“I think it’s a great idea. But where are you going to get blackberries if they aren’t in season?”
“A magical place.”
She frowned, but he motioned for her to get back on the bike.
A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the grocery store.
“Oh,” Georgie said.
He chuckled. “Hooray for California.”
Jace picked out a carton of juicy-looking blackberries, a bag of limes, several large lemons, and a small bunch of parsley, and then he rested his arms on the grocery cart handle. “Now, what about the zing?”
Georgie looked around and shrugged. “The citrus will be zingy. But maybe something spicy?”
“I considered that. It’s possible.”
He rolled the cart over to the chili selection and chose a few different kinds and dropped them into bags.
“Garlic would still work too, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded, choosing a few bulbs.
“Are you adding these to the sauce or the coating?” she asked as they moved the cart slowly along the produce section.
“I haven’t decided yet. But it’s a good question. We don’t want to complicate the sauce. But we don’t want to turn the shrimp into buffalo wings either.”
“So bring out the flavor of the shrimp but add a little something extra.”
“Exactly.”
She considered a moment. “My friend’s mom makes this appetizer. I hadn’t even thought of it because it’s not with crunchy shrimp. She just puts the raw shrimp in the oven for a while. But it’s all pepper. Everyone loves it.”
He stopped the cart. “What do you mean?”
“The zing. She pours melted butter over whole shrimp in a casserole dish, then sprinkles enough black pepper over them to make an elephant sneeze.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She watched him thinking as he rubbed his neck. “It’s simple. And with the lime . . . that would be a great combination. But black pepper in the sauce might overpower it.”
“Could you put it in the crust?”
He looked at her, his brow furrowed, still thinking. She decided she liked watching him think. She liked watching him consider her ideas.
He lifted his hand, the same way he held a spatula when he had an idea. “Put the lime in the blackberry sauce and black pepper in the crust.”
She paused. “Well, my mouth’s watering.”
He smiled. “Let’s get some pepper.”
They chose fancy pepper berries she’d never heard of, picked up a grinder and a few more spices, grabbed a few pounds of fresh, peeled shrimp at the seafood counter, some bottles of peanut oil and safflower oil, a bag of panko bread crumbs, and a carton of eggs, and headed for the checkout lines.
“It’ll take a few tries,” Jace said. “It’s mostly a guess at first, getting the right amounts and combinations.”
“I don’t know how you just make stuff up.”
He smiled as they unloaded the ingredients onto the conveyor. “You just did it yourself. Basic recipes are everywhere. Like your friend’s shrimp. And after you know what a bunch of stuff tastes like, after you know the chemical reactions that certain combinations of ingredients or applied heat bring on, you just take those basic recipes and tweak them. And hope.”
“So it’s science.”
“Yup.” He paid the cashier, and they took the bags.
Georgie had never thought of cooking as science before, but she considered her chemistry classes in school. Following directions, measuring chemicals, applying heat and exact timing . . .
They walked outside. “So, to you, the kitchen is one big chemistry lab,” she said.
Jace began packing the cooler on the back of the bike. He nodded. “And today we’re mad scientists. You’re sure it’s okay with Faye that we use her kitchen? We can go to the restaurant instead.”
“Would you rather be at the restaurant?”
“Not really. Not when I’m making stuff up.”
“Let’s go to Faye’s. I think she’s looking forward to it.” She pulled on her helmet.
He pulled on his. “Let’s not disappoint her.”
Chapter 12
Jace pulled all the ingredients out of the bag while Georgie found an assortment of mixing bowls and saucepans and a deep fryer. Jace hadn’t thought of bringing his deep fryer, so he was glad they had one. They could have used a heavy pan, of course, or a wok, but for experimenting, the deep fryer was the most convenient. He did bring his own food processor, however, and unpacked it along with his notebook. He’d keep an exact record of the amounts used and the adjustments made so he could replicate their results on a larger scale—which was a whole other experiment—but a small batch was the best way to start.
“All of your recipes are in here?” Georgie asked, gesturing to the notebook.
He shrugged. “The newer ones. I have a few more notebooks at home.”
“May I?”
He nodded, and she lifted the cover of his beat-up ninety-nine cent composition notebook as if it were made of glass.
He couldn’t help watching her as her gaze lingered on the pages jammed with his notes and ideas, recipes he’d imagined during the commute to Seattle, a solution to a wrecked paella he’d let get too complicated, a sandwich idea . . . her finger absently touched the notes in the margins, and he found himself suddenly nervous, caring what she thought of what he’d laid out on the lines.
She lifted a page and paused. She looked up. “Is this—?”
He leaned over her shoulder, daring to close the space between them. His heart hammered with nerves, and he reminded himself that though she seemed to be comfortable trying different foods and flavors, she was unfamiliar with the art of actual cooking and probably wouldn’t be too critical. He just wished he’d been more organized with his scrawl.
“The bisque,” he said. His words came out kind of breathy, and she looked up at him.
Dang, she was close.
“It doesn’t say anything here about dumping it all over the expediter,” she said.
