“Coyotes.” Scott laughed. “Very funny, trying to scare the city boy.”
Phin shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Coyotes? It’s not like we’re in the mountains.”
He gave him a stern look. “There are coyotes out here, Mouse. I’ve had them get more than one chicken in my day. If you listen at twilight, you’ll hear them howling.”
Scott gaped at him. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
“There are really coyotes out here?”
Phin chuckled. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them. It’s the bears you gotta worry about.”
“Bears?”
Laughing harder, Phin slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding about the bears. There are black bears in Ohio, but not in these parts. Coyotes, on the other hand, I’ve shot plenty of ’em for getting too close to my chickens.” He closed the latch. “Not that a door keeps predators out. One time the chickens were going crazy, and I heard this deep, heavy breathing inside. Once I got up the nerve to peek through the door, I saw a great horned owl in there. Damn thing killed twelve of my chickens. I propped the door open, hoping he’d leave. When he finally left, I found a hole rotted by the eaves. He must’ve got in through that.”
“Are you serious?”
Phin gave him a bewildered look. “Yeah, why?”
Thoroughly enamored by all the odds stories Phin never seemed to run out of, Scott thought the guy should start a blog or better yet write a book. Or maybe Scott would write a book based on all Phin’s crazy stories.
Rather than saying any of that, he extended his hand. “I brought your jar back. And the lid pieces.”
A smile broke across his face and he held up his hands. “I’ll let you carry it up to the house. My hands are dirty.” He pointed at the flat lid. “Just an FYI, you can throw this part away. Only the ring and the jar are reusable.”
Scott nodded. “Note taken. Are you finished out here? ’Cause it kinda reeks. Thank God the wind doesn’t blow in my direction.”
Phin chuckled and waved his big arm for Scott to follow him to the house, showing off the small sweat stain under his arm. The dog sniffed the grass as she followed the familiar trail to the house. “You should rarely smell my coop because we mostly get west-to-east winds unless there’s some weird storm coming. And I keep my coop clean, every day. Healthy, happy birds make healthy, happy eggs and chickens.”
“Do you name them?”
“No, unless I wanted to call them Roasted, Deep-fried, or Sunday Supper.”
“You eat the chickens?”
“Some of them. I get two dozen broilers every spring. The rest of them lay eggs for me.”
He’d seen the chickens wandering around, and they were all brown and a few white ones. “How do you tell them apart?”
“The fat brown ones are Rhode Island Reds. Some of them are slowing down, though, so I got new pullets a couple months ago. That’s the white ones. They’re Sussex hens. They’re supposed to be good egg layers, but I mostly picked them because they were pretty.”
“I don’t know if I could eat my pets.”
“They’re not my pets. They’re my livestock, if you will. I give them a good life, and they give me a good life, right to the end. It’s the cycle of life. The broilers will be twelve weeks next month. Then it’s off to the butcher. That’ll give me all the chicken I need for the year.”
“They’re only twelve weeks old?”
“Yeah, they’re bred to grow fast. Most of those mass chicken farms pump out chickens every six weeks, and they’re packed in pens, half of them lame. No fresh air. Don’t get me started on how they slaughter them. It’s very inhumane. If you ask me, an animal with a happy, healthy life tastes better and is better for you. You’re actually eating all those fear hormones when you eat the chicken from places like that. You can’t tell me that’s good for you.”
Suddenly Scott regretted all the chicken nuggets he’d eaten in his lifetime.
“I give all my birds the best life they can have—organic corn, a yard to wander around and peck for worms,” Phin went on. “And when my egg layers start doing far more eating than laying, I retire them too.”
“Retire them? What do you mean? Do they go to another farm?”
Phin eyed him funny. “No, Mouse. I humanely retire them to my stewpot.”
“Oh.” Scott studied him for a moment. “Are you like what they call a homesteader?”
“Maybe a homesteader wannabe. I’ll be more self-sufficient when I get a couple milking goats.”
“Goats?” Scott repeated as they took the steps up onto his porch.
