Tough Cookie

I rushed up the steps and, panting, came through the uncrowded kitchen, where the six-person evening staff was bemoaning the fact that one of the two walk-in refrigerators was out of order. It would take twice as long to prep for the evening meal, they complained, as they set about cutting leeks, carrots, onions, and celery into julienne. I set my bag down and asked one of the cooks if Jack Gilkey was here. No, Jack had gone to Denver to see Mrs. Druckman in the hospital. The food for the show lay prepped on a sideboard, the cook added. He pointed to a counter. The other cooks began to snigger, and I thought I caught one of them saying, “At least he isn’t here to take the credit for our work, the way he usually does.”

I slipped into my jacket and uniform for the show, then inspected Jack’s—or his subordinates’—impressively organized foodstuffs, all labeled: a loaf of Julian’s crusty golden-brown five-grain bread sat next to the yeast, molasses, and other ingredients. The cereal and its ingredients were similarly laid out. Beside these was a platter lined with grilled Canadian bacon and plump sausage links. At the end of the counter, a crystal plate was adorned with concentric circles of fresh sliced ruby red strawberries, golden pineapple, and emerald green kiwi, all dotted with fat blueberries and raspberries. My stomach reflected on the long-ago peanut butter and jelly, and sent up a distress signal. Later, I promised myself.

Jack had left me a note: Goldy—I’ll give Eileen your love. Break a leg! J. I guessed I was one of the people Jack looked up to. Or was hoping to get something from, as Rorry claimed? I wouldn’t mind working with him one bit, if I could be sure he was a good guy.

Hopefully, Nate’s video would tell all.

I scurried out to the hot line with the first batch of ingredients. Would the bistro audience be disappointed to be receiving only oatmeal, bread, Canadian bacon, and fruit for their nine bucks? I didn’t know. Boots Faraday, now apparently a regular at the show, was seated serenely by the fireplace. So, unfortunately, was Cinda Caldwell. My heart lurched.

Arthur strode toward me, clipboard in hand. He appraised me menacingly. I felt myself blushing. Finally he said, “I suppose you know the chef’s gone to see the owner in the hospital.” He made it sound as if I had put Eileen there.

“Not to worry, Arthur. Jack left everything done.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes skeptically, then handed me the visual they would post for the menu. There was the usual Front Range PBS logo, followed by:Feel-Your-Oats Holiday Breakfast Celebration

Platter of Strawberries, Kiwi, Pineapple, Raspberries, and Blueberries

Skiers’ Swiss Cereal

Grilled Canadian Bacon

Toasted Thick-Sliced Five-Grain Bread

Butter, Jams

Champagne, Coffee

“You have to put that it’s Julian Teller’s five-grain bread.”

“This is public TV,” Arthur replied stiffly. “No advertising.” Before I could protest, he added: “Are you going to tell me what Rorry Bullock was really doing up here today?”

Startled, I answered, “She was seeing how the other half lives, Arthur.” When he hrumphed, I tapped the menu. “Make it ‘Julian’s Five-Grain Bread,’ and it won’t be an advertisement because you’re not using his last name. If you don’t, I’m not going to talk about the champagne. It’s too dry to serve with this sweet food, anyway.”

Arthur’s groan of protest attracted stares. Then he grunted assent and whisked morosely away. Fifteen minutes until showtime: I concentrated on transporting ingredients. The crowd grew more boisterous with each minute. A tech handed me the mike wire and I threaded it through my jacket. I’m almost done, I thought with an unexpected pang of regret. As challenging as Arthur and the whole TV gig had been, the thought of jumping into the abyss of no work after the New Year brought a lump to my throat.

And so I did the show. Without a single calamity or disaster. I realized I hadn’t thought of a single sexy thing to say about the food except that molasses was reputed as an aphrodisiac, and oats were widely used in the diet of the British Isles, and didn’t the Brits, after all, know lusty, ribsticking food? Finally, after nibbling on the bread, swishing my hips about, and taking an eye-rolling bite of the oatmeal, I beamed at the camera and crooned, “That’s comfort food for you. And doesn’t everyone want to be comforted and loved at this time of year?”