by LuAnn McLane
“Of course not,” I tell her and heft a case into the cart.
“Um, Macy, we’re getting off track,” Cody warns while smiling politely at the elderly woman.
“Don’t you want a case?” she asks Cody.
“Um . . .” When he hesitates I march right over and get another case of tea and plunk it down into the cart. The cameras are rolling but I don’t care.
Cody smiles but when we’re out of earshot of the tea lady he says, “Macy what was up with that? Did you like the tea that much?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Not especially.”
“Then why do we have twenty-four bottles in the cart?”
“Because she’s old, Cody! She must really need the job to be working at her age. Do you want her to be eatin’ dog food so she can afford her meds?” Okay, I know I’m going a bit overboard but still . . .
“Macy, I’m sure she doesn’t get paid on commission.”
“Yeah, but what if no one buys it? Do you want that sweet old lady’s unemployment on your conscience?”
Cody looks ready to dispute my argument but then he must decide that it’s pointless and grins. “No, I suppose not.” Pushing the cart farther away from the tea lady he says, “Let’s get the ice cream.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, we have to take a sample of the ham over there.”
“No, we don’t,” he mutters, but pushes the cart over to another old lady who looks bored to tears. The cameraman, lights, and boom stick follow.
“Ham?” she asks in a tired tone. “On special at the deli, today only.” She raises a small tray laden with little curls of ham held together by stick pretzels. “Three ninety-eight a pound . . . ,” she says, and for a moment I think she might yawn but instead her eyes suddenly widen and her jaw drops. “Oh my, Lord have mercy on my soul. You’re Cody West! The Grillin’ and Chillin’ chef!” She puts a hand to her chest and bats her eyes at Cody. “I’m such a big fan! That pork chop recipe from last week?” She puts her fingers to her mouth and makes a huge smacking sound. “Superb! You are a genius!” She thrusts the tray at him. “Here, have a slice of ham. Take two.”
“Why, thank you.” Cody politely takes a sample and pops it into his mouth.
“A good idea using pretzels,” I politely tell her, and she beams.
“It was my idea. Those toothpicks end up all over the floor. Plus, I like the thought of saving a tree,” she proudly announces, and looks to Cody for approval.
“Smart thinkin’.” Cody taps his index finger to his temple. “Thanks for the tip, Martha.”
Her eyes widen. “How’d you know my name?”
Cody grins, “Says so on your name tag.”
“Right,” Martha says, and blushes all the way to her blue hair. “Hey, am I gonna be on your show?”
“You can count on it,” Cody promises with a wink.
A few steps away is another little lady with fresh pineapple chunks. This time Cody doesn’t hesitate and heads over for a sample. “Delicious, Velma,” he tells her.
“Goes with the ham,” I comment with a smile over my shoulder at Martha.
Angling his head Cody snaps his fingers. “You know, you’re right.” While arching one eyebrow he takes a pineapple chunk from Velma and walks back over to Martha. After picking up a ham sample he slips the meat from the pretzel, rolls the ham around the pineapple chunk, and stabs the pretzel through the whole thing.
“Try this,” Cody says, offering me the tidbit.
I nod while chewing up the juicy treat. “Yummy! Ham and pineapple are always a great combo but the salt and crunch of the pretzel make it even better.”
“Do you think it might be your tasty tidbit of the week?” Martha asks with hope in her voice.
Cody smiles at her. “Yes, I think so. You really are a loyal viewer, aren’t you?”
“You betcha!” she proudly proclaims.
“Just give your name and address to Jenny over there and you’ll get an autographed Grillin’ and Chillin’ cookbook.”
“Oh, thank you,” Martha gushes. “You’ve made my day and then some.”
When I notice that Velma looks a bit put out that she didn’t get a cookbook I try to give Cody a discreet little nudge with my elbow but he’s already heading in her direction.
“Okay, Jenny says we need to wrap this up and get back to your apartment. So no more sidetracks.”
