She touched his cheek. ‘Your little hallmark,’ she said. ‘Gives you away.’
The boys seemed impressed with her deduction and they sat on the kitchen stools at the bench, their rollerblades making loud noises as they crashed against the woodwork.
‘We’re not really that similar,’ Seth said, as he touched the knife roll.
She quickly moved it out of the way.
‘Ethan likes gaming and metal music, and I like K-pop. He likes to film things and I like to make things, like with Lego.’
Christa nodded. ‘Good to know. And what do you like to eat for dinner?’
‘We like burgers.’ Seth said. ‘And pasta. And sushi. And Mexican food.’
Christa thought for a moment.
‘What does your dad like to eat?’
‘Stuff we don’t like,’ was all Ethan said and then he made a vomit noise.
‘He likes pasta,’ said Seth. ‘He had the little round things, like little squashed eggs. Knocko?’ he asked.
‘Gnocchi?’ she asked and he nodded.
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
Pasta was a good start she thought, as she dug through the fridge and found some wagyu beef she could mince and make burgers with and found some potatoes to make pommes frites.
Ethan was up again and went sailing past her on his skates.
‘Sit down. No skating in the kitchen,’ she said firmly, and surprisingly he obliged and sat next to his brother.
‘Can you teach us how to cook?’ asked Seth.
She looked around the fridge door to see if they were being silly but saw they were serious.
‘How old are you both?’
‘Ten,’ they answered in unison.
Christa thought about it. A little company during prep could be fun and she could learn why her boss was always so angry. Besides, teaching people to cook was something she was passionate about. She never understood when people said they were terrible cooks and couldn’t cook. Anyone could cook if they followed the recipe. If they could learn to drive they could learn to cook.
If she had her way, cooking healthy food, and learning what to buy at the supermarket and budgeting, would be taught at school.
Those were real life skills.
‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘You can both be my commis cooks. You’re just old enough otherwise I would breaking the labour laws.’
‘What’s a commis cook?’ The boys seemed thrilled with the title.
‘It’s the name for the newest cooks in the kitchen. The ones who will become chefs one day if they work super hard,’ she answered.
The back door opened and an older, stout-looking woman holding shopping bags walked into the kitchen. She wore a green woollen coat and a scowl. Her grey hair was pulled into a bun and she had a face that could have made you admit to murder, even if you were innocent.
‘Oh, Cook, you’re here finally,’ said the woman as though Christa was late.
‘Christa Playfoot – I’m the chef,’ she corrected.
‘Peggy Smith, housekeeper of Pudding Hall.’
