Mirepoix (A Recipe Of Love Book 1) (4 page)

“Are the ingredients really that expensive?”

“Yeah but it’s not just the cost of the materials it’s having it in bulk too. One pound of the mica powder I use to dye the soap is about $50. The lye itself isn’t too expensive but the shipping can get outrageous due to hazmat and DOT rules. The oils can get kind of pricey depending on how much I’m using. I grow most of my own herbs and flowers for additives which helps cut down on cost some, but some of those are also poisonous.”

“I had no idea so much went into soap making. It sounds really complicated.”

“Not really but we can get into all of that some other time if you really are curious.” I reply absently while getting all my ingredients together for dinner.

“Do you want wine or a beer?” I ask glancing over my shoulder at him. Instead of inspecting my apartment like
I feared he’s sitting on the stool I had pulled out but facing me in the kitchen.  His eyes are focused
exclusively on me, and unlike most guys he isn’t looking at my ass but looking straight at my face.

“Whatever you’re having is good with me.”

“Okay Magic Hat it is. Any variety you prefer or just whichever I grab first?” I ask opening the mini fridge I had built into the island.

“Surprise me. Why do you have a separate fridge for your beer?”

“Not just the beer, it has wine too! Truthfully I only drink when I have company over, or an amazingly bad day, so maybe once a week tops. It clutters up the big fridge and I either have to move it to get to my food or move my food to get to it. Plus it’s cool!” I giggle at my own nerdiness. Popping the tops off using the bottle opener screwed over the garbage can, I turn to hand him his and see him eying the bottle opener.

“I hardly drink anymore but when I do I’ve learned bottle openers can run and hide if I get tipsy. This way I won’t lose it and if the bottle caps go straight in the garbage, I’m less likely to throw them at people for annoying me.” I quickly explain. He nods like this makes perfect sense, maybe I’m not the only one the bottle opener hides from. I grab my cast iron grill from the cabinet and put it on the stove, turning the burners on to heat it up. The potatoes are already in the oven baking on low. I dump the snap peas into a colander in the sink where they get a quick wash. I glance back at him again wondering at his silence.

“So what question’s bugging you most?”, I ask while I start removing the stems and strings from the peas. I can tell he wants to ask me something but most likely is afraid of offending me or hurting my feelings. I don’t believe in only sticking to conversational fluff when first meeting someone, I prefer to find out as soon as possible if I want someone in my life in any way early, instead of knowing them a few weeks and finding out something that will make me dislike them.

“You said your Grandma left you the building?” He asks me cutting straight for the most personal of all info I had given him so far. I wish I knew if it were him being curious about me personally, or if he was focusing on the money side of things. I think it’s the more personal aspect since so far he’s seemed to be fame and glory obsessed rather than greedy.

“Yeah. She died four years ago and left me this building and another one that I rent out. She was a great woman and I owe the person I am today to her.” I toss the snap peas into a skillet and place it on the stove, I add some olive oil from a container on the counter, then season with a little salt and pepper. I also put some oil on a kitchen towel and wipe down the grill pan, I quickly season the steaks and toss them on as well.

“She seemed to be well known and loved by everyone at the market today. Do you look like her?” I take a deep breath to steady my emotions. He unknowingly just hit a sore spot in my emotional health. From experience I know it will just be easier to explain everything than have him keep asking questions, luckily almost everyone I interact with already knows the story so I don’t have to get into it often.

“I look like her in that we both have long dark hair and are short but that is about it. We weren’t biologically related. She adopted me when I was 10.” I give the beans a quick stir while checking to see if the steaks are ready to be flipped. “My parents worked at the restaurant she and her husband owned. My mom was a waitress and my dad a line cook that’s where they met at, actually. It was a small family place, and I ran tame in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Gram and Pap weren’t able to have kids, so they enjoyed having those of their employees around. When my parents were killed coming back from a weekend away by a drunk driver, there wasn’t anyone to take me in. Instead of allowing me to enter the foster system they adopted me. Gram told me since I already had a mom, and she was old enough to have been my grandma to just call her Gram. They also
decided I should keep my last name since it was the only thing I have left of my parents besides a few mementos I brought with me.”  I’m deep breathing at this point to avoid crying.
Some hurts, no matter how old, the pain always stays fresh.