When Cody gives her a mock salute, her chin comes up a notch as if to say she knows her job and what she’s doing. I want to tell them that they should give it up and fall into each other’s arms like they really want to, but it occurs to me that because of their working relationship there’s more at stake than broken hearts.
Oh, why does love have to be so complicated?
“Macy, let’s get the ice cream for Luke’s dessert,” Cody says as we head to the frozen foods.
“Now this is an aisle I’m quite familiar with,” I admit as I make a beeline for Häagen-Dazs.
“Ah, discriminating when it comes to ice cream,” Cody observes.
“You betcha.”
“Life’s too short to eat cheap ice cream?”
I have to laugh. “Yeah, that and there are too many calories to waste on inferior vanilla.”
“Okay then,” Cody says as he pushes the cart over to the cashier. “Looks like we’re all set and then some. Time to head back and cook up a storm.”
19
Timing is Everything
“Oh my goodness, Cody, I don’t have a grill!” I suddenly remember this tiny little detail just as we pull up in front of my apartment complex.
“You took care of that, right, Jenny?” Cody asks as he looks up from his notes.
“Yes, of course.” Jennifer closes her laptop with a quiet click and then turns toward me. “You’ve also been stocked up with spices, condiments, beverages, and various kitchen gadgets and appliances that I thought might come in handy. In other words, you’re all set.”
“Wow, thanks.” Unable to help myself I lean over and give Jennifer a big hug. It’s obvious she’s not a hugger but makes a valiant effort at hugging me back. “Loosen up and go after him,” I whisper in her ear. “It’s clear that Cody is so into you whether you know it or not.” Hey, I figure that someone needs to get the ball rolling between those two. It might as well be me.
Jennifer stiffens and pulls back. “No . . . ,” she says, but then whispers back, “You think so?”
I nod. “What you do about it is up to you.”
“Yeah, but—,” she begins, but I have to stop her.
“There are always roadblocks. Find a way around them.”
“Right.” She doesn’t look convinced but I know I’ve got her thinking. In the meantime, I’ve got my own set of roadblocks ahead of me. I really wish I could call Jamie Lee but then I tell myself that I need to be strong and stand on my own two feet. After my mama died everyone felt so sorry for me that somebody was always there to catch me if I fell. But now I’m finally on my own and doggone it, if I fall I’m going to land with a great big splat. But that’s okay. It’s better than not jumping.
Right?
God, I hope so . . .
When we enter the apartment it’s a hub of activity. Cameras, lights, and way too many people are crammed into the small space. A nervous little giggle starts to bubble up in my throat but Cody draws me aside and says, “Hey, don’t let this chaos freak you out. In a few minutes it will all calm down and we can have fun cookin’ for your boyfriend.”
“Is there anything I should know or are we going to play it by ear?”
“Just be yourself, Macy. It’s worked so far. Ask questions . . . even if you think it’s something stupid because, believe me, there are others in the viewing audience wondering the same thing. We want this to be entertaining and we can edit, so don’t hold back, okay?”
“Yeah, I’m tired of holding back,” I tell him with a little head bop. “Let’s rock this thing.”
Cody laughs and holds h
is fists up for a knuckle bump. “Tammy said that you’d be a riot. She was right. I get the feeling that this won’t be the only show you’ll be doin’ with me.”
I’m shocked when Cody says this but I don’t have time to dwell on it because suddenly everyone but the small crew scatters and we’re told to start cooking. “Just follow my lead and jump right in,” Cody says, and then puts on his professional face for the camera.
“Cody West here for another addition of Grillin’ and Chillin’. In a few minutes I’m going to be cooking up a storm with my friend Macy McCoy of Hootertown, Kentucky. No, I did not make that up. We were inspired by the town’s name to do our own version of hot wings, but grilled and then baked until bone tender instead of deep-fried.” He holds up a finger and says, “We are however on a special mission. Macy here, is not, how can I say this politely, um, proficient in the kitchen.”
“All I can say is that you’re a brave man. Have the fire extinguisher ready. The smoke alarm tends to be my kitchen timer . . .”
