Too Many Cooks (6 page)

“I hope you don't mind—we're going casual tonight,” she says as she pulls the roasting pan out of the oven with Poppy's help.

I'm tempted to tell her that in my hometown, casual means paper plates and red plastic Solo cups. The Madigans don't really do crystal and silver.

As I take a seat at the table, a short, plump woman with cropped, reddish-brown hair emerges from a butler's pantry adjacent to the kitchen and assists Poppy in transferring the Cornish hens to a rectangular white serving platter.

“Olga, this is Kelly. She'll be helping me with my cookbook.”

Olga looks up from spooning the pan sauce around the platter. “Nice to meet you,” she says with a thick Eastern European accent.

“Olga keeps this house from falling apart,” Natasha says. “I literally couldn't function if it weren't for her and Poppy.”

Poppy flashes a self-satisfied smile. Olga's stony expression remains unchanged as she lifts the dishes of asparagus and white bean purée from a warming drawer and, with Poppy's help, brings everything to the table.

Natasha glances at her watch as Olga serves up the Cornish hens onto each of our plates. “I guess we should start. . . .”

Before I can say I don't mind waiting, I hear a door open and close in the hallway beyond the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Finally,” Natasha mutters under her breath. “We're in the kitchen!” she calls over her shoulder.

A tall man dressed in a slim-cut gray suit walks through the doorway and throws his leather briefcase to the side as he shimmies out of his suit jacket. “Blimey,” he says as he loosens his tie and pulls it over his head. “That might have been the longest drive from Westminster in history—and that includes the era predating the car.” He lets out a sigh as he walks toward the table, rolling his shirtsleeves up his long arms. “And to top it all off, poor Sunil nearly hit some girl who leaped into traffic near Great Portland Street. An American, of course.”

My cheeks flush. He was in the car that almost hit me? Perfect.

He approaches the table and rests his hands on the back of one of the chairs.

“This is Kelly,” Natasha says. “The cookbook writer I was telling you about.”

“Oh, right, yes.” He starts to say something more, but stops as he studies my face. I suddenly feel painfully self-conscious—not only because my chin is probably still red and hideous, but also because he is so handsome I almost can't believe he is real. Like Natasha, he has dark hair and big, green eyes, but his eyes are more of a bluish green, like the surface of the ocean. He has narrow shoulders, a slim waist, and a perfectly chiseled jawline, and immediately I can see why he and Natasha are considered one of the most beautiful couples on Earth.

“Kelly, this is Hugh, my husband.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, wondering if all women feel so light-headed in his presence. I don't want to stare, but I can't tear my eyes from his face. I finally look away when our eyes catch again, hoping no one can see I'm sweating through my shirt.

“Likewise.” He rubs his hands together as he looks down at the table. “Well, well—what does Olga have in store for us this evening?”

“
I
made this,” Natasha snaps back.

“Oh—right.” He clears his throat as he settles into his seat. “It looks delicious.”

We tuck into our food, gobbling up forkfuls of meltingly tender Cornish game hen and smooth and earthy white bean purée. When I look up from my plate, I notice Natasha is taking a very long time to chew each bite and does so with an odd yet very specific rhythm.

“This is wonderful, Natasha,” I say.

She covers her mouth as she takes three more bites and nods. “Thank you. The Cornish hen is an old family recipe. My grandmother used to make it all the time when I was growing up.”

“And you've never made it for me?” Hugh says. “I feel cheated.”

“I
did
make it for you. When we first started dating. Remember?”

He locks eyes with me and smiles guiltily. “I do now. . . .”

Natasha lets out an exasperated sigh. “Anyway, I definitely want to include the recipe in my book. That, and the white bean purée.”

I blot the corners of my mouth with my napkin. “I thought your editor said this was going to be an everyday cookbook—recipes from your American and English kitchens.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It's just . . . game hens and truffles . . . to a lot of people, those aren't everyday ingredients.”

