“I’d say that’s a first.” He laughed, leaning across me and clicking my seat belt.
“Good,” I replied as he walked around to his side of the Jeep. “I like being an original.”
“Oh, I’ll give you that,” he answered, starting up the car and giving me a sexy grin.
My toes pointed. I couldn’t help it. We drove back to the main house, where he put me in my car, then kissed me once more before I left.
And as I drove home, I fiddled with my music, scrolling through songs until I found Achtung Baby. I’d forgotten how awesome this album was.
Chapter 9
When the alarm went off the next morning at 4:30, I began listing all the reasons I should throttle my mother. By 4:37 I had seventeen well-thought-out reasons that would be hard to prosecute under New York State law. But by 4:57 I was in the car, wet hair tied back into a bun, travel mug of coffee in hand, ready for a day of blue plates and blue hairs.
I hated being up this early, as any human would. There was nothing worse than being dragged out of bed before the sun had even thrown back its covers, to clean out grease traps and chop seventy heads of iceberg lettuce for “salad.” This was my life from about the age of eleven through high school graduation. Same thing, day after day. That was part of the reason I’d chosen the private chef route: there was always something new and exciting to play around with, new menus to create, new taste buds to tantalize. Nothing ho hum there.
I squashed that thought as I headed into town. As the sun crept over the mountains, I moaned and groaned about how early it was the entire way to the diner. Yet there was something about the air this early, especially in the summer. It was clean and fresh as I drove with my windows down. Though the forecast called for rain, right now the skies were clear, without a trace of humidity.
I yawned as I pulled into my spot behind the diner. I’d slept particularly poorly last night. Was it because I’d had a farmer ambling in and out of my dreams? And in and out of . . . Well. Yes, indeed. I touched my lips in remembrance of the feel of his mouth on mine, and with a secretive smile, I unlocked the back door and started my day.
By 8 a.m. I had veggies prepped for the day, six batches of blue-ribbon meat loaf mixed up and ready for the oven for the lunch service, and I was barking right back at Maxine and Sandy when they asked for four on two over easy, and fry two, let the sun shine. I ran the griddle until Carl came in at 9, then I headed into the walk-in fridge to see about something new for tomorrow’s lunch special. Wednesday had been Beef Stew Day since time began, but I thought I might try something a little different. If Albert was willing to try something new, some of the other stalwart customers might be open to it as well. Modifying the stew wasn’t exactly negotiating a peace treaty in the Middle East, but it could be my own little victory.
Propping the door of the walk-in open a bit to avoid becoming trapped, I perused the shelves, noting my mother’s disorganization. “Carl, you good if I work in here for a bit? Rearrange some things?” I called out.
“Sure, sure Roxie, leave me alone out here,” he grumbled good-naturedly.
I knew he was happier when he was left alone. Carl had worked here as long as anyone can remember; even my mother wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. One of my earliest memories was Carl flicking water on the griddle to clean it off. I liked working with him. He was quiet, he didn’t let the waitresses pull him into any drama, and he never lost his cool, even when we were at our busiest.
I stepped back out into the kitchen to grab my sweatshirt. “Call me if you get in the weeds, okay?” I stepped back into the walk-in, grabbed the clipboard from its hook, and started doing an inventory.
As I did, I rearranged everything so that like went with like. Proteins on one side, vegetables and fruit on the other. The menu was so heavily dependent on the standard diner items (Salisbury steak, chicken pot pie, burgers, etc.) that the fresh selection was a bit sparse; most of the fresh deliveries went directly into the freezer for later. As I reorganized, I started thinking of ways I could repurpose some of these ingredients. I was deeply engrossed in calculating how many pounds of potatoes I needed for fries and if I’d have enough left over to do a fennel and potato gratin when I heard a knock on the propped-open door.
“I’m coming, Carl,” I called, setting down the clipboard and starting to push open the door.
“Why am I suddenly jealous of Carl?” Leo filled up the doorway with his big body and grin.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as he took a step toward me. “It’s not your normal delivery day.”
“Would you believe me if I said I had some beets to bring by?”
“It would depend on the beet,” I said. “What else you got?”
“What are you wearing?” he asked, taking another step.
I backed up into the lettuce. “This?” I opened the sides of my very attractive gray zip-up hoodie.
“It’s pretty fucking great,” he said, taking the last step and slipping his hands inside my sweatshirt, settling low around my hips.
“You didn’t really bring me beets, did you?” I said, not feeling the cold around me at all. I let my hands come up to his chest, sliding up and around his neck.
“I did,” he murmured, his thumbs sliding underneath my T-shirt the tiniest bit. “I brought mad beets.”
“Oh man,” I snorted, which changed to a snortmmm as he nuzzled my neck. “Did you bring me anything else?”
