I like to cook.
In my youth I worked in a few restaurants in different
roles. On occasion I might jump behind the line with the trained culinary
people to help out, but that was not my primary function, so for the most part,
I left that to the people who knew what they were doing.
Sometimes I’ll fire up the grill and roast some chicken or
burgers and corn on the cob, smeared with butter and sprinkled with a little
bit of sugar. Trust me, it’s worth it. Wrap the corn in aluminum foil, give it
four minutes on a side with a hot grill and as Gleason used to say, "away we go"!
There are a few dishes I make that have become family
favorites. Chicken picatta and stir-fry beef with asparagus and red peppers are
a couple that come to mind. I still recall the boys charging down the stairs
for my banana bread coming fresh out of the oven.
Chene and Malone, two of my main characters, both cook. This
happens in stories where it seems like the most natural thing in the world for
them to do. And it works. Cooking is a
form of creativity and when you’re done, you and your guests (or readers) get a
tasty treat.
I was pleasantly surprised to
learn that Inkspell, which publishes the Jamie Richmond series, was going to
put out a cookbook. Along with recipes
there would be some writing advice as well.
So I dusted off a favorite and sent it along. Turns out the collection
from over a dozen authors will be released November 1. Check it out and head
for the kitchen.
Talking about food brings this excerpt to mind from “Why
319?”. In this scene, Chene has returned
to the apartment of the serial killer’s latest victim, at the request of her
roommate, Simone Bettencourt.
Simone might have reached for me.
Or I might have reached for her. It was one of those things that I could never
definitively answer. All I know is that one moment I was standing in front of
her, the next she was in my arms. She buried her face in my chest and started
sobbing. Somehow, I guided her back into the apartment and closed the door
behind us.
At some point in time, Simone
seemed to slowly run out of tears. She pulled back a little, wiping her face
with her fingertips. Her body was warm. I could feel it through the thin
material of the sweater as my hand slid slowly up and down her back. She
started to turn away and stumbled. I caught her around the waist and steadied
her. I was surprised at how little she weighed.
“I should be all cried out by now.”
Her voice caught. “You must think I’m some kind of basket case.”
“Not at all. People deal with grief
differently. Some never let it out. Others get angry, resentful. Some seek
vengeance.” I realized I was still holding her. It took some difficulty, but I
guided her over to the sofa. She collapsed onto the cushions.
I went into the kitchen. The muffin
tin she had used yesterday morning was still sitting on the counter, residue
from the batter stuck hard to the surface. There were four fingers worth of
cold coffee in the pot. I sensed she hadn’t eaten since we’d been here.
Back in the living room, Simone
stared vacantly at the windows. I’m no therapist, but even I could tell that
her body would start shutting down if she couldn’t get past this point. She
would also need fuel in her system. I turned back to the kitchen to check the
supplies.
What the hell was I doing here?
The kitchen was surprisingly well
stocked. I would have expected two young, single women sharing an apartment to
eat out frequently. Apparently, one of them liked to cook. I found some
boneless chicken breasts in the refrigerator, along with a fresh box of
mushrooms. There was a lemon just starting to shrivel and a bottle of
Chardonnay already opened. Hunting around, I discovered a bin with flour and
some linguini noodles. I got started.
After slicing the chicken into thin
strips, I dredged it in flour. The skillet was heated with a chunk of butter
slowly melting in the center. I added the chicken and sliced the mushrooms.
While it was browning, I found a pot for the pasta and got that boiling. With
the chicken brown on both sides, I added the mushrooms, the juice from half the
lemon and a generous glug of wine. I found a small skillet and used it to sauté
some onions and minced garlic in a few spoons of olive oil. When the pasta was
done, I drained it, then tossed it in the oil mixture. I was serving it onto a
platter when Simone appeared in the doorway.
“You’re cooking?” Her voice was
incredulous.
“Somebody’s got to. I’m betting you
haven’t eaten since Friday night.”
She shrugged. “I haven’t had much
of an appetite.”
I guided her to the table and set a
plate in front of her. She looked at me suspiciously.
“It’s comfort food.”
There's been plenty of classic rock on my stereo this week. Here's a favorite from the Eagles.
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