by Dana Bate
As I sit at Natasha’s kitchen table, I think through last night’s meal. The Cornish hens were filled with a fragrant stuffing that seemed to be laced with mushrooms, celery, and . . . was it sage? I think so. And the bread. It was rich and eggy, like a challah or brioche. The skin on each of the birds was crisp and salty, with pops of . . . garlic, I think. And paprika. The sweet kind, not the spicy one. But how did she get the skin so crispy? And did she brine the birds at all? Did her grandmother have a special trick for getting the meat so juicy? All of this would be a lot simpler if Natasha would bother to answer any of my questions, instead of talking to some stylist on her cell phone while she paces around her garden.
Rather than wait for her to make herself available, I decide to set off for the grocery store. I let myself out the front door and, using the GPS on my phone, navigate the winding streets of Belsize Park to an ATM, where I withdraw a hundred pounds using the card Natasha gave me. From there, I set out for Barrett’s Butchers on England’s Lane. The neighborhood is a mix of colors and architectural styles—white stucco mansions, Victorian redbrick town houses, squat apartment buildings made of dull gray brick. Almost every block contains one house, if not two or three, whose face is saddled with metal scaffolding and bright blue tarpaulins. I can only imagine what Natasha’s house looked like a year ago. Poppy mentioned that contractors only recently finished what was a two-year renovation.
I pop into Barrett’s, ducking beneath the bright-red awning into the tiny shop, which is packed with fresh cuts of everything, from delicate lamb chops to meaty pork roasts covered in thick layers of fat. Mountains of fat sausages beckon from within the glass case, in more varieties than I could ever imagine—wild boar and apple, venison, chicken and sage, beef and garlic. A musty funk fills the store, giving the place an air of rustic authenticity.
I order three Cornish hens (or, as the British call them, poussin) and then head back toward Pomona, the small food shop I visited this morning, remembering the fresh, crusty loaves of bread on their shelves. I grab a loaf of challah, its braided crust shiny and golden brown, along with some celery, an onion, some mushrooms, and a few spices. Before I pay, I also throw a bunch of speckled bananas, a pot of Greek yogurt, and some flour and sugar into my basket. The ingredients are slightly different here than they are back home—“self-raising flour,” “caster sugar”—but I’m sure I can re-create the banana bread I developed for a famous morning-show host back in Chicago. It’s one of my most popular recipes to date, and I’m sure it would taste great with a cup of tea.
When I get back to Natasha’s house, Olga buzzes me through the front gate and grimaces as she eyes my shopping bags.
“Natasha say I do shopping for house.”
I shrug apologetically. “I don’t mind. Natasha gave me an ATM card. Sometimes it’s actually easier to go myself.”
“Then you clean after, too, yes? Is easier.”
She purses her lips as I walk through the front door, where I run into Poppy, who is scanning through e-mails on her phone.
“Oh. Hello.” She raises an eyebrow as her eyes land on my bags. “You used the Barclay’s account, correct?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
I make for the stairway. “Is Natasha around? I have a few questions about the recipe I’m working on today.”
“No, she’s at Celine.”
“Celine . . . ?”
Poppy stares at me, apparently appalled. “The designer?”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never heard of this designer before. When I was a kid, we mostly shopped at Kmart and Sears, so “designer” wasn’t really a part of my vocabulary.
“She’s getting fitted for a charity event she’s attending later this month,” Poppy says. “The dress her stylist originally selected was a total disaster, so we’re hoping this one is acceptable. The incompetence Natasha has to put up with—you have no idea.”
I think back to my childhood. The time my mom forgot to pick me up in kindergarten, and I had to walk home by myself, only to find her passed out on the couch in front of General Hospital. The time she sent me to school on Halloween dressed in a trash bag because she’d forgotten to buy me a costume and said I should tell everyone I was “white trash,” which I did and then got sent to the principal’s office. The time I found my twelve-year-old brother high and reeking of pot, while my parents watched Judge Judy in the family room. Incompetence? Yeah, I know a little about that.