He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.”
“Good,” I replied as he walked around to his side of the Jeep. “I like being an original.”
“Oh, I’ll give you that,” he answered, starting up the car and giving me a sexy grin.
My toes pointed. I couldn’t help it. We drove back to the main house, where he put me in my car, then kissed me once more before I left.
And as I drove home, I fiddled with my music, scrolling through songs until I found Achtung Baby. I’d forgotten how awesome this album was.
Chapter 9
When the alarm went off the next morning at 4:30, I began listing all the reasons I should throttle my mother. By 4:37 I had seventeen well-thought-out reasons that would be hard to prosecute under New York State law. But by 4:57 I was in the car, wet hair tied back into a bun, travel mug of coffee in hand, ready for a day of blue plates and blue hairs.
I hated being up this early, as any human would. There was nothing worse than being dragged out of bed before the sun had even thrown back its covers, to clean out grease traps and chop seventy heads of iceberg lettuce for “salad.” This was my life from about the age of eleven through high school graduation. Same thing, day after day. That was part of the reason I’d chosen the private chef route: there was always something new and exciting to play around with, new menus to create, new taste buds to tantalize. Nothing ho hum there.
I squashed that thought as I headed into town. As the sun crept over the mountains, I moaned and groaned about how early it was the entire way to the diner. Yet there was something about the air this early, especially in the summer. It was clean and fresh as I drove with my windows down. Though the forecast called for rain, right now the skies were clear, without a trace of humidity.
I yawned as I pulled into my spot behind the diner. I’d slept particularly poorly last night. Was it because I’d had a farmer ambling in and out of my dreams? And in and out of . . . Well. Yes, indeed. I touched my lips in remembrance of the feel of his mouth on mine, and with a secretive smile, I unlocked the back door and started my day.
By 8 a.m. I had veggies prepped for the day, six batches of blue-ribbon meat loaf mixed up and ready for the oven for the lunch service, and I was barking right back at Maxine and Sandy when they asked for four on two over easy, and fry two, let the sun shine. I ran the griddle until Carl came in at 9, then I headed into the walk-in fridge to see about something new for tomorrow’s lunch special. Wednesday had been Beef Stew Day since time began, but I thought I might try something a little different. If Albert was willing to try something new, some of the other stalwart customers might be open to it as well. Modifying the stew wasn’t exactly negotiating a peace treaty in the Middle East, but it could be my own little victory.
Propping the door of the walk-in open a bit to avoid becoming trapped, I perused the shelves, noting my mother’s disorganization. “Carl, you good if I work in here for a bit? Rearrange some things?” I called out.
“Sure, sure Roxie, leave me alone out here,” he grumbled good-naturedly.
I knew he was happier when he was left alone. Carl had worked here as long as anyone can remember; even my mother wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. One of my earliest memories was Carl flicking water on the griddle to clean it off. I liked working with him. He was quiet, he didn’t let the waitresses pull him into any drama, and he never lost his cool, even when we were at our busiest.
I stepped back out into the kitchen to grab my sweatshirt. “Call me if you get in the weeds, okay?” I stepped back into the walk-in, grabbed the clipboard from its hook, and started doing an inventory.
As I did, I rearranged everything so that like went with like. Proteins on one side, vegetables and fruit on the other. The menu was so heavily dependent on the standard diner items (Salisbury steak, chicken pot pie, burgers, etc.) that the fresh selection was a bit sparse; most of the fresh deliveries went directly into the freezer for later. As I reorganized, I started thinking of ways I could repurpose some of these ingredients. I was deeply engrossed in calculating how many pounds of potatoes I needed for fries and if I’d have enough left over to do a fennel and potato gratin when I heard a knock on the propped-open door.
“I’m coming, Carl,” I called, setting down the clipboard and starting to push open the door.
“Why am I suddenly jealous of Carl?” Leo filled up the doorway with his big body and grin.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as he took a step toward me. “It’s not your normal delivery day.”
“Would you believe me if I said I had some beets to bring by?”
“It would depend on the beet,” I said. “What else you got?”
“What are you wearing?” he asked, taking another step.
I backed up into the lettuce. “This?” I opened the sides of my very attractive gray zip-up hoodie.
“It’s pretty fucking great,” he said, taking the last step and slipping his hands inside my sweatshirt, settling low around my hips.
“You didn’t really bring me beets, did you?” I said, not feeling the cold around me at all. I let my hands come up to his chest, sliding up and around his neck.
“I did,” he murmured, his thumbs sliding underneath my T-shirt the tiniest bit. “I brought mad beets.”
“Oh man,” I snorted, which changed to a snortmmm as he nuzzled my neck. “Did you bring me anything else?”
He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.”
