Davis called after us.
Chapter Fifteen
The heartbeat of our little guesthouse is the kitchen. It’s the largest room in the place and where we hang out. The rest of the house is unremarkable; a tiny living room, a corner for a dining room, and two small bedrooms with a bathroom jammed between them.
The kitchen has an open floor plan with a butcher-block island in the center that we use for food prep and dining. Early on I replaced the original fridge and range with an industrial refrigerator, and an O'Keefe & Merritt double-oven stove. Along the back wall, are more counters, cabinets, shelves and a walk-in pantry. I converted the bump-out breakfast nook into an office that houses an old desk, laptop, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
Potted herbs grow in the greenhouse window above the sink and from the two mullioned windows in the nook and patio slider, we get lots of natural sunlight. If ever a room reflected who I was, my kitchen was it.
Friday morning was the start of a new pie day. In truth, pie day is a three-day baking frenzy that we performed twice a month to make the pies and deserts for the diner. But pie day sounds better than pie weekend, right?
Perched on a stool at the butcher-block, I sipped coffee while Boomer chomped his way through morning kibble. Baking soda biscuits browned in the oven and country gravy simmered on the stovetop.
When the oven timer dinged, I pulled the biscuits out and set the baking sheet on the counter. I went to the sink, rinsed a basket of blueberries, and dumped them onto a paper towel to dry. The pancake batter was ready. The fixings for kitchen sink eggs were ready. I was ready.
Zelda shuffled in, ponytail standing up like a dagger, and poured a mug of coffee. Still half asleep, she took her coffee to the butcher-block and plopped onto a stool.
I looked up from the stove. "Morning, sunshine."
Zelda poured half a pitcher of cream into her coffee. "What time is it?"
I removed the biscuits from the cookie sheet with a spatula and into a wire breadbasket. "A little after eight. You ready?"
Zelda stretched her arms and yawned. "Yep." She patted the counter top. "You get cooking and I'll get eating."
The first course was biscuits and gravy and Zelda left nothing for Boomer to lick from the plate. That was followed by kitchen sink eggs — scrambled soft with cheese, sausage, onions, and bell peppers. After Zelda cleaned her plate, I rewarded her with three fluffy blueberry pancakes smothered in warm syrup and lots of butter.
Zelda loved pie day, because for three days I cooked and fed her anything she wanted in exchange for doing the grunt work. She fetched from the pantry, rolled out dough, and stirred bubbling pots of fruit. She scrubbed, she wiped, she washed, she chopped, and she measured, without complaint.
By Sunday, we'd have thirty pies, eight dozen brownies, ten cheesecakes, and five fruit cobblers. Every available counter top would be lined with pies and pastries, and we'd be flour-doused and sweating sugar crystals from head to toe. It was a lot of work but I loved it. What chef wouldn't want to cook for three days straight without distractions?
Once Zelda couldn't force another bite, we went to work. By noon, we had seventeen pies and three cobblers cooling on the back counters. The kitchen smelled of fruit, spices and crisp pastry and my stomach growled.
"Lunch time." I ordered a pizza, while Zelda wrestled with stainless bowls and mixer attachments in a sink of sudsy water. Boomer alternately played blitz attack with Zelda's slipper and jumped up to see what she was doing. For fun, Zelda beaned him with suds balls, which fascinated and alarmed him.
When the pizza arrived, we slouched at the butcher-block and ate like hungry raccoons. Boomer, having a taste for dumpster food, was happy to dance for pieces of pizza crust. Even though I'd only had the little beast for a few days, it
Chapter Fifteen
The heartbeat of our little guesthouse is the kitchen. It’s the largest room in the place and where we hang out. The rest of the house is unremarkable; a tiny living room, a corner for a dining room, and two small bedrooms with a bathroom jammed between them.
The kitchen has an open floor plan with a butcher-block island in the center that we use for food prep and dining. Early on I replaced the original fridge and range with an industrial refrigerator, and an O'Keefe & Merritt double-oven stove. Along the back wall, are more counters, cabinets, shelves and a walk-in pantry. I converted the bump-out breakfast nook into an office that houses an old desk, laptop, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
Potted herbs grow in the greenhouse window above the sink and from the two mullioned windows in the nook and patio slider, we get lots of natural sunlight. If ever a room reflected who I was, my kitchen was it.
Friday morning was the start of a new pie day. In truth, pie day is a three-day baking frenzy that we performed twice a month to make the pies and deserts for the diner. But pie day sounds better than pie weekend, right?
Perched on a stool at the butcher-block, I sipped coffee while Boomer chomped his way through morning kibble. Baking soda biscuits browned in the oven and country gravy simmered on the stovetop.
When the oven timer dinged, I pulled the biscuits out and set the baking sheet on the counter. I went to the sink, rinsed a basket of blueberries, and dumped them onto a paper towel to dry. The pancake batter was ready. The fixings for kitchen sink eggs were ready. I was ready.
Zelda shuffled in, ponytail standing up like a dagger, and poured a mug of coffee. Still half asleep, she took her coffee to the butcher-block and plopped onto a stool.
I looked up from the stove. "Morning, sunshine."
Zelda poured half a pitcher of cream into her coffee. "What time is it?"
I removed the biscuits from the cookie sheet with a spatula and into a wire breadbasket. "A little after eight. You ready?"
Zelda stretched her arms and yawned. "Yep." She patted the counter top. "You get cooking and I'll get eating."
The first course was biscuits and gravy and Zelda left nothing for Boomer to lick from the plate. That was followed by kitchen sink eggs — scrambled soft with cheese, sausage, onions, and bell peppers. After Zelda cleaned her plate, I rewarded her with three fluffy blueberry pancakes smothered in warm syrup and lots of butter.
Zelda loved pie day, because for three days I cooked and fed her anything she wanted in exchange for doing the grunt work. She fetched from the pantry, rolled out dough, and stirred bubbling pots of fruit. She scrubbed, she wiped, she washed, she chopped, and she measured, without complaint.
By Sunday, we'd have thirty pies, eight dozen brownies, ten cheesecakes, and five fruit cobblers. Every available counter top would be lined with pies and pastries, and we'd be flour-doused and sweating sugar crystals from head to toe. It was a lot of work but I loved it. What chef wouldn't want to cook for three days straight without distractions?
Once Zelda couldn't force another bite, we went to work. By noon, we had seventeen pies and three cobblers cooling on the back counters. The kitchen smelled of fruit, spices and crisp pastry and my stomach growled.
"Lunch time." I ordered a pizza, while Zelda wrestled with stainless bowls and mixer attachments in a sink of sudsy water. Boomer alternately played blitz attack with Zelda's slipper and jumped up to see what she was doing. For fun, Zelda beaned him with suds balls, which fascinated and alarmed him.
When the pizza arrived, we slouched at the butcher-block and ate like hungry raccoons. Boomer, having a taste for dumpster food, was happy to dance for pieces of pizza crust. Even though I'd only had the little beast for a few days, it
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