I remember being 10 and at my friends house where I had spent the weekend, the time when my parents were due to pick me up came and went. This was right when cell phones were becoming commonplace, but my parents didn’t have one yet. The girl’s parents kept calling and calling my home phone number with no answer. They finally left a message on the answering machine asking for them to call as soon as possible, I guess that’s how the police finally tracked me down. My parents died, and I was with a friend’s family, who at the time was complaining about them not picking me up on time. When they told me, I had no one to hold me and comfort me. The first hug I got after that awful news was from Gram when she ran into the police station to be there for me while they tried to find any family I might have but not know about.

I’m brought out of the sad memories by a light touch on my lower back. I’ve been cooking on autopilot it would seem. I use the tongs I don’t remember grabbing off their hook and pull the steak off the grill and onto a plate to rest before Joe runs his hand down my arm and takes the tongs out of my hands. Due to our height difference it feels like he’s surrounding me just by standing behind me. I feel a soft kiss on the top of my head.

“Go grab the toppings for the potatoes Pixie, I’ll get everything plated.” I turn and give him a quick hug and kiss the underside of that chiseled jaw before darting to the fridge to grab the sour cream and the herbed
butter for on the steaks. I plop a pad on each steak after Joe plates them and the heat of the steak melts the frozen butter. After everything is plated,  we sit down next to each other at the island and seem to come to an unspoken agreement to let things lie. Joe cuts a piece off of his steak and
slowly chews it before looking up at me in surprise.

“This is the best steak I’ve ever had.”

“Like I said… keep it simple stupid. Good meat, minimal but good spices and some yummy fats.”

5

Joe

Don’t laugh! Don’t laugh! Don’t laugh!

I’m hoping chanting it to myself in my head will keep me from laughing. I’ll permit myself a smile or a smirk but I cannot under any circumstance laugh at her or the tiny terror is likely to attack me in some brutal manner. After eating a steak that was hands down amazing, snap peas that were crisp and succulent, and a fluffy potato with crispy salty skins I was ready for a nap. I was also struggling with disbelief. The dish should have been plain and basic while it was basic it was one of the best and most satisfying meals I’ve ever had.
Maybe it was the novelty of having someone cook for me, most of my dates expect me to cook. I cannot remember the last time someone cooked for me in their home outside of my mom. Even then I’m always so busy with the restaurant so I rarely get to visit her.

As soon as we finished eating Pixie jumps up and started hand washing her dishes and pans, looking around I realize she doesn’t have a dishwasher. What has me on the verge of laughter however is in order to put the plates away she has nimbly climbed up onto the counter. How she hopped up makes me think this is a common occurrence.

“If you can’t reach the shelf why do you put stuff on it?” I blurt without considering the repercussions. If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure she would be using the lye she mentioned earlier to dissolve my body, or she could call the pretty boy butcher to come chop up my carcass.

“I need every single inch of space I can squeeze out of this tiny kitchen, I can’t just not use a shelf because it wasn’t made with the vertically challenged in mind.” She is still standing on the counter looking down at me with the most indignant look on her face. I almost expect her to stamp her tiny foot any second. Glancing down at the tiny feet in question I see this week her toenails are purple, last week when I came over they were red. I stand up and walk over to her so I can catch her in case she falls after the story she told me about her childhood I want to wrap her up in bubble wrap and keep her safe from ever feeling pain again.

