Page 48 of Hold the Pickle
“I’m fine. I’m a grown adult.”
The other employees skirt us, but I can tell they are taking far too much interest in our conversation. Jeannie arrives with a bin of chopped pickles, and I take that as my opportunity to get to work.
“What needs chopping?” I ask her, watching as she sets the bin into the refrigerated sandwich line.
“We need carrots and cabbage for the pickled slaw,” she says.
I follow her to the kitchen as she continues listing items. “And I’m going to need more pickle quarter slices in regular, spicy, and garlic.”
“I’m on it.” I shove my purse into my locker and pull out my apron. A quick glance through the window in the door between the restaurant and the back shows me that Max and Cam haven’t left their spot by the entrance.
Hopefully, that conversation is over.
I head into the walk-in fridge to grab a stack of carrots, then wash them and don a pair of gloves.
As I arrange the vegetables on the chopping table to be prepped, I wonder if I should have asked Max not to tell his dad or mine about the bar incident.
Probably he won’t. To him, he looks as at fault as I am.
And besides, we’re not kids. Nobody needs to be running to Daddy.
I take out my frustration on the carrots, chopping the tops and running a peeler down the sides. I’m not even a collegestudent anymore more. I pay my own bills, meager though they are. If I want to spend my MBA on slicing carrots, it’s my MBA to use as I like.
Who says I need to always overachieve? Maybe I enjoy prepping vegetables!
I do, actually, getting into a rhythm that quickly fills a bowl for the slaw. I slide the scraps into the compost at the end of the wood block and return to the fridge for the cabbage.
I know I’m not meant for a job like this. It’s not what I went to school for. But it’s honest work, and necessary. And Max can rely on me when he needs to be out.
Although maybe my reliability score dropped substantially after Friday night.
I slice through the cabbage. I’m not a fan of the pickle slaw, but I don’t mind making it. It goes on the pickled roast beef, a monthly special dubbed “The Beefy Pickle.”
Now that’s a name for one of my romance novels.
And somehow, that line of thought takes me right back to Dalton.
Jeannie takes a spot opposite me at the table, setting a bin of garlic pickles onto the surface with a thunk. “I’m going to start quartering.”
She’s the kitchen manager, only a couple of years older than me. She is doing what she’s meant to do, having graduated culinary school. Like my cousin Anthony, she likes to create new dishes for the deli.
But despite her age and the adorable smattering of freckles that make her seem approachable, she’s an unyielding stickler when it comes to food prep. Get the size or texture wrong, and she’ll make you start all over, no matter how many people might be lined up waiting for slaw or potato salad or the pickle of the month.
“Watch that cabbage,” she says. “Between one-eighth and one-sixteenth of an inch. You’re getting wide.”
“Gotcha.”
Point made.
A voice rings out from the restaurant. “Doors!” It’s Margo, the weekend manager. She’s letting us know the deli is officially open.
Jeannie and I chop in companionable silence as Vera and Frank move the last items from the fridge to the line. Jeannie’s already sliced all the bread they baked this morning.
It’s quiet for a while, and a quick glance shows that the first customers have arrived. I don’t do much out there if I can help it. I prefer the sanctuary of the chopping block.
The kitchen door swings open, and Max comes in, followed by, of all people, Hex.
“Strange man in my kitchen!” Jeannie protests, holding her oversized butcher knife at both the men. It’s almost comical, the freckled woman in her low white hat, and the two giants she’s threatening.
