a finished dish made ahead for filming, but your committee told me no, film it all live, preserve your tradition. When we air, we’ll splice in footage of your restaurants and kitchens. Remember, we’ll be editing down to twelve minutes—we’re saving twelve for the village, the street fair, and the farm tour. So every moment counts.” He stared at each chef, then the next, apparently to instill The Fear. “Just act natural.”
Amber made an undecipherable sound. He glowered at her, then yelled, “Who can put some makeup on this wench? And nobody wears a chef’s hat on my show. We’re grilling! Half an hour!” He strode off.
No one was wearing a chef’s hat. They’re scarce as tidal waves in Montana. Kyle wore his usual Army ball cap and Drew a red bandanna tied Harley-style. Amber wore her straight dark blond hair in a short no-fuss cut. Her eyes widened like a four-year-old who’d spilled her milk.
I grabbed her hand. “Tara! Help! Makeup wasn’t on Stacia’s list.”
Tara had been watching from the Lodge door. She studied Amber briefly. “Our coloring’s similar. I’ll run home and see what I can find.” She and Emma lived in the chef’s lodging on the grounds.
“My prep,” Amber said, alarmed.
“It won’t take her a minute. And I’ll help if you need me,” I said, not caring if that violated Gib Knox’s unspoken rules.
This, too, shall pass
, I reminded myself, rubbing the stars on my wrist. Seemed like that old adage about not watching how sausage is made if you like to eat applied equally to TV cooking shows.
* * *
T hirty-three minutes later, one hundred and fifty villagers and vacationers crowded the lawn, sipping local wine and beer. Despite the afternoon heat, the Lodge grounds were lush and inviting. The kind of summer afternoon where you forget your troubles and wish the day would never end.
Tara had turned Amber from a fresh-faced outdoorsy type you’d smile at on the street to a budding starlet you’d swear wore too much makeup—which probably made it just right for TV. She quickly brushed a little powder on the two men’s cheeks and forehead. Neither protested seriously.
She skipped Gib, but I saw why: no sheen on his sharp cheekbones, and his lashes appeared long and dark. He’d applied a little powder, blusher, and mascara himself. Gib Knox, you sly fox.
The chefs took their stations—each had a grill, a small prep table, and behind them, their coolers. Amber’d had plenty of time to chop her herbs and mince her shallots without my help. I’d changed clothes before leaving the Merc, and was glad to keep my coral-floral linen tank dress clean, even if I wasn’t on camera.
The audience watched in a semicircle from the sloping lawn. I perched on the stone wall at the south end of the patio, Stacia’s list in my lap, a glass of pinot grigio in hand. The sun warmed my bare shoulders, and I touched the cool glass to my cheek.
Gib strode onto the scene, in Western garb but hatless. This was his show. And Pete’s, though no one was watching him. That’s the role of the cameraman—to see everything without being seen.
“Where’s the beef? Here’s the beef! We’re at the Great Northwestern Steak Grill-off, in Jewel Bay, Montana, where we’ve corralled three of the hottest chefs under the Big Sky to show off their brand of sizzle. Here at the world-famous Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, on the sparkling shores of Eagle Lake, they’ll be sharing grilling tips and tricks and their finest recipes.” He gestured to the chefs with a flourish. “You can almost taste the rich flavors of that great Montana beef.”
Pete slipped in front of him and Gib spoke into the camera. “Seriously, grilling is the original social networking. You on the deck with your guests and a bottle of wine. And the dog.” He dropped a hand to pat the head of a Bernese mountain dog, one of a pair who live at the Lodge. The dog had lain down next to Kyle’s grill
Amber made an undecipherable sound. He glowered at her, then yelled, “Who can put some makeup on this wench? And nobody wears a chef’s hat on my show. We’re grilling! Half an hour!” He strode off.
No one was wearing a chef’s hat. They’re scarce as tidal waves in Montana. Kyle wore his usual Army ball cap and Drew a red bandanna tied Harley-style. Amber wore her straight dark blond hair in a short no-fuss cut. Her eyes widened like a four-year-old who’d spilled her milk.
I grabbed her hand. “Tara! Help! Makeup wasn’t on Stacia’s list.”
Tara had been watching from the Lodge door. She studied Amber briefly. “Our coloring’s similar. I’ll run home and see what I can find.” She and Emma lived in the chef’s lodging on the grounds.
“My prep,” Amber said, alarmed.
“It won’t take her a minute. And I’ll help if you need me,” I said, not caring if that violated Gib Knox’s unspoken rules.
This, too, shall pass
, I reminded myself, rubbing the stars on my wrist. Seemed like that old adage about not watching how sausage is made if you like to eat applied equally to TV cooking shows.
* * *
T hirty-three minutes later, one hundred and fifty villagers and vacationers crowded the lawn, sipping local wine and beer. Despite the afternoon heat, the Lodge grounds were lush and inviting. The kind of summer afternoon where you forget your troubles and wish the day would never end.
Tara had turned Amber from a fresh-faced outdoorsy type you’d smile at on the street to a budding starlet you’d swear wore too much makeup—which probably made it just right for TV. She quickly brushed a little powder on the two men’s cheeks and forehead. Neither protested seriously.
She skipped Gib, but I saw why: no sheen on his sharp cheekbones, and his lashes appeared long and dark. He’d applied a little powder, blusher, and mascara himself. Gib Knox, you sly fox.
The chefs took their stations—each had a grill, a small prep table, and behind them, their coolers. Amber’d had plenty of time to chop her herbs and mince her shallots without my help. I’d changed clothes before leaving the Merc, and was glad to keep my coral-floral linen tank dress clean, even if I wasn’t on camera.
The audience watched in a semicircle from the sloping lawn. I perched on the stone wall at the south end of the patio, Stacia’s list in my lap, a glass of pinot grigio in hand. The sun warmed my bare shoulders, and I touched the cool glass to my cheek.
Gib strode onto the scene, in Western garb but hatless. This was his show. And Pete’s, though no one was watching him. That’s the role of the cameraman—to see everything without being seen.
“Where’s the beef? Here’s the beef! We’re at the Great Northwestern Steak Grill-off, in Jewel Bay, Montana, where we’ve corralled three of the hottest chefs under the Big Sky to show off their brand of sizzle. Here at the world-famous Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, on the sparkling shores of Eagle Lake, they’ll be sharing grilling tips and tricks and their finest recipes.” He gestured to the chefs with a flourish. “You can almost taste the rich flavors of that great Montana beef.”
Pete slipped in front of him and Gib spoke into the camera. “Seriously, grilling is the original social networking. You on the deck with your guests and a bottle of wine. And the dog.” He dropped a hand to pat the head of a Bernese mountain dog, one of a pair who live at the Lodge. The dog had lain down next to Kyle’s grill
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