“Come on hop down. The plates are put away and you’ve scrubbed everything down.” I hold a hand up to her since I’m betting if I held my arms up for her to jump into she would kick me in my head or something. I definitely gave her a horrible impression the first time I met her. I couldn’t help it though, I was obsessed with finding out how her pasta beat mine. I still am to tell the truth, but I enjoyed myself so much today I didn’t want to ruin the mood by demanding answers. She would probably talk in circles around me about being out of touch with the basics. My manager set up the meeting so that I could demand answers and she was the one who picked out my clothes for me, it was definitely a misstep however as apparently the clothes offend Frankie’s sensibility. I still don’t fully understand why they offend her so much, just that they do.

She grabs my hand and easily
jumps down,  I fight to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing her waist to make sure she’s steady. I know from being raised by a single mother that women are
incredibly strong and capable, but I can’t seem to help myself with Frankie. She’s just so tiny I want to scoop her up and carry her everywhere. I can’t understand my reaction to her so I’ve decided to just go with it. Lately almost everything has felt so forced, I’m enjoying just experiencing this...whatever it is. I can honestly say I have never met anyone like Frankie in my life. She is so passionate but at the same time she seems like she isn’t.

I pick up my beer and try to decide if I should finish it and leave. It’s well before the time the kitchen normally closes at my restaurant so if I leave now I have several hours I could spend trying to perfect dishes or working on ways to increase my notoriety. I want my name to be recognized when people think of a great chef. After everything my mother sacrificed raising me I feel like I need to be the best I can be, I need to win awards and accolades to show her that it was worth it.

Frankie picks up her beer and strolls around the island over to her monstrous couch making the decision for me. Apparently I will be staying for at least a little while and indulging myself in a break. I’m always either at the restaurant or working on something for it, I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a day like I did today. I haven’t strolled around shopping in forever. I get my groceries delivered to my house when I need them. I haven’t spent time examining meat for the cut with perfect marbling or tasting cheeses that were just freshly made.

“So are you going to explain the tattoos now Joe?” Frankie asks from where she has curled up in the corner of the couch like a cat. The couch is so soft it looks like it’s swallowing her whole. I sit down on the main part of the couch angling my body so I’m facing her.

“Which tattoos do you mean?” I’m wearing long sleeves at the moment but this morning I was wearing a t-shirt. I’m pretty sure she’s talking about the ones on my hands that she asked about at the end of our first meeting.

“Mirepoix. Please explain why you have a French food term across your knuckles. You are known for and have studied Italian food, and I’m guessing from your last name are more than slightly Italian.” She blows out a frustrated breath fluttering her hair before she grabs the entire mass and twists it into a knot on top of her head that she secures with a hairband she grabs off an end table. I’m pretty sure if she were standing she would be tapping her foot to go with the arms she has crossed at the moment. I’m tempted to keep quiet and try to irritate her more due to the way her position plumps her breasts up in the tank top she’s wearing.

“Well clearly mirepoix is the mix of finely chopped onions, carrots and celery that is the base of most French food, as well soup and stews, you can have large chunks used in roasts as well. I got the tattoo when I was in culinary school to remind myself that sometimes the most complex dishes have simple beginnings. It also was a way to make sure I didn’t give up and quit. I’m thinking it would be kind of hard to be an investment banker or something with your hands tattooed.” I feel slightly exposed from explaining myself to her. I spend so much time in the limelight and being “on" that I haven’t let anyone see any type of insecurity in years. I have to stay completely confident and in control so that no one tries to take my throne.

“Okay, I can understand that. Personally I think I would prefer an investment banker with ink myself, maybe it’s time to shop around for a new one that has some. My PR guru slash pain in the ass best friend is inked, and I know certain businesses will pass her by dismissing her talent because they don’t think she can handle their needs. It’s their loss because she could not only handle it but also likely increase their client base by helping them expand into new markets that they aren’t known or respected in.” She is staring at me like she isn’t blowing my mind. Until now she has seemed passionate about ingredients and food but like she doesn’t care one way or the other about notoriety or marketability. She definitely doesn’t seem like she would even have a need for an investment banker, let alone be able to shop around for one.