“But you do want to whip up a delicious dinner for a special someone, right?”
“You betcha.” I smile at the camera while having no idea where this TV personality is coming from . . . but it’s fun.
“Then let’s get this party started.” Cody turns back to the camera. “We’ve shopped at the grocery store . . . and by the way, you’ll see clips of our adventure throughout the show. Now we’re going to throw it all together in hopes of creating an amazing but easy-to-prepare meal.”
“You ready, Macy?”
“I think I should be asking you that.”
Cody grins. “Just remember that cooking is all about timing. We’ll marinate the wings while we prepare the twice-baked potatoes. We’ll whip up the brownies and then while the potatoes are baking we’ll grill the wings.”
“Gotcha.”
“Then while the wings are baking we’ll mash the potatoes and mix in the ingredients and then pop them in the oven.”
“I’m gettin’ tired just thinking about it.”
“Ahhh, that’s where the chillin’ part comes in handy. A glass of wine or a cold beer and some music help everything go smoothly.”
“And cope when it doesn’t?”
“Ahhh . . . yes, you’re a fast learner. See, you’re gonna pass this class with flying colors. Now, let’s get the chicken wings marinating and the brownies in the oven.”
“Um . . . what about the chillin’ part?” I ask hopefully.
Cody smacks the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Right, I almost forgot.” He reaches in the fridge, cracks open a beer, and hands it to me before snagging one for himself.
“Thanks.” I accept the bottle but make a mental note to sip the beverage since I really need my wits about me.
After the wings are in Ziploc bags soaking in hot sauce, we mix together the brownies and pop them in the oven.
“The last time I baked brownies they came out like chocolate rocks,” I admit as I set the timer.
“The trick is to not overbake them.”
“But I followed the instructions.”
Cody nods. “I believe you but the baking times are just for guidance. When the brownies start to pull away from the side of the pan you know they are done even if there are a couple of minutes left on the timer.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
“Yeah, not as easy as the toothpick method used to test cakes,” he says.
“Right . . .” I nod as though I know what the heck the toothpick method is all about. “Yeah, not as easy.” I add a serious nod for good measure.
To my surprise I continue to assist Cody without any disaster striking. I slice celery with an incredibly sharp knife without drawing blood even though I came sort of close. Meanwhile the scent of chocolate fills the kitchen, making me feel like a bona fide cook. “I don’t know what I was so intimidated about all these years,” I tell Cody.
“There’s the attitude,” Cody says with a grin. “Okay, now we’re ready to wash the potatoes.” He hands me a little round scrub brush.
“All of these gadgets are so cute!” I look at the cameraman as though I’m a star and say, “With the right tools anybody can cook. Even me!” I scrub as if it’s my job and hold up the very clean potato with culinary pride as if I’ve just baked a soufflé.
“Excellent,” Cody says. “Now we’re going to rub the potatoes with olive oil and then roll them in kosher salt before baking them at three hundred and fifty degrees for about one hour.” Cody drizzles some olive oil onto my palms and then hands me a potato. “And what will we be doing while the potatoes are baking?” Cody prompts.
Of course I don’t remember so I decide to be cheeky. After all I am the sidekick, right? “Have another beer?”
Cody grins while slathering his own potato with oil. “Well there’s that,” he agrees with a nod. “But while we’re chillin’ we’ll start grillin’ the marinated hot wings.
“Gotcha,” I say, doing my sidekick thing.
“By the time the potatoes are done we can bake the wings while we scoop out the flesh to mash with the other ingredients. Remember, Macy, putting together a great meal is all about the timing.”
“Of course.” I nod with my serious I’m-a-chef-now face going on. “Isn’t that the way of everything?” But just when I’m feeling my kitchen confidence begin to build, my potato pops from my slippery hand like a cork from a champagne bottle.
