Mirepoix (A Recipe Of Love Book 1)

Mirepoix

A Recipe of Love Novel

By: Paige Conners

©Paige Conners

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication:

Dedicated to my tiny demons

I hope one day I can embarrass you with this

Table of Contents

Mirepoix

Copyright

Dedication:

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Epilogue

Playlist

Acknowledgements:

About the Author

1

Someone please tell me why I lost my mind and agreed to this?

As I resignedly move to the door to answer the annoyed sounding knocks, I question
my sanity about seventeen times. Then I question
how exactly knocking sounded so arrogant. Did the jackass somehow transmit his personality to my door via his thundering fist? Will I need to buy a new door once he leaves or can I use some type of smudge stick to untaint my door from douchebaggery?

Heaving a sigh that even to my ears sounds maudlin, I open the door and almost get my nose broken to top off the wonderful day I’m having. Without a single word, he slips past me into my apartment. I closed the door simply by leaning into it, leaving my forehead on the door with my eyes closed I wonder how long this will take and when I can get back to my regularly
scheduled apathy.  Joseph Moretti storms into my glorious sanctuary and haven from insanity.

I can’t believe this is one of the consequences of Lindsay entering me in the pasta contest without my knowledge. Allowing myself to place the blame on her tiny overly excited shoulders, I take a deep breath and prepare myself to deal with the interloping ape currently disturbing my peace simply by breathing my air. Spine stiffened, I turn and see him scowling at my spotless poured concrete counters.

“Where are your small appliances?” he immediately questions without giving me a chance to say hello or question his sanity as well.

“The microwave is right there.” I point to where it’s tucked into the corner of the counter. My kitchen is perfect, it’s small and cute and almost entirely counter space. I live in a modified loft apartment, from where we are standing in the kitchen I can see everything in its perfection. My hardwood floors that are easy to clean, my overly large black microfiber couch in front of and perpendicular to the kitchen island that is dark enough to hide stains, my flea market rescue tables that I refinished and painted random weird colors that seemed to pop up all around my apartment like some weird fungi taking it over. I need to get this testosterone invasion over with and the quickest way to achieve this in my mind is to answer whatever questions he asks and hope he is satisfied and will leave me alone in my misanthropic glory.

Immediately, icy green eyes clash with mine. I find myself wondering how exactly moss green eyes look icy. Thankfully I don’t get too distracted to miss the disbelieving head shake that follows my statement. I guess I’m not the only one questioning sanity right now.

“No, your kitchen tools. Stand mixer, pasta roller, food processor...kitchen appliances.” He slowly enunciates like I didn’t understand what he meant.

“Oh, I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any?” he asks with disbelief dripping from every word.

“Nope.” I can’t resist replying as flippantly as I possibly can, popping the p and everything.

“How do you make pasta then?” He glares at me like I’m not the sharpest knife in the block or am playing some type of practical joke on him.

I literally cannot resist poking at him. With every word out of my mouth, he is standing just a bit taller. He’s got to be at least 6’3” to my measly 5’3”, which means if I weren’t on the other side of my nice sturdy butcher block topped island, he would be towering over me. As it is, he probably would have a spectacular view down my shirt if he stopped studying me like I’m an alien life form sent to annoy him to death. His fingers are grabbing the edge of the island, hopefully keeping him from strangling me, knuckles white with effort.

I smirk at his tattooed knuckles which spell out mirepoix. “Well, first you start with flour and then you crack eggs into a well in the middle…”

“I know how to make pasta!”

“Then why did you ask?” I innocently
blink at him. His face is  going through the entire red color spectrum. I wonder at what color I should duck to avoid shrapnel when he explodes. Judging by the throbbing vein in his forehead,
it will be soon.

“Look here you insolent little fool!”

I immediately start sputtering but don’t get a word in before the top came flying off the boiling pot of his indignation.

“I lost the contest to someone named Frankie. I showed up here to find out how some no name home cook could have made tortellini that beat mine! Mine! I graduated at the top of my class from the Culinary Institute! I spent five years in Italy learning everything I could from the masters of pasta! I am the executive chef at my own restaurant and have been nominated for a James Beard Award three times!” Planting his hand on the island, he leans forward as if he’s seconds from vaulting over the island at me. “Now go get me this Frankie to explain how he made pasta in a kitchen that has no tools and a four burner gas stove top that looks out of the 80’s!” he bellows at me.

I stomp around the end of the island, irritation echoes with every step. With my left hand, I yank open my massive drawer that holds all my favorite toys like my pastry blender, ricer and rolling pins. I roll my eyes before shoving my right hand at him, extending it for a handshake that I know will not be forthcoming.

