Read Online Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) by Giuliana Sica - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Giuliana Sica
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his.
“Thank you and good morning,” I greeted everybody, accepting the seat.
Frank sat at the head of the table opposite Beverly and nodded at me. Ronnald and Luke smiled as they simultaneously handed me serving platters of fluffy scrambled eggs laced with chives and wild mushrooms, grilled lamb chops with mint sauce, roasted new potatoes with rosemary and sage, and the breadbaskets.
Nicolas poured me a cup of steaming coffee, pushed away the Vegemite jar, and almost miraculously handed me cream and sugar.
Beverly quietly nurtured a steaming tea mug, her arms propped on her chair armrests, her rust-colored cashmere sweater only a shade darker than her cheerful freckles. “I trust you slept well, my dear?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes, I slept great, thank you,” I replied, helping myself to some of the eggs and spearing a lamb chop with the serving fork.
“How was your trip?” Frank asked, waving an empty mug under Nicolas’s nose. Biting into an oversized, generously buttered slice of rye bread, the cheerful kid promptly refilled it for his father with both hands.
“Long, but I was able to sleep for quite a while. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, we have a long day ahead of us. If you’ll excuse us, Porzia—I reckon if you need anything, Beverly will be able to assist you. Also, you’re welcome to join us down in the cellar for a private sampling later on, if you’d like.” He stood as I nodded, taking his mug with him. The boys followed, saying good-bye. Nicolas winked and grabbed one last lamb chop on his way out.
Beverly watched them leave in pensive silence.
I tasted the food. The eggs were excellent. It might not seem like such a difficulty but to make good scrambled eggs actually takes a measure of skill. It took me ages to finally manage a decent outcome and Benedetta still makes better ones, although that’s all she can cook. One can’t hurry the cooking or over-beat the eggs. I know several chefs who actually separate the yolks from the egg whites. They then beat the whites into soft peaks and fold in the yolks after slightly whisking them with some whole milk, salt, and freshly ground white pepper. The result is a heavenly explosion of lightness in the mouth.
The sunflower seed bread tasted great with the fantastic eggs. It stood on its own with no need for butter. I had just about wiped my plate clean before I even reached for my mug to sip some coffee. Yes! Strong and sweet.
Beverly poured herself more tea, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. “It’s indeed a pleasure to see you again, Porzia,” she said, raising her cup to her lips where it steamed up her galaxy of freckles. “You’ve been making quite a name for yourself in the gourmet world and international wine circles. I have been following your articles, and I know it was quite a challenge to book you for this event, but I wouldn’t want anybody else to have the exclusive coverage of the presentation. We’re delighted to have Desmond Tanier as the photographer. You probably remember him from Barossa. He’ll be arriving later tonight. Driving from Melbourne, he is.” Beverly chuckled at her own last remark.
Desmond Tanier looks like the ear Van Gogh cut off.
He established his own recognition during the Vietnam War, risking his life taking pictures of things nobody back home wanted to know about. His work earned him several prizes. He took to drinking, though and shifted his skills to make a living taking pictures of his favorite subject: alcohol. He’s a legend, if not just because people can’t seem to figure out if he’s dead or still alive. I had worked with him on several previous occasions, and I do believe he is alive; seldom sober, but alive.
“How did you manage to book him?” Helen had graciously warned me of his potential presence. I knew how irreverent and outrageous he could be.
“He gave Frank his business card back in Barossa, told him anybody who wins a prize for excellent wine has earned a
“Thank you and good morning,” I greeted everybody, accepting the seat.
Frank sat at the head of the table opposite Beverly and nodded at me. Ronnald and Luke smiled as they simultaneously handed me serving platters of fluffy scrambled eggs laced with chives and wild mushrooms, grilled lamb chops with mint sauce, roasted new potatoes with rosemary and sage, and the breadbaskets.
Nicolas poured me a cup of steaming coffee, pushed away the Vegemite jar, and almost miraculously handed me cream and sugar.
Beverly quietly nurtured a steaming tea mug, her arms propped on her chair armrests, her rust-colored cashmere sweater only a shade darker than her cheerful freckles. “I trust you slept well, my dear?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes, I slept great, thank you,” I replied, helping myself to some of the eggs and spearing a lamb chop with the serving fork.
“How was your trip?” Frank asked, waving an empty mug under Nicolas’s nose. Biting into an oversized, generously buttered slice of rye bread, the cheerful kid promptly refilled it for his father with both hands.
“Long, but I was able to sleep for quite a while. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, we have a long day ahead of us. If you’ll excuse us, Porzia—I reckon if you need anything, Beverly will be able to assist you. Also, you’re welcome to join us down in the cellar for a private sampling later on, if you’d like.” He stood as I nodded, taking his mug with him. The boys followed, saying good-bye. Nicolas winked and grabbed one last lamb chop on his way out.
Beverly watched them leave in pensive silence.
I tasted the food. The eggs were excellent. It might not seem like such a difficulty but to make good scrambled eggs actually takes a measure of skill. It took me ages to finally manage a decent outcome and Benedetta still makes better ones, although that’s all she can cook. One can’t hurry the cooking or over-beat the eggs. I know several chefs who actually separate the yolks from the egg whites. They then beat the whites into soft peaks and fold in the yolks after slightly whisking them with some whole milk, salt, and freshly ground white pepper. The result is a heavenly explosion of lightness in the mouth.
The sunflower seed bread tasted great with the fantastic eggs. It stood on its own with no need for butter. I had just about wiped my plate clean before I even reached for my mug to sip some coffee. Yes! Strong and sweet.
Beverly poured herself more tea, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. “It’s indeed a pleasure to see you again, Porzia,” she said, raising her cup to her lips where it steamed up her galaxy of freckles. “You’ve been making quite a name for yourself in the gourmet world and international wine circles. I have been following your articles, and I know it was quite a challenge to book you for this event, but I wouldn’t want anybody else to have the exclusive coverage of the presentation. We’re delighted to have Desmond Tanier as the photographer. You probably remember him from Barossa. He’ll be arriving later tonight. Driving from Melbourne, he is.” Beverly chuckled at her own last remark.
Desmond Tanier looks like the ear Van Gogh cut off.
He established his own recognition during the Vietnam War, risking his life taking pictures of things nobody back home wanted to know about. His work earned him several prizes. He took to drinking, though and shifted his skills to make a living taking pictures of his favorite subject: alcohol. He’s a legend, if not just because people can’t seem to figure out if he’s dead or still alive. I had worked with him on several previous occasions, and I do believe he is alive; seldom sober, but alive.
“How did you manage to book him?” Helen had graciously warned me of his potential presence. I knew how irreverent and outrageous he could be.
“He gave Frank his business card back in Barossa, told him anybody who wins a prize for excellent wine has earned a
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