What's Cooking

Copyright

ISBN 1-59310-575-4

Copyright © 2005 by Gail Sattler. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. Niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

One

“What are you trying to do, poison me?”

Mitchell Farris watched as Jake covered his mouth with his hand, ran across the room, and leaned over the sink. Jake spat, turned the tap on full blast, filled a large glass with water, rinsed his mouth, then spat again.

“Come on, Jake, you're my best friend.”

“With friends like you, who needs enemies?” Jake sputtered, standing over the sink with his head bowed, still gasping.

Mitchell tried not to look hurt. “I did my best.”

Jake straightened and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What was that supposed to be?”

Mitchell skimmed his finger down the page of the cookbook on the counter. “Crab snaps.”

All the color drained from Jake's face. “You fed me diseased seafood. I'm going to die of salmonella poisoning, and it will be all your fault!”

“I don't think you can get salmonella from seafood. And it wasn't that bad.” At least he hoped it wasn't that bad.

“Did you try it?”

“Well, no. . .”

“Since you're soon going to be my brother-in-law, I'm going to save your life. Don't touch them. And don't give any to the dog, either, unless she has a horrible disease and you want to put her out of her misery.”

Mitchell didn't find Jake's comments very amusing.

“Whatever possessed you to try this?” Jake waved his arm to encompass the array of dirty bowls and utensils scattered over every flat surface of the small kitchen.

“Ellen said I couldn't do it.”

“Ellen was right.”

Mitchell snorted. “Ellen and Mom and I were talking about the rehearsal party and what it's going to cost to have everything catered since Mom can't do very much with her arm in a cast. So I said I would do the cooking.”

“We've been roommates for four years, Mitch, and I've seen the extent of your cooking talents. I'm not having hot dogs at my wedding rehearsal.”

“I know. That's why I'm making these, uh. . .” Mitchell checked the cookbook one more time. “Crab snaps.”

“I changed my mind. Take your life in your hands. Try one.” Jake extended his arm toward the soggy blobs, still in neat rows on the cookie sheet. “Sorry, Mitch. I know how you cook. There is no way you can ever make these edible, much less in seven weeks.”

“It's too late. I said I'd do it. My personal honor is at stake.”

Jake disappeared into the living room and returned with the community newspaper. “If you're really going to insist on doing this, you should take a night class.”

“Night school? Me?”

Jake nodded and opened the newspaper about two-thirds of the way through. “Look. Here's one. Creative Cooking for Entertaining. It's an eight-week course, and it starts in an hour. I'll bet you could still make it if you phone right away.”

Mitchell glanced up at the clock, then the calendar. The session ended after Jake and Ellen's wedding, but he figured he could learn enough to do what he needed for the rehearsal. He'd made a promise, but he certainly didn't want to poison the wedding party. They were his friends, too.

“I'll do it. What's the number?”

❧

Mitchell arrived at the classroom door with one minute to spare. As he entered, the teacher raised her eyebrows at the sight of him, smiled a polite greeting, and shuffled a piece of paper on the table in front of her.

He scanned the room, looking for an empty chair.

A group of young girls who looked like they'd just graduated from high school filled the back area, about a dozen fortyish ladies filled the rest of the room, and center front, an elderly lady sat primly with her hands folded in her lap.

There was no one there his own age, and he was the only man present.

The last empty chair was in the very center of the classroom. Trying to act casual, he aimed himself for it and smiled at everyone as those in his path pulled up their knees to allow him access. He slid into the seat. Because he was a head taller than everyone around him, he slouched and leaned back, rested one ankle on the opposite knee, and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible.

The teacher frowned and ran her finger along a paper in front of her. “Excuse me, but I think you're in the wrong class.”

Mitchell smiled. “I'm in the right class. I just signed up, and they said I wouldn't appear on your list. My name is Mitchell Farris. Stella at the office told me to tell you she'd fax a new list in the morning. I promise I'll be on it.” He waited for a response, but she only stared back at him. “Stella gave me a registration number,” he said.