“Hi, I’m Frankie O’Halleran. I won because I haven’t lost touch with the basics, lured astray by the easy modern conveniences of kitchen tools that take food preparation out of our hands. They remove the personal connection with food and the ability to tell by touch that the dough is perfect, not too dry like
yours.  Now can you explain
to me why an Italian chef has the base of most French foods tattooed on his hands?”

And we’re back to him staring at me like I’m an invading life form determined to destroy his sanity.

2

“You’re Frankie?” he asks while still staring at me.

“That would be an affirmative.” I cannot stop the snark at this point. The longer he stands in my kitchen, in his pretty pale purple polo shirt and slacks that appear to have been ironed into creases that would make any dictator proud, the more it bubbles up. I need to get him out of my apartment soon or I may never be able to stop. Then again, if you ask my friends they would likely tell you, I never stop anyways.

“If I demonstrate my amazing pasta making prowess will you leave immediately so that your pretty pale purple polo shirt can’t give me nightmares?” As he blinks at me some more, I realize the situation is more dire than I thought if the mouth-to-brain filter has disappeared entirely.

Looking down at the garment that annoys me just by existing, he arches an eyebrow in my direction “My pretty pale what?”

“Your pretty pale purple polo shirt. It offends my eye. The only lavender I appreciate is the stuff I grow and put to use. It’s Sunday,” I quickly glance at my fridge and the stupendous clock and calendar device affixed to its smooth stainless steel door to verify it is in fact Sunday. I tend to get caught up and can lose track of what day of the week it is since the only schedules I follow involve TV shows and book releases, “shouldn’t you be in a t-shirt and jeans or something?”

At the discussion of clothes, I glance down to make sure I remembered to put on all the articles of clothing society deems necessary. Ha! I got them all! I’m wearing a pair of brightly colored leggings that have black stars everywhere, a bra and a black tank top. My arms are covered in random American Traditional style tattoos and my toes are painted a bright hooker red...maybe I should have put shoes on but I never do unless I’m leaving the house.

I look back up from my perusal to see we have now added the tilted head to the blinking, and can’t forget the raised eyebrow. I tilt my head just like he does, but I can’t pull off the eyebrow arch of disdain. I raise both up, hoping to make him laugh simply so I know if it’s possible. It would appear it’s not, since he just shakes his head again and looks down at his loafers like the answers to how to deal with me are in their shiny surface. At this point, the very very limited amount of patience I possess has been used up.

“Hey Emeril, can we get on with this? I can explain how I make my pasta. I can show you where I get my ingredients. Hell, I can even show you my herbs growing upstairs in my own special blend of soil, however I doubt any of that will help you. You likely won’t believe me about what will, so can we get the lead out here?” I snap exasperated by his steady judgement. I can feel it beating down on me, his disbelief that I beat him. And knowing societal norms, I’m betting my direct manner of speaking has offended him.

His hands again grip my island, his knuckles turning white. I listen for any ominous creaking showing he somehow managed to lift it to batter me to death with. The only thing I hear is him taking a few deep breaths, hopefully to calm down. The vein in his head is throbbing again and I’m not sure I remember all the steps of F.A.S.T. for diagnosing a stroke. While staring at his shoes, he growls “Research shows that women prefer me in lavender; it makes my eyes look greener.”

Out of everything I spouted at him that this is what he addresses first boggles my mind. “Did you dress specifically hoping I would
be distracted by your eyes? 
Somehow I get trapped by them, spewing forth some amazing secret ingredient or method that made me beat you?”

“I had no idea that the Frankie who beat me would be a tiny, raven-haired pixie. I was expecting a stereotypical fat old Italian man, whose wife I could charm into forcing him to explain how a home cook was entered into the Best Pasta of Philadelphia competition and managed to beat me!” Now glaring directly at me, I can practically taste his frustration. It probably shouldn’t amuse me as much as it does.

“Well, my friend Lindsay loves my homemade tortellini. She’s constantly begging me to make them for her, but since making them is an all day process, I only do it about once a month. Last month when she brought me twice the amount of cheese I needed, I should have realized she was up to something. However, I assumed she was just going to take the rest and freeze them to have mid-month. Little did I know, she entered them in your precious pasta contest without my knowledge.” Now it’s my turn to grumble as I think of the little sneaks actions. It’s definitely her fault he’s standing in my kitchen, fuming. Her heart was in the right place, hoping if I won I would finally agree to start selling some of my handmade food along with my soaps and lotions and such. I think she wants me to sell them not only for me, but also so she can have them whenever she wanted.