But I don’t share any of that with Poppy because she wouldn’t be interested, and even if she were, she’d never understand. Instead, I simply say, “Wow. I can only imagine.”
Here is what I can piece together of Natasha’s day so far:
7–9 a.m. Exercises with trainer
9–10:43 a.m. Takes stunningly long time to shower, dress, do hair and makeup
10:43–11:43 a.m. Discusses cookbook with me
11:43–12 p.m. Complains to stylist on the phone
12–12:45 p.m. Goes for fitting at Celine
1:00–4:00 p.m. Spends three hours (!!!!!) getting a massage and facial
And that’s all I have so far.
Meanwhile, here is what my day has looked like:
7–8 a.m. Wake up, take cold shower, reply to e-mails from editors and agents about previous projects, make pot of tea that ends up burning my tongue
8:15–9 a.m. Have weird interaction with Tom, the building manager, about my cold shower, head for the tube, make my way to Natasha’s via Pomona
9–10:43 a.m. Wait for Natasha, sketch out ideas for cookbook, draw doodle of cat with antlers
10:43–11:43 a.m. Discuss cookbook with Natasha
11:43–1:00 Shop for ingredients, draw up blueprint for Cornish Hen Attempt #1, set out eggs for banana bread
1:00–3:00 p.m. Navigate Natasha’s kitchen, cut my finger with her chef’s knife, bleed all over her marble counter (and onto her alligator-skin floor, and onto my pants), wrap my finger with a paper towel and rubber band (which lasts only five minutes until I bleed through the towel and Olga gets me a bandage from upstairs), set a tea towel on fire as I attempt to light her La Cornue range, extinguish fire, finish preparing the stuffing, stuff the Cornish hens, lift massive roasting pan into oven, realize I have sweat through my shirt, consider making myself a gin and tonic, don’t.
And that’s pretty much where I am at the moment.
Around four o’clock, the timer goes off and I remove the roasting pan from the oven. The hen’s skin crackles as I lay the pan on a trivet, the rich smell of mushrooms and sage filling the air. The scent is even more intoxicating than the one I remember from last night, but I know better than to think I’ve mastered a recipe on the first try. Even if it tastes perfect to me, I need to call upon my recipe tester friends from home to see if they—and I—can repeat the recipe as I’ve written it. If not? Back to the drawing board.
I let the pan cool briefly, and then I transfer one of the hens to a plate and slice into a piece of the breast meat.
Heaven.
The meat is tender and juicy, perfumed with garlic and paprika and a hint of sage from the stuffing. It could use a bit more salt, so I’ll have to try it again with that adjustment, and the stuffing could be a bit tighter (An egg, maybe? Less butter?). But otherwise, I think I’ve almost nailed it. I hope the rest of the recipe testing goes this smoothly. If it does, I’ll finish this book faster than expected.
I tidy up the remaining mess around the kitchen, leaving the pan of hens at the far end of the island for Natasha to try later. Then I grab the butter and flour and start on the banana bread, a recipe I’ve made so many times I know it by heart. I’ve made numerous variations over the years—sometimes adding chocolate chips and crystallized ginger, at others drizzling a lime-coconut glaze over the top—but no matter what tweaks I make, licking the streaks of golden batter left in the bowl is pretty much mandatory.
Once I’ve poured the batter into the pan and stuck it in
the oven, I finish cleaning up the kitchen, dusting the bits of flour off the counter and washing the bowls and spatulas. The caramel-laced scent of banana bread wafts across the kitchen, filling the room with its sweet perfume. If I had to draw up a list of the best baking smells in the world, banana bread would, without question, rank in the top five. Possibly the top two. I’m not sure why its smell is so intoxicating, but one whiff and I’m ready to attack that baking pan like a cheetah on a fresh kill.
While the banana bread bakes, I creep along the hallway toward the stairway, hoping to hear some indication that Natasha has returned from her facial. The only sound I hear is Olga vacuuming the front hall. I linger for a few minutes, checking my phone and sending off a quick e-mail to Meg, when I hear the clickety-clack of Natasha’s heels coming down the marble staircase.