“Yeah.” Phin had a pleasant, faraway look in his eye. “I could make goat cheese, feta cheese, mozzarella. Have fresh milk. I buy raw goat milk for my cats”—he did air quotes—“from a friend of mine named Karen. She lives in town.”
“But you don’t have any cats.”
Phin chuckled, opened the back door, and gestured Scott in front of him. “No, I don’t. But technically it’s illegal to sell unpasteurized milk unless you’re buying it for your pets.”
“If it’s illegal to buy, doesn’t that mean it’s not good for you?”
“People have been drinking milk unpasteurized for centuries. Pasteurizing helps keep the milk safe for mass distribution. People don’t grow and raise their own food in this world, so processing food is needed to feed everyone. I prefer all my food as close to how God made it as I can get. Believe me, I know when my milk’s gone bad. It smells goaty.”
“Goaty?”
“When I get some, I’ll let you taste it, then you’ll understand.”
Scott raised his hands. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
While Phin washed up, then checked the oven, Scott took a good look at Phin’s eclectic kitchen. The odd combination of modern and old farmhouse suited Phin perfectly. White cupboards with doors made of vertical yellow oak slats and black wrought-iron handles. The countertop was a mixture of black marble and butcher block. Jars, stone crocks of cooking utensils, and bottles of olive oil and vinegar ran the length of the counter, along with a basket of fruit and small kitchen appliances. All the appliances were stainless steel, including the industrial-sized stove and hood. Mom watched enough HGTV, so he knew the giant ceramic sink was a farmhouse sink. In front of a big greenhouse window full of seedlings and herbs was an actual picnic table. Phin had set it for two with attractive blue dishes, white cloth napkins, and green Mason jars for glasses.
“Your kitchen is nice,” he said when he realized he was studying every detail of the room, committing it to memory as if somehow he would write a book one day with a kitchen like this. He set the empty jar on Phin’s island.
“It serves me well,” he said, but Scott could tell he was rather proud.
A plethora of pots, pans, and cooking utensils hung from a rack above the center island where dishes covered in foil emanated a rich, savory aroma. Scott’s mouth watered, and his stomach rumbled. “Smells good.”
“Thanks.” Phin picked up a piece of paper on the counter and handed it over. “This is Sheriff Bentley’s number.”
“Okay.” Scott took the paper and suppressed a shudder. As creepy as the phone call had been, he didn’t think the sheriff needed to get involved in his family drama. “I appreciate your concern, and if he leaves another message, I’ll call the sheriff.”
Those piercing blue eyes studied him, and Scott waited for Phin to lecture him or order him to call the sheriff. But Phin merely nodded. “Okay, but now you have the number if you decide you need it.”
Pleased not to be questioned or criticized, Scott placed the information in his back pocket. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Would you like a glass of wine? I have chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, or pinot grigio. No red, that gives me headaches.”
“I’m not much of a wine drinker. Whatever you think would go good with the food.�
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Phin looked at him as if assessing him, then said, “I think we will go with the Sauvignon. It’s the lightest, just in case you’re not a fan.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to say I didn’t like wine,” Scott quickly corrected, feeling like a bad houseguest. “I’m just not very familiar with it. I’ve had some I like and some I don’t. But I can’t tell you what they were.”
“Fair enough.” He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll sample all three.”
Scott didn’t have as high of a threshold for alcohol as it seemed Phin did. Though all the times Mom called Nancy an alcoholic lingered in the back of his mind, he didn’t want to label his host. Just because he got drunk thinking about a friend who died didn’t mean he was an alcoholic too.
Phin took the Mason jars from the picnic table and filled them halfway with white wine. Scott accepted his, and Phin raised the pint in a toast. “To new friends.”
“To new friends.” They clinked glasses, and he took a sip, surprised by the light fruity flavor. “This is good.”
“I’m glad you like.”
