“Put in place or, more loosely, have everything in its place. It means you do all the preparation before you start to cook. Then the process of preparing the meal goes more smoothly.”
“Because you don’t have to run off and wash a tomato.” She nodded. She worked exactly the same way in the lab. “That makes sense. Is that what your tattoo means or is it a philosophy?”
Spencer smiled. He had a full sleeve on his left arm, starting with the Mise en place one just above his wrist. “Both. I got it to commemorate my first cooking course.”
“And the leaves?” Liv indicated the tattoo on his upper arm. Each stem in the cluster was from a different plant, since their leaves were different.
“A bouquet garni, which I got after my first course in France.”
“What’s a bouquet garni for?”
“It’s a cluster of herbs added to flavor the sauce or the stock. The French use a specific combination of herbs.” He pointed to each one in his tattoo. “Parsley, bay, sage, thyme, rosemary. You can also add chervil, savory, and tarragon. The bundle is tied with leek leaves. The bouquet garni cooks with the stock or gravy, then is removed before the dish is finished.”
It sounded fussy and complicated to Liv. “Is it worth it?”
“Absolutely.” He must have noticed her expression because he smiled. “It makes all the difference.”
“Salt and pepper is the extent of my additions.”
“Ketchup?”
“No.”
“There’s hope then,” he teased. “In Provence, they add peppercorns, other whole spices, or some dried orange peel.”
“You can’t tie those in a bundle.”
“No. Some people use a muslin bag then, because they want to fish them out before serving.”
“Why?”
“Ever bitten into a peppercorn?”
Liv smiled. The rest of his tattoo sleeve was composed of vegetables and fruits, scattered around his arm like a display at a farmers’ market. “Those would be your farm-fresh ingredients.”
“They’re all heritage varieties.”
“Because you like cooking with them best?”
“Because farm-to-table is a big part of what I do and what we do at the lodge, plus sourcing food locally and supporting more regional suppliers. We use artisan cheeses whenever we can, for example, as well as local produce and meat. We even have a few foragers who bring in fiddleheads, garlic scapes, and mushrooms when they’re in season. It makes our menu distinct and local.”
More curious, Liv leaned forward to look in the bowls. She recognized baby spinach leaves in the biggest one, diced nuts in a smaller one, a crumbled white cheese in another. There were several small bowls with what looked like oil in them and she guessed that the quantities were measured. As she watched, Spencer took a whisk to one of them and poured another liquid into it slowly as he mixed the contents. He tasted the result, then added a pinch of what might have been salt from an open bowl, then ground pepper into it. When he tasted it this time, he nodded, then set it in the line.
There was a pear and four big oranges, still awaiting his attention, as well as brown eggs and a stick of butter. He broke the eggs into a pitcher, then broke three more and separated the yolks. Liv watched, fascinated. It was like magic, but he made it look easy. He whisked the yolks and she surveyed his preparations again. She was starting to realize that she was hungry. A round loaf of bread that might have been sourdough was at the end of the counter and at the other end, a brown paper bag with the top folded down.
Liv peered into it and the scent of seaweed made her step back. “Is that a lobster?”
“Yes. Two of them actually.”
She looked again. They were both dark, between green and black in color, and had bands around their claws. They were moving a little.
“Are they alive?”
“Not for much longer.”
“Because they’re not in the ocean?”
“No. They’re cold and in a bit of seaweed. They were probably harvested yesterday. They’re going to die because we’re going to eat them.”
She understood then why there was such a large pot on the wood stove. Steam was beginning to rise from it.
“Do you always have lobster in your fridge?” They were in Maine, but still, it seemed strange to Liv. Luxurious.
Spencer’s grin flashed. “No. You can thank Gabriel for that.”
“Oh, I forgot. He was buying you some groceries.”
“And he was part of your plan.” Spencer indicated the food on the counter. “You see before you all of the required ingredients for number two of Gabriel’s Seven Romantic Meals Guaranteed to Get You Lucky.”
Liv laughed in surprise. “Really?”
“Really. He has a blog and Instagram account for the lodge. These articles get him tons of traffic.”
“It’s a catchy title.”
“I made him change Laid to Lucky.”
Liv laughed. “It doesn’t seem like you need any help getting lucky right now.”
“No.” Spencer smiled at her. “Do you?”
“No,” Liv admitted with a blush.
“Gabriel must have thought we’d need help.”
Neither of them commented on that. Liv cleared her throat. “So, what are the seven meals?”
“Eggs Benedict with Lobster is the one we’ll start with. Then there’s Scallops with Spinach and Risotto. I think we’ll have that tonight.”
Liv nodded. “The shellfish get eaten first.”
“There’s going to be enough lobster left for lobster mac and cheese, but once it’s cooked, it’ll keep longer.”
“Then?”
“I haven’t decided. The whole chicken should probably be eaten next, but do you have any preferences or allergies?”
Liv shook her head. “I eat whatever’s going.”
“You have to be more particular than that.”
“Not really. You’re going to think I’m weird, but I don’t pay that much attention to food.” She savored another sip of her coffee and wondered if that was changing.