“Ohmigod!” I squeak while making a valiant effort to catch the airborne spud. “I got it!” I shout as if I’m calling for a fly ball, but the potato lands with a loud thump and slithers across the tile floor. Mortified, I let out a nervous giggle and hurry over to retrieve it but the trail of oil makes the tile as slick as ice. “Eeeek!” Like a cartoon character I slip and slide while trying to maintain my balance but in the end fail, going down with a louder thump than the potato. But to my credit, I somehow manage to reach over and pick it up while spinning on my back like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
I’m hoping to hear Jennifer yell, Cut! but instead the camera is catching my every move. When I finally come to a slow-spinning, tummy-churning stop, I hold up the potato as if it’s a fair catch and say as deadpan as I can manage, “Do not try this at home.”
For a second there’s one of those awkward should-we-laugh-or-not moments and to my surprise it’s Jennifer whom I hear chuckling in the background. I could be ticked that she’s laughing at my expense but I know I’d be pointing and guffawing, so I don’t blame her one bit.
“Um, are you okay?” Cody, trying to be the professional host, reaches down to help me to my feet.
“I don’t think anything is hurt except for my pride.” With a thankful smile I grab his outstretched hands. He yanks me up but since both our hands are slick with olive oil, my fingers slide at the halfway-up point, sending me staggering backward and then sliding into a crabwalk. I swallow my pain thinking that I might have sprained both wrists and both ankles at the same time. I’m the only person alive who can sustain life-threatening injuries baking a doggone potato. Okay, not life-threatening, but you know what I mean.
“Ohmigod, Macy! Sorry!” Cody says, but I swear he’s trying not to laugh.
“Just when I thought the kitchen was a safe place.”
This time he does laugh along with everybody else in the room. “So glad to provide comic relief,” I tell them. “Will someone please yell, Cut?” Someone tosses me a dish towel so that I can wipe the oil from my hands. “Okay, just where is the potato?” I wonder out loud. “Don’t tell me I’ve lost the doggone thing after my effort to save it.” As I finally hoist myself to my feet I see it between my legs; I look as if I just laid an egg. “Braaach,” I say, and flap my wings like a chicken while walking in a circle. I didn’t really think it was all that funny but Cody laughs so hard that he has to grip the side of the counter for support.
After washing my hands at the sink I turn back around, flip my hair over my shoulder, and try to say in a professional ma
nner, “Okay, what’s next on the agenda?”
“Grillin’ the wings,” Cody answers, which thankfully is pretty much all him. After grabbing the bags from the fridge we head out to my small patio, where to my delight there is a brand-spanking-new gas grill. The camera crew follows with the boom stick waiting I’m sure in anticipation of what I’ll do next. At this point I’m pretty much convinced that this will be my last venture into Grillin’ and Chillin’ land.
“Oh, the wings smell amazing, Cody,” I tell him after the grilling chicken starts to send smoke into the air. My job is to lightly baste every once in a while. Surely I won’t mess that up.
“Thanks!” He taps his beer bottle to mine but I’m just taking sips here and there, hoping to avoid another embarrassing incident.
When the wings are lightly charred Cody takes the potatoes out of the oven and replaces them with the chicken, but at a lower temperature. I’m thinking that this cooking thing is pretty darned complicated even though he makes it look easy. I now have a new respect for Daisy’s fried chicken dinner that she puts on each and every Sunday without breaking a sweat.
While Cody fries the bacon for the twice-baked potatoes, my job is to scoop the flesh out into a bowl and add the sour cream, milk, and butter. “This I can handle,” I happily tell him, and some of my confidence bounces back.
“Not so hard, is it?” he asks while frying the bacon to crisp perfection, neatly turning it without a splatter.
“See, knowing those little details helps.”
“It comes with doing, Macy.”
And having someone you want to impress helps, I think to myself. The kitchen smells heavenly . . . a mixture of bacon, potatoes, and the hot wings slow-baking in the oven. I can’t wait to serve the meal to Luke.
The rest of the preparation goes smoothly except for one little mishap while blending the ingredients with the potato flesh. Note to self: Do not raise the beaters above the level of the liquid or splattering will occur as high as the ceiling if you panic and push TURBO instead of OFF. “You’re gonna edit that out, right?”