The teacher blushed and scribbled something on the paper. The group of young ladies in the back row giggled.

“That's fine.” The teacher checked her watch. “I think it's time we started. My name is Carolyn Rutherford, and I'm the home economics teacher here at Central High. This class is Creative Cooking for Entertaining.” She paused for a few seconds and scanned the room, making brief eye contact with everyone except him. “Your original teacher, Edith Ramsey, had to go out of town for urgent family business, so I agreed to take her place. Today, we're going to prepare a few fancy finger foods, favorites at any gathering, casual or formal. We'll start with something basic so I can see the skill levels of everyone here. Let's get started.”

Mitchell couldn't believe he was doing this. Jake had railroaded him into signing up so fast it hadn't occurred to him that only women would take such a class. And now that he was here, he didn't want to look like a coward and walk out.

The teacher donned her apron, opened her cookbook, and started explaining what she called “basics.” She explained to everyone about putting the beaters in the freezer for a few minutes before whipping the cream, but he really didn't need to know why, only that he was supposed to do it. Instead of studying her food processor and all its wonderful features, he studied the teacher.

He guessed Carolyn Rutherford was a bit older than he was, probably in her late twenties. She was a little heavier than most of the women he went out with—not fat, but not skinny, which was probably a good testimony to her cooking skills. He pegged her height at just barely over the five-foot mark, nearly a foot shorter than he was.

She held up some other strange contraption, but instead of looking at the device, he looked at her hands. She had tiny hands, short little fingers, and no rings. Of course, she might have taken them off because she was teaching a cooking class, but he filed the information in the back of his mind.

She wasn't a classic beauty, but she had a cute little nose and pouty, cherub lips with a very attractive smile. Her glasses only seemed to make her face more delicate, and he smiled every time she pushed them up the bridge of her nose with her index finger and kept talking without missing a beat. She spoke slowly enough to be understood, but not so slowly that she seemed to be talking down to her students. Her cheery voice made him wonder what she sounded like when she laughed.

Her fluffy hair framed her face nicely, and even though he couldn't decide what color it was, he liked it. It was a very unique shade of brown—dark, not on the black side, but not red, either. Her eyes were brown, but he wasn't close enough to tell what exact shade.

Since she appeared to be almost finished with her demonstration, Mitchell thought it best to actually pay attention to what she was doing because soon she would be starting to cook. A glint of gold around her neck caught his attention. He squinted and was able to make out a delicate gold cross on a chain around her throat. He wondered if she was a Christian, if she attended church regularly, and how he could find out.

Before he could give it any more thought, she smiled and looked right at him. “And that about covers the basics. Now I'll show you today's creations, which are stuffed mushroom caps and hot tenderloin canapés on pumpernickel with blue cheese.”

Before he knew it, she'd mashed a bunch of stuff together in a bowl, whipped it up, and stuffed it into a bag. Next, she squeezed it out in little patterns into the tops of the upside-down mushrooms. He didn't like mushrooms, but it looked so pretty, he thought he just might try one.

Then she mixed up another batch of ingredients, put a plop of the white stuff on a morsel of bread, then stuck a hunk of meat on top of each.

“Now it's your turn. I'll divide you into groups of four, assign each group to a kitchen unit, and you can all do this yourself, following the instruction sheets I've passed out.”

Mitchell smiled and stood. This was going to be easy.

❧

Carolyn fought to control a bad case of nerves. Men usually enrolled in the more basic class, Home Economics for Adults, because it was more suited to people with limited kitchen skills. The presence of a man in the more complicated course meant he was an accomplished cook, and rather than simply learning to make decent daily meals, specialty cooking was a personal interest.

She'd already noticed that Mitchell wasn't really paying attention when she ran through her basic spiel prior to her demonstration of their projects for the day.

Carolyn divided everyone into five groups of four, the last team being Sarah, one of the younger ladies; Lorraine, one of the over-forty crowd; the elderly Mrs. Finkleman, who didn't appear to have a first name; and Mitchell Farris.