“How did the testing go today?” she asks, her formerly made-up face now bare and dewy, swathed in some sort of shiny serum. She wears a leopard-print bomber jacket over her black top and carries a purse the size of my torso over her shoulder.
“Pretty well, actually. I think I got really close on the Cornish hen recipe. They’ve been cooling in the kitchen—I’d love to hear what you think.”
Natasha brushes past me and marches toward the kitchen, but comes to an abrupt halt as soon as she walks through the doorway. She whirls around, her eyes wild.
“What is that smell?”
“What smell?” I sniff the air. “You mean the banana bread?”
The timer starts beeping manically on the counter, so I rush across the room, grab two potholders, and pull the domed, golden loaf from the oven, placing it on a trivet beside the stove.
Natasha’s eyes widen as they land on the craggy, caramelized top of the bread. “You made banana bread? Why would you do that?”
My cheeks flush. “Because . . . you told me to?”
“When?”
“This morning. You asked me to make a loaf of something sweet to go with tea.”
She stares at me icily, her green eyes filled with contempt. I am so confused.
“I did not say to make banana bread,” she says.
I think back to this morning’s events and replay them in my mind. Did I misinterpret something she said? No, I am absolutely certain she asked me to bake a loaf of something sweet. Why else would I have bothered? She didn’t say banana bread specifically, but seriously—who doesn’t like banana bread?
“You asked me to bake something,” I say. “Right before you went outside to take your call.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No . . . I . . . of course not.”
She narrows her eyes further. “Good.” She purses her lips and waits for me to say something more, but when I don’t, she looks away. “Get it out of my sight.”
She yanks open the refrigerator and pulls out a plastic bottle of ginger beet juice.
“Okay . . . but . . . do you want me to give it to Mr. Ballantine? Or should I take it home?”
She takes a swig of juice and twists the cap back on the bottle. “You can sell it on the street for all I care. Just take it away.”
She starts to stomp out of the kitchen, but I call after her. “What about the Cornish hens?”
She pauses just shy of the doorway and whirls around. “What about them?”
“Aren’t you going to taste them?”
Natasha’s eyes flit toward the roasting pan sitting on the kitchen island. She shrugs. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
Then she walks out.
“What the eff?” I mutter to myself, staring at the banana bread.
“I heard that,” she calls from the stairway.
“Sorry!” I shout, my face burning up. Oh, God. I’m a dead woman.
“I bet you are,” Natasha says, her voice echoing down the hall.
“Just get back to work. And whatever you do, get that smell out of my house.”
CHAPTER 9
Okay. So Natasha is kind of crazy.
Who freaks out over a loaf of banana bread? It’s not as if I’d fried ten pounds of oily fish or smeared her kitchen in blue cheese. What happens when I sauté garlic or hard boil eggs? Should I expect a nervous breakdown? Will a potato gratin induce a psychotic episode?
With my first week in London already off to a rocky start, I spend the weekend getting to know my new neighborhood, hoping to find the silver lining to my temporary expatriation. I grab an almond croissant and tea from the café across the street, stroll through Regent’s Park, pop into a few shops on Great Portland Street, and explore the restaurants and stores along Marylebone High Street. On Sunday, I discover a bustling farmers’ market in a big parking lot tucked behind Marylebone High Street, where vendors sell everything from fresh milk and cheese to crusty loaves of bread and thick cuts of beef and lamb.
That afternoon, after buying a dozen fresh eggs and a loaf of seven-grain levain, I sit in front of my laptop for a video chat with Meg. She’d begged me to call her as soon as I’d met Natasha for the first time, but I was jetlagged and she was busy, so we decided to wait until the weekend. Knowing Meg, she has been sitting in front of her computer for at least thirty minutes, hoping I might log on early.
As expected, as soon as I power on my computer, Meg’s name pops up, inviting me for a chat. When I accept her call, her cherubic face appears on my screen, her chin-length auburn hair full of kinks and waves, as if she slept on it funny and didn’t bother to fix it.