A timer went off, and Phin jumped midsip. He set his jar down and walked to the stove. Opening the oven, he clicked his tongue in approval. “Looks like she’s all done.” Using a pair of big red oven mitts, he removed the roasting pan from the oven and set it on the stovetop. He popped off the mitts and then stuck a meat thermometer into the bird. With the stove cracked, warm air filled the kitchen, the exhaust fan creating a gentle whir.
“Wow.” Scott came up beside him, inhaling the delicious aroma. “You’re quite the cook.” The roasted chicken was brown and crispy, surrounded by purple, orange, and white carrots and potatoes. Green sprigs of herbs decorated the top of the bird, making it look like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine.
They stood rather close, and if either of them shifted slightly, their arms and hips would brush. Of course, Scott didn’t do that, but his blood warmed a little bit thinking about it.
“You should wait to make that assessment after you taste it, Mouse.”
He tipped his head up to study the big bald man’s beautiful blue eyes, realizing his mental description was absurdly alliterative. Scott was muscled, but Phin was twice as wide and a good six inches taller than he was. Yet Scott didn’t feel intimidated by him at all. “You keep calling me Mouse.”
Phin’s expression fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Sometimes I nickname people… um, I didn’t mean—”
Scott placed a hand on his large hairy forearm, halting his protests. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Then his gaze fell as he admitted, “I kinda like it.”
When he glanced back up, the grin Phin wore went ear-to-ear. He cleared his throat rather adorably. “Um, okay. Let’s let the chicken rest, and we can eat in about fifteen minutes. First, I gotta feed the princess.”
Scott didn’t move or lower his hand, and Phin was forced to wiggle past him because of the limited space between stove and island. He tried not to smile, enjoying Phin’s discomfiture and the closeness. He sipped his wine while Phin walked over to a big fluffy dog bed in the corner where Sister Mary Katherine slept.
“You want your yummies?” he asked in a high-pitched voice that made Scott swoon harder. Though she was deaf, he still talked to her, which was totally adorable.
When he picked up the bowl, she clambered to her feet, her nub of a tail wagging.
“At least she still has her appetite,” Phin said with a hint of sadness.
“And chasing chickens.”
He chuckled and spooned a gravy-rice mixture onto dry dog food. “Yes, and chasing chickens. She definitely has moments where she reminds me of the rascal she used to be.”
The familiar sound of a door opening and the beep-beep of buttons startled Scott. It surprised him Phin had a microwave. It just seemed so out of place.
But didn’t everyone have a microwave?
“I have to doctor up her food, or she won’t eat it,” Phin explained. “She’s getting picky in her old age.”
Once Sister Mary Katherine was happily munching on her warmed, gravy-covered dinner, Phin washed his hands and smiled at Scott. “I made us an appetizer. Interested?”
Scott almost did swoon and say aww, but he managed to show a modicum of decorum. “That sounds lovely.”
Lovely? What are you British now?
On the other side of the island from the stove, Phin uncovered a tray of odd-shaped crackers around a brick of cream cheese covered in green sauce. “I don’t know if hot-pepper jelly and cream cheese go well with roasted chicken, but I made fresh crackers yesterday, and I thought it sounded good. Do you like spicy food?”
Scott shook his head, unsure if he heard him correctly. “You made crackers?”
“Sure,” he said as if it were the most normal thing in the world for anybody besides Rachael Ray or Gordon Ramsey. “There are so many toxic chemicals and preservatives in processed food. You can’t even trust bread labeled organic and healthy. So I make my own.”
“Really?”
Phin gestured to a glass bowl with batter in it. “That’s my sourdough. I make all my bread, crackers, pancakes, and english muffins out of it.”
“Isn’t sourdough a bread flavor, like rye or wheat?”
“It’s actually a fermented batter. That one’s been going for at least a hundred and fifty years.”
Scott gave the bowl a dubious expression. “How can it be that old? Wouldn’t it be moldy?”
Though Phin often chuckled at Scott, never once did it sound condescending. “No, it’s fermented.”
Scott raised his brows for elaboration.
