuit with peaches into my mouth. I actually started to spit it out, and then the taste sensation exploded in my mouth.

  “See?” He grinned. “I told you.”

  “What are the two of you eating?” Uncle Saul asked us.

  “The biscuit that got fried,” I told him. “It’s really good.”

  “Really?” He reached around me and dropped another biscuit into the deep fryer.

  “I think it would be good with anything,” Ollie said. “You could cover that sucker with some chili, or gumbo.” He licked his fingers clean. “And the possibilities for sweets are endless.”

  I fished up the next fried biscuit and stuck a piece of chicken on it. “Too bad you can’t keep food on it without getting really messy. You know? Like a bread bowl.”

  Uncle Saul bit into the chicken and fried biscuit. “Glory be! What have you discovered?”

  “No reason why you can’t hollow out the center like a bread bowl before you fry it.” Ollie matched his words to his actions. “Fry that one.”

  The line at the open window had doubled while we’d been fooling around with the biscuits. We got back on track, sending out a dozen plates of chicken, biscuits, and peaches.

  I brought the hollowed biscuit out of the oil and Ollie dipped peaches into the open space. I took a bite. The edges were crispy in a way that baking could never do. Opening the middle had brought some of that into the fluffy center. With the sweet peaches in that space, the treat was even better.

  “Don’t eat all that,” Uncle Saul called out. “I want some.”