Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,52
in one trip. My skill—some may say pigheadedness—in trying to get everything in one trip being utilized to the hilt. I fumble with my key card, shifting and sliding canvas bags filled with fixings on an elbow here, cutting off circulation in a bended-back index finger there, and finally the door unlocks. I push open the kitchen door. The silence hits me immediately.
This is my first very own kitchen. I get to run it as I see fit. I let that sink in as I arrange my ingredients in stations. I walk freely around the space, breathing easy and getting more and more excited. I have nine hungry men to cook for tonight and I’ve never been more ecstatic. These are Texas men, all except Hudson, and this meal will . . . well, it’ll be great. A smile cracks across my face and I feel light and happy. What does it say about me that I’ve never felt more at home than in this particular kitchen? I shake that off. I get to be happy. No more judgments. Whatever this kitchen is, it’s mine and mine alone.
I walk out into the hallway, past the unmarked door of horrors, and find the guards at their desks. I see Shawn and walk toward him.
“You ready for the Dent boys?” Shawn asks, standing.
“Yes, that’d be great,” I say.
“You going to tell us what you’re cooking?” Big Jim asks, coming out from behind his desk.
“Where would the fun be in that?” I ask, with a smile. Big Jim laughs—it’s a great big belly laugh that cuts the room open, easing tension and sweeping away the eggshells on the floor.
“I’ll call for the Dents,” Shawn says.
“I’ll just wait in the kitchen?” I ask, motioning to the door.
“That’ll be just fine,” Shawn says, a tired smile curling across his face.
I walk back to the kitchen and set up where the Dents will be. I imagine Harlan will act as an assistant, while Cody will take on more of a sous-chef role, cutting and preparing. It won’t be limes and maraschino cherries just yet, but maybe we’ll get there. I search cabinets and pull out pots and pans, getting ready for a full day of cooking. And we’re going to need every minute. I hear the kitchen door click and open.
“Here you go, ma’am,” Jace says, presenting me with my kitchen staff, which consists of convicts.
“Thank you,” I say with a tentative smile.
“I’m going to be with you in here today, if that’s okay,” Jace says, pulling up a chair by the door.
“Fine by me,” I say, not liking the cut of his jib one bit.
“Mind yourselves, boys,” Jace says as the Dents step forward.
“Okay, we have a lot to do,” I say, pulling out the menu I scrawled late last night. The Dents pull in close, Cody leans across the counter and studies the menu. I continue, “I smoked a brisket last night, took all night, but it’s worth it. We’ll put it in the oven thirty minutes before to heat it up and then carve it just before we all sit down,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am,” Harlan says.
“And I think to get our bearings in here, I’d prefer it if you call me Chef. Clear?” I ask, my voice strong. The Dents nod. I continue, “I want to do ranch beans, a slaw, and we’ll finish with a peach cobbler,” I say. The Dents are quiet.
“My mouth is watering from over here, Chef,” Jace says, leaning his chair back against the wall. He hits the word “chef” with just enough derision to let me know he thinks it’s ridiculous. Those in male-stripper-name glass houses, Jace, should not throw stones.
“Wait till you taste it,” I say, not looking up. Jace takes his Statesman newspaper and flips to the sports section.
“Cody, I want you to step in as what’s called a sous-chef. It just means that you will cut and prepare all the food for Harlan and me to cook up. Does that make sense?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Chef. Remember. And I’ll walk you through how I like things done,” I say.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Harlan, I have a very particular way of doing things and I know you’re actually a better cook than you let on,” I say. Harlan’s face flushes just a bit. I continue, “So I’m going to ask you to do the hardest thing a chef is ever asked to do. I want you to cook more like me and less like you,” I say.