Read Online The City Baker's Guide to Country Living by Louise Miller - Free Book Online

the center of a square of cheesecloth that lay flat on the table before me. I had already piled a small mound of spices there—cinnamon sticks, cloves, a piece of star anise, pink peppercorns. I reached for an orange and dug into its skin with a zester, stripping it of its brightly colored flesh and releasing a burst of orange oil into the air.
    Margaret closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her face softened for a moment before she pursed her lips. Her back straightened. “Is this for the Harvest Dinner?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” I said as I gathered the edges of the cheesecloth into a tiny bundle, which always reminded me of a hobo’s pouch, and secured the top with twine. “I’m making batches of all the desserts for you and Chef Al to taste, in case you want to make any changes.”
    Margaret looked surprised.
    â€œThis”—I held up the cheesecloth bundle before dropping it into a pot of simmering port—“is to flavor the pears.” Poised at the stove, spoon in hand, I stared into the pot, stirring occasionally, trying to look professional. Margaret sat and watched.
    â€œSo . . . ,” I asked after what felt like hours of silence. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?” I hated being observed. During my practical exams at cooking school I had managed to both burn all the hair off my hands and slice off the tip of my thumb. And judging by the deep channel that appeared between her eyes, it looked like Margaret had something on her mind.
    â€œCan’t I take a minute in my own kitchen?” she clucked. “You don’t mind Tom Carrigan sitting here all morning long.”
    Why was I always saying the wrong thing? I grabbed my knife and cut a slender slice of the apple tart. I slid it over to her, hoping she would accept the gesture of apology. Margaret stared down at the tart for a moment.
    â€œA civilized person would eat this with a fork,” she said before raising it to her lips and taking a tiny bite. I watched her expression out of the corner of my eye as she chewed. Nothing.
    I gathered up my courage. “Margaret, I wanted to ask if I could get a telephone line put into the cabin. I don’t have any cell reception up here.” Not that I was burning to have access to my cell phone. But it would be nice if Hannah could call me at the sugarhouse.
    â€œYou can use the telephone here at the inn.”
    â€œBut what if there were a family of bears keeping me trapped in the cabin? I couldn’t call for help.”
    Margaret broke an edge of crust off the tart. “Why would a family of bears trap you in your cabin?”
    â€œFor dinner?”
    â€œBlack bears are mostly vegetarian.”
    Just my luck. Hippie bears.
    â€œWell—let’s see how you do during your trial. I don’t want topay out the expense until I know for sure that you’re the right person for the job.” Margaret pushed the tart aside and folded her arms in front of her. “There is one matter I would like to discuss. There’s a fund-raiser during the Harvest Festival to raise money for the public library. It’s a bake sale.”
    â€œSeriously?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything snarkier. The last fund-raiser I had baked for had been a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate black-tie gala.
    â€œThis year it’s cookies. They did cupcakes last year. Every year it’s different.” Margaret wiped her hands with a dish towel. “The best bakers in the county donate several dozen cookies. It would be a chance for the people in the town to try something you’ve made. And it’s for a good cause.” Without another word she hopped off the stool and walked toward her office. “I’d rather you not wear that jacket in the parlor. It’s a tad ratty.”
    I looked down. Most of the last batch of raspberry coulis had ended up on my chest instead of in the squeeze