He still wasn’t used to this eye-contact stuff with her. A split second passed, and he saw the humor in her eyes fading.
He blinked. “Well, that’s because that particular experiment was unintentional.” He grabbed the pen and scribbled a note with an arrow. “There.”
He pushed the notebook toward her.
She read. “‘Spilling bisque on expediter not recommended. Improvement of flavor minimal.’” She frowned. “Well, that’s debatable.”
He laughed and closed the book.
The excitement that came with creating something new buzzed through him as he became familiar with the space: the stove, the bar, and Georgie restacking a set of bowls so they nested large to small.
“Knives?” he asked.
She opened a drawer full of an assortment of knives next to him. He chose a chef’s knife and a small parer.
“Cutting boards are below.”
He selected a couple of those as she added oil to the fryer so it was ready to heat up.
“Okay,” she said. “What now?”
He pulled out two aprons from the cooler and shook them out.
She narrowed her eyes. “I thought we couldn’t take those home.”
“We can’t. I bought these. Employee discount.”
She shook her head but grinned and reached for one. He pulled it from her, and she made an exasperated sound.
“Say thank you.”
She folded her arms. “Thank you.”
“Say thank you, Jace.”
She paused and looked away, biting her lip, and he thought maybe this time he’d pushed it too far. But maybe her comment about the bike this morning had stung, and maybe he wanted a thank you.
She turned back to him and set her shoulders, meeting his gaze. “Thank you, Jace. That was really thoughtful. And I’m glad you didn’t steal them.” She smiled as he handed her an apron.
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Maybe he’d wanted that smile too. Maybe.
“Good morning,” Faye said, entering the kitchen with a paperback tucked under her arm.
“Good morning,” Jace and Georgie answered, tying their aprons.
“Well, don’t you look official? Did you two get breakfast?” Faye opened a pantry door and pulled out some bread.
“I had a yogurt this morning.” Georgie answered. “Jace?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t thought of breakfast. Ironically, when he had a new recipe idea in his head, he seldom thought about eating. “I’m good.”
Faye stayed out of the way as she made toast and poured some orange juice, eyeing them with a smile. “I’ll be reading out on the porch if you need me.”
“Don’t you want to watch?” Georgie asked.
Faye nodded. “I’ll check in from time to time.”
“It’s your kitchen,” Jace said. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”
Faye picked up her breakfast. “I appreciate that.” She headed to the door, and Jace heard her mumble, “I’ll let you two warm up a bit.” The back door closed behind her.
He blinked, unsure he’d heard right, then turned to Georgie. “Do you have a colander?” He opened the package of shrimp.
Georgie quickly retrieved a large colander.
“Where’s your other aunt? Tru?”
“She works at the retirement home today. Dar dropped her off on his way to his law office this morning.”
He nodded. He liked the aunts, and he didn’t mind anybody watching them work. But he felt a measure of relief that he and Georgie would be mostly alone.
Less pressure, he told himself.
They washed the shrimp and patted them dry, then Jace separated them into small bowls and put them in the fridge. They’d be attempting the sauce first.
“Could you rinse the blackberries and add one cup to the processor?” Jace asked.
Georgie emptied the carton into the colander, and Jace peeled and minced several cloves of garlic, his chef’s knife quick and precise.
“How do you do that?” Georgie asked.
“Practice.” He washed his hands at the sink. He chose a small saucepan, set it on the stove, and turned on the heat. “Let’s figure this thing out.”
He made notes as they measured out honey, garlic, and lime, adding each ingredient to the blackberries. He looked at Georgie, his fingers on the food processor’s power button. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “Go for it.”
He turned on the processor, and he and Georgie watched the ingredients blend to a pulpy purple-black. He hit a button, and the blade stopped.
“Now what?” Georgie asked.
“Now”—he grabbed a spatula—“we scrape this mixture into the saucepan and cook it.” He’d removed the processor lid and lifted the bowl. He sniffed the mixture. “Mm, smell this.”
Georgie leaned forward and sniffed. “Oh, wow.”
“What do you think the odds are that we hit this on the first shot?”
She smiled. He scraped the mixture into the pan, and it sizzled at first, then mellowed out as it filled up. “Now we stir it as it simmers so it will thicken and the flavors incorporate. Here.” He offered her the spatula. She hesitated at first but then took it and gently stirred the sauce as he’d shown her.
“When did you know you wanted to be a chef?” she asked.
He frowned. “I’m not sure exactly. We weren’t allowed to get too creative at the diner. That menu’s been in place for forty years.” He adjusted the heat under the pot. “But I got to try pretty much anything at home. Most of my experiments centered around hamburgers.” He smiled, remembering.
“What was the best burger you ever made?” she asked, concentrating on her stirring.
“I made this one burger with brown-sugar-caramelized bacon, avocado, tomato, sweet onions, and BBQ sauce. I spread peanut butter on the top bun.”
Georgie made a face. “Peanut butter?”
He nodded. “My sisters called it my sweet bacon peanut burger.” He laughed at that. They’d made a game of giving all his experiments names. He didn’t remember most of them now, but he remembered that one. “We all took turns taking a bite of that burger until it was gone.”