He gave her a look. “But you cook, right?”
“No.”
That startled him. “But you must cook something. I mean, you don’t have to be a chef to say that you cook.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t cook anything?”
Liv felt a bit defensive. “I heat things up. Cans of soup. Frozen entrées. I get prepared stuff at the grocery store, because it’s better than eating take-out all the time.”
Spencer stared at her in astonishment. “Didn’t Audrey cook?” he asked, referring to her mom.
Liv had to shake her head again. “She taught me what I know. Frozen lasagna in the oven, salad mix in the bowl.” She shrugged. “It’s probably more common than what you do.”
“You have to know how to roast a chicken,” Spencer said.
“No,” Liv admitted. “When I want one, I buy it cooked at the grocery store.”
“There’s a depressing thought.” He shoved a hand through his hair and surveyed the kitchen, apparently uncertain of what to say. He looked a bit beleaguered, as if Liv had shaken the foundations of his universe.
Maybe she had.
Fortunately, Liv had an idea how to set it to rights.
Spencer always had a plan by the time he stepped into the kitchen, but on this day, the stakes were higher than usual—and they seemed to be getting higher by the minute. He’d known immediately that he had to ensure that he used the better food in his fridge before it spoiled. That was basic management. He’d also known that he wanted to impress a woman who didn’t seem to have a lot of interest in food. Olivia’s comments this morning, though, made him feel that this was an exercise in futility.
She didn’t believe in love.
She didn’t care about food.
He was doomed to lose the battle and the war.
“I always think of cooking as just more work,” Olivia admitted. “As something that
takes time.” Spencer turned to look at her, unable to make sense of a philosophy so opposite to his own. She lifted her cup and saluted him before she finished her coffee. “But you’re making me aware of the possibilities. Would you teach me to cook?”
Relief weakened Spencer’s knees. “You want to know? You don’t think it’s a waste?”
“No. I guess I just never paid attention before.”
“Mindfulness,” he said. “Paying attention is a big part of eating well and enjoying it. Part of a lot of other pleasures, too.”
Olivia smiled and his heart leaped at the sparkle in her eyes. “So I’m learning.” Their gazes clung in that way that sent heat through him from head to toe, the way that made him want to forget about food and head back to the bedroom. “Go ahead,” she said, a challenge in her tone. “Convert me.”
Spencer was up for that. “Brunch is eggs benedict with lobster.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“Not really. It’s actually simple.” He gestured to the bowls on the counter. “Everything comes down to the ingredients being fresh and good.”
“All right.” Olivia looked unconvinced but willing to try. “What can I do?”
“Are you squeamish?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
He pointed to the lobsters. “Because they have to be cooked, then cleaned. They’re not that pretty inside.”
“I have an undergrad in biology,” Olivia said, getting off the stool to move to his side of the counter. “Dissection has been my middle name for years.” She spared him a look. “I won’t faint or puke.”
Spencer smiled. “I don’t have any scalpels.”
“I’ll work with whatever sharp tools you’ve got. I’m flexible like that.”
He chuckled. “Okay.” Spencer took the lid off the pot of water, releasing the steam. He’d treat this like a class and try to spark her enthusiasm. “There’s salt in the water, already,” he told her. “That ensures the flavor.”
“Why?”
“I had a teacher who said seafood needs to remember the sea. Salt is the key to that.”
Olivia nodded understanding. “Not much water in there, though.”
“A couple of inches. We’re going to steam them.” He put in the boiling rack.
“Why?”
“The meat is more tender and it’s harder to overcook them.” When Olivia nodded, Spencer reached into the paper bag and grabbed one lobster. “Always pick them up by the carapace.” It moved more energetically once he grabbed it and its tail flicked hard.
“It’s frisky.”
“Which means it’s freshly caught. When you look for one in the market, look for intact antenna. That’s another sign of freshness. Go on, grab the other one.”
Olivia did as instructed, echoing his move.
“Make sure it feels cold to the touch still.”
“Another test?”
“Absolutely.” He put the lobster down on the cutting board and drove his knife into the back of its head. Olivia looked startled. “It’s called pithing them. It means they don’t boil alive.”
“A better choice,” she said. Spencer stepped toward the pot and picked up a pair of scissors. He cut the rubber bands very quickly, flicking them to the counter, then dropped the lobster into the pot. Olivia let him take her lobster and watched him repeat his motions, then set the timer as instructed and put the lid back on.
“Things will get quicker now,” he warned her.
“But everything’s ready.”
“Except the pear. I didn’t do it sooner because it would turn brown. Could you cut it into eighths, then peel and core it? Leave the pieces in order if you can, so we can fan it out for the presentation.”
She was quick to comply and he admired how deft she was with a knife.
That she didn’t suggest that presentation was irrelevant had to be a good sign.
While the lobsters cooked, Spencer toasted the slices of bread on the stove and brought the water for the eggs to a boil. He had two plates already warming at the back of the stove, and had Olivia butter the toast. She also tossed the salad, mixing the spinach with the vinaigrette he’d already made.
“We’ll add that last, like a garnish, because we don’t want it to wilt in the heat.”
