“She’s got to get those cats fixed.” Craig breezes into the room carrying a tray of ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers to be refilled.
Like me, Craig’s a close friend of the family. He was once Dylan’s ballet partner and now co-manages the restaurant.
He’s also head DJ and choreographer of her weekly “Dare Nights,” when Dylan makes a special ultra-spicy pepper dish for daring customers to try.
Sometime back, it turned into a raucous dance party withCoyote Ugly-style bar dancing and fire-themed music—all selected by Craig.
He sets the tray on the large, stainless-steel work table in the center of the room, and I automatically start turning the ketchup bottles upside down. “I’m thinking about trying this new sugar-free diet I read about…”
“Diet!” Dylan’s voice goes high. “What in the world, Al? You don’t need to lose weight!”
“It’s more about being healthy.” I look down at my medium-sized figure. “Do you know how much sugar is added to everything we eat? And I meaneverything. It’s pretty shockingonce you start reading the labels. There’s sugar in ketchup, pasta sauce—even peanut butter!”
“Not this again,” Thomas grumbles as he passes me on his way to the grill in the back of the room.
Thomas is head chef, and he makes the best hamburgers I’ve ever tasted—using a secret recipe, of course. Now I wonder if it contains sugar.
“Don’t you want our customers to be healthy?” I call after him.
He lets out another grumble, and Craig walks over, leaning close. “Remember when I tried to reduce the amount of french fries we were serving? Don’t be healthy. Customers don’t like it.”
“I didn’t mean thecustomerscouldn’t have sugar. They can have whatever they want.”
“Give me the sugar!” Kimmie twirls around in front of Edward, doing some kind of modified cheerleader kick. “Cookies, cake, candy!”
“How much sugar have you had today?” Craig bumps her with his hip.
“None,” I laugh. “That’s her baseline.”
“Kimmie Joy, your daddy doesn’t let you eat all that junk food, and you know it.” Dylan fusses.
“Austin used to make me pancakes on Fridays,” she argues. “He said it’s for T-G-I-F.”
“It’s okay in moderation,” I try to explain. “But too much is bad for your pancreas, it can cause heart disease, Type 2 diabetes…”
“My sister has hypoglycemia,” Edward notes.
He’s standing with his back against the wall petting the cat, which has gone completely limp in his arms. Kimmie dances over to him, reaching up to pet the long animal.
“In that case, Rachel needs sugar.” I take six slices of bread out of the bag and butter one side of each before arranging them on a metal baking sheet. “I’m really just talking about adding it to things.”
“Yo, D, what’s for lunch?” Garrett Bradford enters through the back door, dressed in his thick khaki sheriff’s uniform. “I could eat a horse!”
“Uncle Grizz-lay!” Kimmie spins on her toes, running to greet her giant uncle by jumping on his back.
He’s pretty intimidating at six-foot-four with a black gun belt at his waist, but he’s also a gentle giant, now carrying his niece piggyback.
“Miss Allie said we can’t eat any more sugar!” Kimmie’s head tilts to the side, and she practically yells in his ear.
Garrett lifts a finger to shake in his ear. “Dang, Allie, what’s that about?”
“That’s not what I said.” I take out four more slices of bread for Garrett and butter them. “And I was only talking about me—I’mtrying to cut back on my sugar intake.”
I know it’s a cliché, but if I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can control what I eat.
“She said it’s bad for your pancakes.” Kimmie continues.
“Pancreas,” Edward corrects her.