She shook her head. “Peanut butter on a burger . . . What did your dad think?”
Jace shrugged. “He never tried it.” He took up his pen and wrote down the cooking time so far. “It’s beginning to thicken.”
He turned, and she was watching him. “Keep stirring,” he said. She did.
“Did your dad try your other experiments?”
He frowned and kept his eyes on the sauce, now bubbling gently. “He mostly just made sure I could make the diner stuff. If I nailed the chili fries, he was pleased.”
“Did that feel stifling?”
He looked at her and cocked his brow. “They were amazing chili fries.”
She smiled then. For a moment, he forgot his dad. And the sauce.
He quickly checked the time. “Take that off the heat, and we’ll let it cool.” He wrote down the time as she moved the saucepan and turned off the burner.
He poured enough to taste into a small bowl, covered it, and put it in the fridge.
She wiped the counter where they’d assembled the sauce. “When did you know you wanted to move beyond hamburgers and chili fries?”
He leaned on the counter and folded his arms. “Aren’t you full of questions today.”
She threw the rag in the sink. “You don’t have to answer.” She looked at him, though, as if she was issuing a challenge. He couldn’t help thinking how it would go if their roles were reversed. He didn’t know a thing about her, really.
Maybe it was the idea that if he answered her questions, it would be his turn to ask, or maybe he was pleased that she wanted to know about his career, but whatever the reason, he answered her. “I was sixteen when I realized I was experimenting with the burgers and the french toast and the sandwiches in hopes that someday my dad would want to put something of mine on the menu. At the same time, I realized that probably wasn’t going to happen. Stupid, maybe, putting so much importance on what goes on a diner menu. But I knew what my dad wanted of me, what his plans were for me. Work at the diner, run it when he was done. Keep it constant in a world moving forward. Which is kind of noble, right?”
She nodded. “Right . . . but not for you?”
He shrugged. He really didn’t know. He admired his dad’s devotion to the diner. “I just . . . let go of the idea that Dad would put something on the menu and started experimenting with other things. Other dishes, other regions.” He chuckled. “I even applied for a job at an Asian restaurant. Man, my dad found out and hit the roof.” Jace pushed himself away from the counter and pulled out the cooled sauce from the fridge.
He set it down on the counter and removed the cover. With a clean spoon, he stirred it to cool it further. “Ready to taste this?”
She nodded, but the questions came out in a stream. “What did your sisters think of all this? Did they work at the diner too? Did he just expect you to take over, or were there expectations for them as well? And if you did take over and maybe added the sweet bacon peanut burger or whatever to the menu, what could he say?” Here she began to pace in front of him. “I mean, the fact that you wanted to cook and you have this talent at all should mean something to him. What if you’d been born without a care for how food was cooked, just as long as somebody made it for you? What if you’d wanted to be a doctor or a computer programmer or a fireman or a . . . a ballroom dancer?”
His brow rose at her outburst. “A ballroom dancer?”
She threw out her arms. “It could happen.”
He hid his laugh, appreciating her sudden loyalty to his craft. He reached for a box of crackers and spooned some sauce onto one and handed it to her. She took it, a little out of breath, and took a bite.
“This is good. This is amazing,” she said and took another bite
. “I want to dip shrimp in this.”
He busted out laughing.
“Cut it out,” she said, looking hurt but not really.
He calmed his laughter and shook his head. He spooned some sauce on a cracker for himself and took a bite. “Hm. That is good.”
“Did we do it? On the first shot?”
Where did this enthusiasm come from? This version of Georgie was so different from the quiet girl who had started at the restaurant, afraid to step in somebody’s way. Afraid to step in his way.
“Maybe,” he said. “I think we should make a couple more batches just in case we can hit something better.”
“That will be hard to do. I want to put this on chicken and pork and biscuits and—”
“Ice cream?”
Her eyes grew wide. “Yes. Ice cream.”
He grinned. “Well, before you call Ben and Jerry’s, I think we should try it with a little more citrus and again with some chilis. Just to see.”
She nodded. “You’re in charge.”
They began the process from the start, and he noticed her questions had stopped. He opened his mouth to ask her about her own family, but just as he did, she spoke.
“I’m sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to your dad. Sometimes I just . . . say stuff.”
He looked at her. “That’s okay. It’s just one of those family things. It seems kind of silly on the surface. But there’s a lot of . . . baggage behind it.”
She nodded and pushed the cutting board closer to him. He sliced another lime in half.
“You know what you said about my dad not appreciating the fact that I like cooking?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
She sounded so contrite he almost didn’t continue. But he liked talking to her. He seemed to be able to work out his ideas better with her bouncing them back at him. He continued. “I think he did and still does appreciate that. So much that he put a lot of hopes on me taking over the diner. And then I didn’t. If I’d wanted to do those other things . . . ballroom dance or whatever . . .”
She smiled.
“He wouldn’t have banked on me and the diner.” He looked at her, regarding her expression. What Georgie Tate thought of him was becoming increasingly important.
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