She nodded understanding as he cut the oranges in half.
“If you could juice these, that would be great.”
“Look at the color of them!” Olivia examined the fruit, taking an appreciative sniff. “These are so nice. I always seem to pick crummy ones.”
“Look at the skin when you shop,” Spencer said. “The pores are small on these and the skin is smooth. It’s a bit shiny, even. That means the interior is juicier than if the pulp is thick.”
Olivia blinked. “So, you can tell what the inside is like even before you cut them open?”
“Exactly. When the pulp is thicker, the skin looks more lumpy and it has bigger pores. You want this kind of smooth shiny skin on all citrus. It’s in season in the winter, so you have a better chance of getting good citrus at this time of year.”
“Unless it’s from the southern hemisphere.”
“True. But then it isn’t anywhere near local, and the shipping doesn’t do it any favors.”
Olivia juiced the oranges, filling the pitcher he’d provided with the juice. He’d put out two fluted glasses when he set the table in front of the fireplace and removed the bottle of prosecco from the cooler. The timer went and he put the lobsters in the sink in cold water to cool. They were bright red in color. He slipped the eggs into a pan of boiling water to poach.
“You’ve done that before,” Olivia noted.
“A few thousand times,” he admitted, then beckoned to her as he went to the sink.
“This would be the dissection bit,” Olivia said.
“Exactly.” The sink was wide enough for them to stand beside each other. Spencer could feel her warmth close beside him and knew he could easily get used to working together like this. He took one lobster in hand and twisted off the tail and claws with quick gestures. Olivia watched then did the same to hers. “Well done for a rookie,” he teased and she laughed. He showed her how to slit the tail and remove the meat, which he put aside. Then he cracked the claws, which were big and rosy, and arranged the pieces on the toast.
“That’s pretty,” Olivia acknowledged, then did the same with her lobster. She cut the intestinal veins out of the tails, and left that meat for later as Spencer instructed. She collected the waste in a bowl, definitely not squeamish, then washed her hands.
“Final approach now,” he warned her. “This is the sprint to the finish.”
She brushed her hands together. “I’m ready.”
He’d already whisked the egg yolks and took the pitcher and whisk in hand again. The eggs were seconds from being done. He handed her a small pot of melted butter from the stove. “Can you pour the butter in a thin steady stream while I beat the sauce?”
Olivia followed his instructions. “How do you do this alone?”
“I use an immersion blender.”
“I don’t see one.”
“It’s at the lodge.”
She laughed. “Good thing I’m here.”
“It is a good thing,” he said quietly and their gazes locked for a potent moment. He watched her swallow and drop her gaze and knew exactly what he wanted to do for the afternoon.
The hollandaise was perfect and the eggs were done. Spencer lifted each one from the water, placed it on a piece of toast, and brought the plates to the counter. He covered each egg with hollandaise, then arranged the salad beside it in a crescent, adding the slices of pear, walnuts and sprinkling of feta. A twist from the pepper mill and he was done. Olivia carried the plates to the table and sat down at his gesture.
“That’s really attractive,” she said, considering the plate in front of her with admiration.
“There’s an old German proverb that one eats also with the eyes.”
“I li
ke that.” She glanced around the room, the white snow against the windows, the fire blazing, then her gaze landed upon him. “A feast for the senses,” she said quietly, then smiled.
Spencer eased the cork from a bottle of prosecco, poured orange juice into fluted glasses, then added the prosecco. The mimosa sparkled and foamed as he offered her a glass.
Olivia lifted her glass. “Here’s to the first seductive meal.”
“Six more to go,” Spencer said, hoping that the snow kept on falling as he touched his glass to hers.
“Are we going to get lucky seven times, or only at the end?” Olivia asked, her eyes dancing.
“I vote for seven times.”
“Me, too.” They toasted each other and the room seemed much warmer than it had been before.
It was only as Spencer tasted the mimosa that he wondered why he was teaching Olivia how to cook seven meals guaranteed to get her laid when she was leaving for England as soon as possible.
With one bite, Liv knew that food would never be “just fuel” again.
She felt that if she looked in the dictionary under “decadent,” there’d be a picture of her brunch. The lobster was firm and sweet and still warm. The toast was thick and crunchy beneath it, and she was sure she’d never tasted butter that was so rich. The hollandaise sauce was divine and when she broke the yolk of the egg, that just made the combination better. The salad was a little tart in contrast, probably from the vinaigrette, and she liked the combination of pear, walnut, and a little cheese. The prosecco bubbled on her tongue, the fresh sweet taste of orange juice an ideal complement to its tartness.
She found herself closing her eyes to take her second bite and letting the flavors explode in her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring, knowing that Spencer had changed everything with one meal.
Had it been the coffee?
The cocoa?
The blindfold?
Either way, he’d been right—she knew there was no going back. Food would never be the same for her.
When she opened her eyes, Spencer was watching her, his eyes that intent blue. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”
“It’s what I do,” he said and took his own first bite. She watched how his gaze danced over his plate and knew he was assessing it more clinically that she had.
Snowbound Page 9
