So I’d heard.
“And he’s stubborn. Once he’s set his mind to something, there’s no use arguing with him. I suppose he gets that from me.”
That was a trap and I knew better than to open my mouth.
“But my son isn’t frivolous and he doesn’t easily give his heart away. If you’ve captured his interest, he must see something special in you.” Mrs. Hawthorne sat up, reaching for her bottle of water. “And you feel the same about him?” she said.
“I do. I know this presents all sorts of thorny issues with my employment, and I’m so grateful to have a job here, but . . .” I shrugged. “I think he’s pretty special, too.”
“Let me give you one piece of advice,” she said, taking another sip of water and wincing at some pain as she flexed her knee. “Never get old.”
I smothered a laugh.
“I’ve had two knee replacements and hip surgery,” she said. “Looking back, I’m not sure skiing was worth the damage it caused.”
Her trainer handed her another elastic band to wrap around her toes as he led her through another exercise. It felt like I was learning more about her in this one conversation than I’d gleaned from all the time I’d been here combined. This felt intentional. Like she was bringing me into her world. Letting me see the real her.
“But you must’ve loved it a little,” I said. “All the trophies and titles.”
Again, a slight smile teased the corner of her lips. “I was something back then.”
“We get so little time to be great at anything,” I offered. “Some people never find their thing. I don’t know. Maybe I’m naive, but I think being great for even a little while is still better than never at all.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She considered that a moment while her attention remained focused on her trainer. “I have no doubt you’re well on your way to being a truly great chef, Miss Evans. Eleanor.”
A compliment from her felt like winning a gold medal. Little fireworks went off in my chest while I tried to maintain my composure.
“My son’s romantic intentions are his own business,” she said then. “I don’t intend to interfere. But between us, he could do worse. I think you’ll be good for him.”
I smiled to myself. Caroline and I weren’t about to become best friends overnight, but that was the closest thing to a ringing endorsement I could expect. More importantly, it felt like we understood each other now. She’d let me into her circle of trust. Even if just the outermost layer. It was the first step.
Epilogue
One Year Later
In theACEkitchen today, we were preparing beef Wellington. I decided to experiment a little and prepare a chorizo-spiced duxelles from a Marcus Lee recipe. He’d sent me a signed cookbook recently, with a note urging me to invite him to my graduation. I guess that sort of made me friends with a celebrity chef. Which certainly didn’t suck.
To prepare my tenderloin, I seasoned and seared it briefly in a cast-iron pan with butter and aromatics, then wrapped it tightly in plastic wrap to cool in the blast chiller. For my duxelles, I finely chopped a mixture of wild mushrooms and fried them in a pan with chorizo until they became a luscious paste. Next, I laid out paper-thin slices of spicy Iberico ham and spread them with my duxelles. I unwrapped and seasoned my chilled tenderloin to fully envelope with the ham and duxelles, then tightly wrapped it again and put it back into the blast chiller. While that set, I rolled out my dough and brushed the pastry with an egg wash, before applying first a base layer over the tenderloin, then an intricate lattice design that allowed me to show off some of my finer pastry skills.
It was a process that took several hours, a dozen of us toiling away in the kitchen while our instructor hovered over our shoulders. It was more than a little nerve-wracking, knowing every move we made was being evaluated. Though after a few months under Mrs. Hawthorne’s discerning eye, this was nothing. It was in these moments, watching my classmates nervously fret over fallen dough, hands shaking over intricate knife cuts, that I realized I’d come away from the chalet with a new confidence in myself. Ascended the mountain, so to speak. Maybe caught a couple of bumps and bruises along the way, but I was here. Not an anxious wreck. Not crying in a bathroom stall. Thriving.
When my Wellington was baked and ready for presentation, I sliced a medallion for the instructor and drizzled it with a chimichurri of cilantro, parsley, and oregano, with olive oil, red wine vinegar, red pepper, and a hint of lemon.
She raised the plate to her nose, taking in the aromas before cutting a piece and dragging it through the sauce.
“A Latin-inspired approach,” she said, without a hint of whether that was a horrible miscalculation on my part.
“Yes, chef. Chorizo and Iberico ham. I really love the bold flavor they impart.”
“A nice palate cleanser after so many pan jus,” she said. “Nicely done.”
That feeling never got old. It reminded me that I was on the right path. That this dream was worth every sacrifice I’d made along the way. Even when it meant leaving my life back in Denver to step out on a limb. Because in food, I’d found myself. And I was damn good at it.
After class, I walked to Hyde Park and stopped at a cart for something called a chimney cake. Friends at school were raving about them, so after finishing up my last day of class before winter break, I had made a special trip to track one down. They reminded me of churros, but shaped like a spring, and served wrapped in paper like an ice-cream cone, then filled with banana and Nutella and topped with whipped cream. The pastry, dusted in cinnamon sugar, was the perfect complement to a piping hot cocoa.
It was a gorgeous winter day, with a light dusting of snow blanketing the ground. The annual Winter Wonderland festival was in full swing, bringing carnival rides, pop-up eateries, games, and a Christmas market to the park. Families strolled with their children bundled up, little waddling marshmallows amid the melodies of Christmas music from live performers on a distant stage.
It made me miss the mountains. The expansive vistas that stretched to the horizon. Mulled wine and a roaring fire. Maplewood Creek had gotten under my skin and wouldn’t let go. It had been a year since I left, and while I still talked to the girls online now and then, it wasn’t the same. Not like popping down to The Snowdrift for breakfast with Pops. Strolling the shops among the twinkling lights. That perfect storybook village, like something out of a dream. Here, in the shadow of skyscrapers and the noise of traffic, it almost didn’t seem real. Like a dream getting smaller in my mind the farther I got from that place.