“Fermenting food is a way many different cultures preserve food. Pickles, sauerkraut, kimchi, sourdough bread. And it’s good for you because it’s easy to digest. I drink kombucha every day too.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a fermented tea. Loosely translated, it means red mold tea.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Phin chuckled at his sarcasm. “Modern people don’t eat enough fermented foods, which is probably why we have so many digestive issues. Your grandma’s friend Betty got this sourdough from her great-great grandma who lived in Kentucky back in Civil War times. But it’s probably older than that, we just don’t know for sure.”
He must’ve read the incredulity in Scott’s widened eyes, because he quickly explained, “Basically, the day before I want to make baked goods, I add milk, sugar, and flour to it. It’s called feeding. The natural enzymes bubble up, giving it a sweet flavor. Then I use it as a base for all of my baked goods. Here.” He picked up the bowl and removed the lid, which made a popping sound like it had been full of air.
Always curious to learn new things—life was research for a writer—Scott inched closer. The bubbly batter smelled like yeasty dough.
Phin opened a drawer and removed a small wooden spoon. “See those bubbles? That’s the fermenting process.” He gave it a stir, wiped off most of it, then handed the spoon to Scott. “Go on,” he said when Scott hesitated. “Smell it and taste it.”
Deciding Phin probably wouldn’t poison a date, he smelled the batter. It had a sweet, almost hoppy aroma. “It smells like beer.”
“Beer’s fermented too.”
Scott took a tiny taste of it, surprised by the sweetness. “That’s kinda good.”
“This is what I used to make the loaf of bread I gave you.”
“And you made the crackers with this too?”
“Yep.” He closed up the bowl, then returned to the island and picked up a knife. He smeared a little cream cheese on one of his homemade crackers, getting some of the green sauce that was apparently jelly made from hot peppers. “Now I warn you, it’s got a little heat after the sweetness.”
Phin wasn’t kidding, the jelly packed a wallop. Scott let out a gasp.
“Too hot for you?”
“No,” Scott said after a moment. “Just took me by surprise. What kinda hot peppers are in it?”
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bsp; Phin prepared a cracker for himself and popped it in his mouth. “I don’t remember. A couple years ago I went a little crazy with peppers in my garden. I’d canned, froze, and pickled more than enough for ten people for three years, but I still had a ton left in October.” He pointed at the sink. “They filled that sink to the top. I could barely breathe from the fumes. Had to wear a mask.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, and gloves too. I had serranos, cayennes, chilies, poblanos, jalapeños, you name it. After I made some hot sauce, I boiled the rest up, ran them through the food mill and added a ton of sugar until it set.”
“Is that all that’s in jelly?” He took another cracker.
“Sometimes you have to add pectin. You can make your own out of lemon pith or apples, but I’m too lazy for that. I buy mine.”
“You are hardly lazy,” Scott scoffed. “You made crackers, for crying out loud.”
Phin shrugged his big shoulders and ate another cracker. After they’d each eaten four, he said, “It’s kinda addictive, right?”
Scott nodded, mouth full.
“I don’t make this unless I have company. Because I can kill this whole thing by myself.” Phin patted his belly. “The Good Lord knows I don’t need any extra calories.”
Far too accustomed to his friends talking about being fat when they wore size thirty-two jeans, Scott stopped himself from offering the half-assed habitual compliment his friends sought. With his obviously rounded middle, Phin was by no means a small man, but he wasn’t awkward in his body. In fact, his quiet confidence made that burly body incredibly sexy. Scott wouldn’t mind seeing it again. But this time naked and his for the taking.
You’re hopeless!
He looked at Phin and very honestly said, “You can eat whatever you want. You look amazing.”
Grinning, Phin slathered another cracker and ate it. “Come on, let’s have dinner.”
Chapter Ten
PHIN WAS a phenomenal cook. Scott enjoyed purple carrots and purple potatoes for the first time. The white carrots were actually parsnips, and he kinda liked those too. Then fresh bread with butter, and peas in an herbed butter sauce. And the chicken? Delicious! He tried not to think about how the main course had wandered around the property last summer as he enjoyed it, though.
The Rhubarb Patch Page 8
