Read Online Deep Dish by Mary Kay Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
Ads: Link
Pete.
“Right,” Val said. “Yes. Let’s have him do all of that on camera. We’re cutting the shrimp segment we’d planned, so we can afford to have him stretch out the fish fry a little bit.”
“No shrimp?” Darryl’s thin face darkened. “When was that decided?”
“Just now,” Val said firmly, letting him know the subject was closed. “Tate, just take all the steps slowly. You know, pour the buttermilk, add the hot sauce, like that.”
“All right,” Tate said.
“You can blather on about the stone-ground cornmeal, and what to substitute if you don’t have cornmeal or buttermilk—”
“If you don’t have the buttermilk or cornmeal, you oughta just forget the whole thing, and go to Captain D’s,” Tate said.
“But if we’re going to eat fast food, we don’t need Vittles , now, do we, sweetie?”
“Right,” Tate said. He leaned against the counter and watched as Darryl poured vegetable oil into the deep-fat fryer.
“How long do I have before that thing starts sputterin’ and smokin’?” he asked.
“Five or six minutes,” Darryl said. “And don’t forget to checkthe temperature gauge before you submerge the basket with the battered fillets,” Darryl said. “According to the manufacturer, you want it right at 425 degrees.”
“Good point,” Val said. “Make sure you tell what the oil temperature should be when frying fish, even if you’re just using whatever pan you have at home.”
“Like a cast-iron skillet,” Tate said.
“Perfect.” Val beamed. “In fact, say something like that. You know, like, ‘Mama, this new fryer’s great, but it’ll never beat your old cast-iron skillet at home.’”
“My mother never fries anything,” Tate said. “I don’t think she even owns a cast-iron skillet.”
“Keep that to yourself,” Val advised. “The point you want to make is that kitchen safety is right up there with God and country at Tate Moody’s house.”
“Trailer,” Tate said.
“Whatever,” she said. “Let’s get this show moving.”
Chapter 12
T hat’s it, everybody,” Scott said, after they’d finally finished with the setup shots for the next day’s show. It was close to six, and the crew had been working steadily since eight. Adelman and his assistant had slipped away much earlier in the afternoon, but Regina felt as if she’d completed a triathlon.
She slipped out of her shoes and reached down to massage her aching calves. At the start of the new season, Scott had insisted that she wear heels for the show because he said it made her look sexier.
“The viewers at home can’t see my legs,” she’d pointed out.
“No, but the heels make you two inches taller, and they make your boobs look bigger,” Scott said.
She’d looked down at her chest, her feelings hurt.
“You know what I mean,” Scott said quickly. “The heels accentuate what you’ve already got. And that’s a good thing.”
Gina watched now as Scott, standing behind the editing table, chatted with Deborah Chen, the station’s publicist. His blond hair contrasted sharply with her shining, blue-black, shoulder-length hair. She laughed at something he said and pretended to slap his face. Scott looked away and caught Regina watching.
Gina looked indifferent. Or at least, she hoped she looked indifferent. Or insouciant. Gina longed to be insouciant. For now, she tucked the hated high heels under her arm and padded, barefoot, toward her office.
“Great show,” Scott said as she walked past, intent on ignoring him. “Adelman loved you.”
“He’s nuts for you, Gina,” Deborah agreed. “He asked me to have a bunch of color publicity stills shot of you tomorrow.”
“He did?” Despite her indifferent insouciance, Gina felt her pulse blip.
“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “I was just telling Scott, be sure you wear something really neutral tomorrow.”
“Neutral?” Regina frowned. “Won’t that make my skin and hair look washed out?”
“Not at all,”
“Right,” Val said. “Yes. Let’s have him do all of that on camera. We’re cutting the shrimp segment we’d planned, so we can afford to have him stretch out the fish fry a little bit.”
“No shrimp?” Darryl’s thin face darkened. “When was that decided?”
“Just now,” Val said firmly, letting him know the subject was closed. “Tate, just take all the steps slowly. You know, pour the buttermilk, add the hot sauce, like that.”
“All right,” Tate said.
“You can blather on about the stone-ground cornmeal, and what to substitute if you don’t have cornmeal or buttermilk—”
“If you don’t have the buttermilk or cornmeal, you oughta just forget the whole thing, and go to Captain D’s,” Tate said.
“But if we’re going to eat fast food, we don’t need Vittles , now, do we, sweetie?”
“Right,” Tate said. He leaned against the counter and watched as Darryl poured vegetable oil into the deep-fat fryer.
“How long do I have before that thing starts sputterin’ and smokin’?” he asked.
“Five or six minutes,” Darryl said. “And don’t forget to checkthe temperature gauge before you submerge the basket with the battered fillets,” Darryl said. “According to the manufacturer, you want it right at 425 degrees.”
“Good point,” Val said. “Make sure you tell what the oil temperature should be when frying fish, even if you’re just using whatever pan you have at home.”
“Like a cast-iron skillet,” Tate said.
“Perfect.” Val beamed. “In fact, say something like that. You know, like, ‘Mama, this new fryer’s great, but it’ll never beat your old cast-iron skillet at home.’”
“My mother never fries anything,” Tate said. “I don’t think she even owns a cast-iron skillet.”
“Keep that to yourself,” Val advised. “The point you want to make is that kitchen safety is right up there with God and country at Tate Moody’s house.”
“Trailer,” Tate said.
“Whatever,” she said. “Let’s get this show moving.”
Chapter 12
T hat’s it, everybody,” Scott said, after they’d finally finished with the setup shots for the next day’s show. It was close to six, and the crew had been working steadily since eight. Adelman and his assistant had slipped away much earlier in the afternoon, but Regina felt as if she’d completed a triathlon.
She slipped out of her shoes and reached down to massage her aching calves. At the start of the new season, Scott had insisted that she wear heels for the show because he said it made her look sexier.
“The viewers at home can’t see my legs,” she’d pointed out.
“No, but the heels make you two inches taller, and they make your boobs look bigger,” Scott said.
She’d looked down at her chest, her feelings hurt.
“You know what I mean,” Scott said quickly. “The heels accentuate what you’ve already got. And that’s a good thing.”
Gina watched now as Scott, standing behind the editing table, chatted with Deborah Chen, the station’s publicist. His blond hair contrasted sharply with her shining, blue-black, shoulder-length hair. She laughed at something he said and pretended to slap his face. Scott looked away and caught Regina watching.
Gina looked indifferent. Or at least, she hoped she looked indifferent. Or insouciant. Gina longed to be insouciant. For now, she tucked the hated high heels under her arm and padded, barefoot, toward her office.
“Great show,” Scott said as she walked past, intent on ignoring him. “Adelman loved you.”
“He’s nuts for you, Gina,” Deborah agreed. “He asked me to have a bunch of color publicity stills shot of you tomorrow.”
“He did?” Despite her indifferent insouciance, Gina felt her pulse blip.
“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “I was just telling Scott, be sure you wear something really neutral tomorrow.”
“Neutral?” Regina frowned. “Won’t that make my skin and hair look washed out?”
“Not at all,”
Similar Books
