Read Online Too Many Cooks by Dana Bate - Free Book Online

be Kelly. So nice to meet you.”
    I shake her hand, which feels smooth and delicate, like a Christmas ornament made of blown glass. “Sorry I’m late. I . . .” Poppy shoots me a stern look. “. . . was searching for flowers, but the florist by my flat only had mums.”
    Natasha puckers her lips. “Ick. Mums.”
    â€œI know.” I look at Poppy, who gives me an approving nod.
    â€œAnyway, so what were you ladies discussing about recipe testing?”
    â€œKelly thought she might be testing the recipes in her kitchen at Hampden House,” Poppy says.
    â€œOh, God, no. You’re basically living in student housing. I can’t expect you to cook out of that kitchen.”
    The kitchen in my flat is nicer than the kitchen I grew up with and most of the kitchens I’ve called my own, as a student or otherwise. Frankly, if the Hampden House is mostly student housing, it’s the nicest student housing I’ve ever seen.
    â€œYou’ll cook here, in my kitchen,” she says. “But before we get into any of that, we should probably have something to eat.” She looks down at her watch. “My husband said he’d be joining us, but he’s running a little late. The dining room is up here, but I figured we’d eat in the kitchen tonight. Shall we?”
    She gestures toward the stairway, and Poppy and I follow her to the floor below, where we tread along a short hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house.
    I cross the threshold and nearly gasp as I take in my surroundings. The entire back wall is one big window that looks onto a garden, which is landscaped with shrubs, hedges, and a series of rectangular reflecting pools. The window extends upward to the first floor, which I can see through the opening in the ceiling over the kitchen table, where there is an overlook from the living room above. As in the rest of the house, the décor exhibits a contemporary flair, with glossy white cabinetry, dark gray marble counters, stainless-steel appliances, and white floor tiles that, when the light catches them a certain way, appear to have the texture of alligator skin. A vast rectangular island sits in the middle of the room, beneath a light fixture consisting of shiny silver spheres of all different sizes, some as big as my head. Cooking in here on a regular basis? Yeah, I’ll be just fine.
    â€œSomething smells delicious,” I say as I breathe in a rich, herb-laced aroma. “What’s on the menu?”
    â€œStuffed Cornish game hens, steamed asparagus, and truffled white bean purée.”
    â€œWow. That sounds . . . amazing.”
    â€œYou seem surprised.”
    â€œNot at all. I just . . .”
    My eyes trace her boney frame, and I think back to all the stories about her bizarre dieting habits—the enemas and liquid cleanses and her brief time as a vegan after she broke up with Matthew Rush. But then I remember Poppy’s stern warning on the phone, and I decide to keep my mouth shut.
    â€œI’m not surprised at all,” I say.
    The oven timer starts beeping loudly from across the kitchen. “Almost ready,” Natasha says.
    She motions for me to have a seat at the kitchen table, a long, rectangular slab made of brushed concrete. The table is set for four, with woven silver placemats, stark white plates, and sparkling crystal glasses.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind—we’re going casual tonight,” she says as she pulls the roasting pan out of the oven with Poppy’s help.
    I’m tempted to tell her that in my hometown, casual means paper plates and red plastic Solo cups. The Madigans don’t really do crystal and silver.
    As I take a seat at the table, a short, plump woman with cropped, reddish-brown hair emerges from a butler’s pantry adjacent to the kitchen and assists Poppy in transferring the Cornish hens to a rectangular white serving platter.
    â€œOlga, this is Kelly.