Read Online Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance by Nancy Verde Barr - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nancy Verde Barr
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few drops of acid added to the butter and sugar will prevent the caramel from crystallizing should the electric coils go mad.
“Oh yes, my friends. There is a God and he’s painted my world red.” An obviously jubilant Jonathan walked in carrying a small crate with six bright red steamed lobsters. He immediately spied Sally and set his bounty down on the counter. “Mrs. Woods! How wonderful to see you again!” He ignored the rest of us to get to Sally and took her hand in both of his. He was uncharacteristically all smiles. “How are you?”
“Just fine, honey.” Calling him “honey” without using his name meant she knew she knew him and knew that he was one of us but just couldn’t bring up his name quickly. It’s a tacticshe uses often and well. “How have
you
been?” When Sally asks that, she really wants to know. I know this because months after she has chatted with a fan she’ll talk about how he or she lives in a trailer park, or was a pothead in the sixties, or has ten children. People fascinate her, and that has a lot to do with the kinship they feel with her. It’s why they never hesitate to approach her—in restaurants, airports, on street corners and in the market. One woman actually slipped a piece of paper under the door in a ladies’ room and asked for her autograph. Sally wrote “tinkle, tinkle” on it and slipped it back.
Sonya’s cell phone rang and I said a little prayer that it was something that would need her attention elsewhere for a while so I wouldn’t have to manufacture another task for her. It was and she mouthed, “I’ll be right back” as she left the room with the phone still glued to her ear.
Meanwhile, Jonathan was relating in long, painful, drawn-out detail exactly how he had been. Sally listened and commented as she heated the butter and sugar, coaxing it into a caramel with a clean wooden spoon.
“. . . so, after I spent my own money to paint the living room, and the bedroom, and put wallpaper up in the bathroom, just to mention a few things I’ve done, I may have to leave my lovely little apartment and look in a less desirable neighborhood—with my two cats and my dog, who really does
not
bark all day. It just doesn’t seem right since I’ve . . . Mrs. Woods?
Mrs. Woods?
Are you all right? Can I get you something?”
“Wha eet err tuk.”
I dropped my apples on the counter and turned. Oh my God, I thought, she’s having a stroke. She had her hand to her mouth and seemed to be struggling. Her eyes were watering. Jonathan was visibly shaken but immobilized. I reached herjust as she pulled a chunk of caramel out of her mouth. “It got stuck in my teeth and I couldn’t get it off,” she croaked.
“Jeez, Sally. You put hot caramel in your mouth? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t think. I just did.” She gave me a Sally look that is seldom seen by the public. It is the sheepish grin of a school-girl who has just been caught executing a major prank. I’m sure she perfected the look in her younger days, because she is known to have created more than her share of mischief.
“Didn’t it burn?”
“Well,
yes
!”
“I’ll get some ice for you to chew. And for God’s sake, keep the spoon out of your mouth.” She gave me more of that impish grin.
I hadn’t always talked to Sally like that. When I met her six years ago, I was so in awe of her stature that I addressed her with exaggerated reverence. At the time, I was teaching at a local cooking school that had been asked to organize a charity event at which Sally was the main attraction. It was held in a theater, so a makeshift kitchen had to be built on the stage. The “kitchen” consisted of a long skirted table with a cutting board, knives, a two-burner hot plate, a standing mixer, a food processor, and a large jar holding an assortment of cooking utensils. Sally stood behind this table facing the audience. Several feet behind her were two other skirted tables. One held three big
“Oh yes, my friends. There is a God and he’s painted my world red.” An obviously jubilant Jonathan walked in carrying a small crate with six bright red steamed lobsters. He immediately spied Sally and set his bounty down on the counter. “Mrs. Woods! How wonderful to see you again!” He ignored the rest of us to get to Sally and took her hand in both of his. He was uncharacteristically all smiles. “How are you?”
“Just fine, honey.” Calling him “honey” without using his name meant she knew she knew him and knew that he was one of us but just couldn’t bring up his name quickly. It’s a tacticshe uses often and well. “How have
you
been?” When Sally asks that, she really wants to know. I know this because months after she has chatted with a fan she’ll talk about how he or she lives in a trailer park, or was a pothead in the sixties, or has ten children. People fascinate her, and that has a lot to do with the kinship they feel with her. It’s why they never hesitate to approach her—in restaurants, airports, on street corners and in the market. One woman actually slipped a piece of paper under the door in a ladies’ room and asked for her autograph. Sally wrote “tinkle, tinkle” on it and slipped it back.
Sonya’s cell phone rang and I said a little prayer that it was something that would need her attention elsewhere for a while so I wouldn’t have to manufacture another task for her. It was and she mouthed, “I’ll be right back” as she left the room with the phone still glued to her ear.
Meanwhile, Jonathan was relating in long, painful, drawn-out detail exactly how he had been. Sally listened and commented as she heated the butter and sugar, coaxing it into a caramel with a clean wooden spoon.
“. . . so, after I spent my own money to paint the living room, and the bedroom, and put wallpaper up in the bathroom, just to mention a few things I’ve done, I may have to leave my lovely little apartment and look in a less desirable neighborhood—with my two cats and my dog, who really does
not
bark all day. It just doesn’t seem right since I’ve . . . Mrs. Woods?
Mrs. Woods?
Are you all right? Can I get you something?”
“Wha eet err tuk.”
I dropped my apples on the counter and turned. Oh my God, I thought, she’s having a stroke. She had her hand to her mouth and seemed to be struggling. Her eyes were watering. Jonathan was visibly shaken but immobilized. I reached herjust as she pulled a chunk of caramel out of her mouth. “It got stuck in my teeth and I couldn’t get it off,” she croaked.
“Jeez, Sally. You put hot caramel in your mouth? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t think. I just did.” She gave me a Sally look that is seldom seen by the public. It is the sheepish grin of a school-girl who has just been caught executing a major prank. I’m sure she perfected the look in her younger days, because she is known to have created more than her share of mischief.
“Didn’t it burn?”
“Well,
yes
!”
“I’ll get some ice for you to chew. And for God’s sake, keep the spoon out of your mouth.” She gave me more of that impish grin.
I hadn’t always talked to Sally like that. When I met her six years ago, I was so in awe of her stature that I addressed her with exaggerated reverence. At the time, I was teaching at a local cooking school that had been asked to organize a charity event at which Sally was the main attraction. It was held in a theater, so a makeshift kitchen had to be built on the stage. The “kitchen” consisted of a long skirted table with a cutting board, knives, a two-burner hot plate, a standing mixer, a food processor, and a large jar holding an assortment of cooking utensils. Sally stood behind this table facing the audience. Several feet behind her were two other skirted tables. One held three big
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