“Oh my God, tell me everything,” she says, leaning dramatically toward the screen, the freckles on her cheeks and nose blurring out of focus.
“You know I can’t do that. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Puh-lease. Who am I going to tell? Other than my cat.”
“You work in news.”
“Public radio. I cover real news, not Hollywood news. And anyway, I am your best friend—you know I’d never say a word.”
“I know. . . .”
I hesitate, not because I don’t trust Meg—I do, with every ounce of my being—but because once I start telling her things, I won’t be able to stop. I’ve always trusted her with my deepest secrets, the ones I wouldn’t tell anyone else. It’s been that way as long as I can remember, ever since she brought me home to meet her family in third grade. They lived in a house like mine: a brick ranch with white aluminum siding and black shutters, with three bedrooms and two baths, all crammed into about 1500 square feet.
But unlike mine, where knotty weeds poked through the cracked and crumbling driveway and shrubs grew wild and tangled over the front windows, Meg’s house was neat and tidy. The lawn was mowed, the bushes were pruned, and her driveway looked as if the asphalt had been poured that day.
We played in her room, the walls of which were plastered with posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Macaulay Culkin, and after a few hours, her mom knocked on her door.
“Kelly, sweetheart, what time did you say your mom was picking you up?”
I felt my cheeks flush as I realized it was already much later than whatever time I’d said.
“Oh . . . um . . .”
“I decided I wanted to walk Kelly home,” Meg said, jumping in. “So we could play longer.”
Her mom looked at us skeptically. “And your mom is okay with that?”
“Yeah, we called her,” Meg said. “She said it was fine.”
None of that was true, but Meg had been to my house a few times, and though both of us were too young to explain my mom’s weirdness, we both knew it wasn’t normal for a grown woman to be in a bathrobe at four in the afternoon. Meg knew her mom would think so, too, and even though she couldn’t pinpoint why my mom’s behavior wasn’t quite right, she could sense it was something I didn’t want everyone to know about. I didn’t have to tell her. She just knew.
On the walk home, I thanked her for making up an excuse.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Friends don’t tell each other’s secret stuff.”
And she never has—not the
n, not ever.
“Come on, tell me!” Meg says, pressing her hands together and leaning even closer to the screen. “What is Natasha like? Preposterously gorgeous?”
I relent. “Yeah, she really is.”
“Of course she is. She’s Natasha Spencer.” Meg wiggles in her chair. “What else? Is she short? Tall? Thin? Funny?”
“She’s shorter than I expected. And very, very thin.”
Meg shrugs. “Of course.”
“She’s also crazy.”
“Really? How crazy? Like, owning a diamond-encrusted spatula crazy? Or calling doughnuts ‘the Devil’s vittles’ crazy?”
I replay my interactions with Natasha in my mind. “I think she straddles a pretty broad spectrum.”
A mischievous smirk spreads across Meg’s face. “Excellent.”
“Not if you’ve been hired to work for her. She nearly had a panic attack Friday when I took a loaf of banana bread out of her oven.”
“Wait, you were baking in her kitchen?”
“That’s where I’m supposed to do all of the testing. Although I’m not really sure how that’s going to work if she has a meltdown every time I bake something.”
“Well, banana bread is kind of at the extreme end of the spectrum. It’s olfactory kryptonite. The smell is the enemy of diets everywhere.”
“True. Which begs the question, why did I bother making it in the first place?”
“Well, why did you?”
“Because she asked me to. Not banana bread specifically, but ‘a loaf of something sweet.’ ”
“And then she freaked out about it?”
“Yes.”
Meg snickers. “Wow.”
“Right.”
“So what did you do with it, once it came out of the oven? Please don’t tell me you threw it away. Your banana bread is like crack.”
“I didn’t throw it away. She’d asked me to bake it for her husband to have with tea, so I left it for him in his office.”
“Amazing. Have you met him yet? The husband.”
“Yeah, I met him Thursday night, when they had me over for dinner.”