She directed the last group to the kitchenette in the back and gave everyone a brief explanation of the setup. Before she returned to the first group, she turned to Mitchell. As they made eye contact, he smiled brightly.

Carolyn's breath caught in her throat. One dimple appeared with his lopsided smile, and his green eyes sparkled with humor. His light brown hair, shorter on the sides and gelled on top to hold it in place, set off his straight nose and highlighted his masculine features, making him more handsome than any man had a right to be. He towered above her, and she estimated his age to be about twenty-seven.

“I'll be back later to check on your progress,” she mumbled and hustled away.

Spending time with each group, Carolyn answered questions and made sure everyone took a turn in the preparation of the mushroom filling. By the time she returned to the last group, she had to struggle to quell her nervousness. She expected this group would need little interaction and instruction from her, as Mitchell would be able to help them.

As she joined them, the group was preparing to squeeze the filling into the mushroom caps. Mrs. Finkleman had applied the star-shaped decorating tip and was busily stuffing the mixture into the bag.

Carolyn put on her best teacher smile to hide her jitters. “Why don't we give Mr. Farris the honor of filling the first mushroom cap?”

He flinched, then made direct eye contact. “Please call me Mitchell. Mr. Farris is my father.”

His gorgeous smile almost made her knees wobble. Carolyn forced herself to smile. “Mitchell, would you like to do the honors?”

He took the bag and positioned it in the strangest way she had ever seen, with the tip touching the mushroom. Anxious to see his method, she leaned closer.

When he gave it a small squeeze, nothing came out, so Carolyn had to assume he was testing the viscosity of the mixture, which probably wasn't a bad idea. She wished she could have made notes.

He stopped all motion and raised his head, then stared straight into her face. “I'm not very good at this,” he mumbled.

His modesty impressed Carolyn. “It's okay,” she muttered, smiling in anticipation, waiting. “Take your time. I'm interested in your technique.”

With a small shrug of his shoulders, he squeezed the bag of filling once more, but still nothing came out. Carolyn let her smile drop.

Again, he squeezed it a little harder, but still not using sufficient pressure to start the flow through the designing tip. Carolyn wondered if there was something wrong with the filling.

As discreetly as possible, she checked the bowl containing the mixture that had not fit inside the bag. It appeared to be the right consistency and texture, so she focused her attention back to Mitchell as he gave the bag a small shake, then held it farther away from the mushroom.

He squeezed harder, then gave an abrupt sigh when nothing came out. A quick glance told her the other groups were already half through pressing swirls of filling onto the neatly laid mushroom caps.

Mitchell mumbled something under his breath and squeezed again, much harder this time.

A stream of filling spewed out of the bag. Some of it hit the mushroom, propelling it to the end of the baking sheet and over the edge. The errant mushroom cap continued its trajectory and disappeared off the end of the counter. A long trail of filling zigzagged all over the baking sheet and countertop. With the sudden change in the thickness of the center of the bag, Mitchell lost control and fumbled as he tried to catch it, unsuccessfully. It landed on the counter with a plop, splattering the contents from the open end in a three-foot radius, most of which landed on Carolyn's sleeve.

Sarah and Lorraine stood with their eyes wide and mouths gaping while Mrs. Finkleman lowered her head and stared at her feet. Mitchell stood motionless, staring at his hands, which were covered with the gray mixture. He rubbed his thumb and index finger together, feeling the texture of it, shuddered, and then stuck one finger in his mouth to suck it off.

“I told you I wasn't very good at this,” he mumbled.

Carolyn hadn't seen even a high school student's attempts meet with such disastrous results. While she had to pay attention to each group, she had spent more time than she should have watching Mitchell's group's progress. He hadn't done anything in the preparation but had watched the women do all the chopping and mixing. At first she thought it was because he'd done it so often he was letting the novices learn. Now she wasn't so sure.