She purses her lips as she pokes at the asparagus on her plate. “So we'll balance it out with more basic recipes. Like . . . sautéed spinach. And French fries.”

Hugh chuckles. “French fries? When was the last time you ate French fries?”

She shoots him an icy stare. “Not since I found out I was allergic to potatoes.”

“You're allergic to potatoes?” I ask.

“Just the white kind.”

“As opposed to . . .”

“Sweet potatoes,” she says. “Those are fine.”

“Is that a common allergy? I've never heard of it before.”

Poppy kicks me beneath the table.

“More common than you'd think,” Natasha says, sawing off another asparagus tip. “But plenty of people can still eat potatoes, which is why we should include a French fry recipe in the book. And a hamburger recipe. Oh, and the recipe for my guacamole. I make the best guacamole.”

I tally the recipe list so far: Cornish game hens, truffled white bean purée, French fries, hamburgers, and guacamole. This is the most eccentric cookbook I've ever worked on.

“Maybe we should sit down tomorrow and hash out a game plan of which recipes to include—ones from your childhood, your time in LA, and your time here. Once we see everything written down, we'll have a better sense of what works with the narrative.”

Natasha stares at me. I sense she would like to furrow her brow, but her forehead is as frozen and smooth as an ice rink. “
I'm
the narrative. Me.”

“Right. But we still need a thread that ties the whole book together, so that it's cohesive and not a bunch of random recipes thrown together. I think—”

“No offense?” Natasha cuts me off, her frosty tone belying the tight smile on her face. “I'm not really interested in what you think. This is my cookbook, and I've hired you to do it the way I want. If I want a recipe for French fries, you'll help me develop a recipe for French fries. If I want a recipe for kale burgers, you'll help me develop a recipe for kale burgers. And if I want a recipe for sizzling hot ice cream, you'll help me develop a recipe for sizzling hot ice cream. Understood?”

My eyes dart around the table as I try to assess whether this moment is as awkward for everyone else as it is for me. Poppy is staring at her plate with laser-like focus as she cuts her asparagus into a million tiny pieces, and Hugh's eyes are locked on mine, with a gentle expression that says,
Just agree with her, if you know what's good for you
. So, yes. It would appear we're all in Awkwardville.

“Understood,” I say.

“Good. Because if we're going to work together for months on end, we'd better be on the same page.”

She pushes a few bits of stuffing around her plate and then stands up abruptly, dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin, and excuses herself without looking me in the eye.

I think I've made a terrible mistake.

CHAPTER 7

Natasha doesn't actually expect me to develop a recipe for sizzling hot ice cream, does she? There is no such thing. Even Ferran Adrià—the world famous molecular gastronomist, who developed recipes for “frozen chocolate air” and see-through ravioli—tried and failed to make ice cream hot. It cannot be done. Not by a three-star Michelin chef, and certainly not by me.

But whether she wants hot ice cream or not, one thing is clear: Unless I want to pack my bags and board the next plane to Michigan, I will do what she says, no matter how outlandish or impossible. This shouldn't come as a surprise. That's the way it works whenever I ghostwrite a cookbook for a major personality, whether it's a renowned chef or a TV host. When I worked on the modern-art cake book, the pastry chef, Katie, often assigned me bizarre and random tasks, like refilling the birdfeeders in her yard and scheduling her hair appointments. But Natasha has an edge unlike my past employers—something I can't quite place—and I'm getting increasingly worried about what the future might hold.

Despite my misgivings, I set off for Natasha's home bright and early the next morning. I hop on the Northern line at Warren Street and take my very first ride on the London tube, whizzing through the underground tunnels until I reach the Belsize Park stop ten minutes later. The journey takes less time than I anticipated, so before I head to Natasha's house, I stop into a small grocery store called Pomona, directly across from the tube station. Crates of fresh produce spill onto the sidewalk out front, containing everything from asparagus to rhubarb, and beside the front door, I notice about a dozen silver pails filled with fresh flowers, including a bunch of white roses.

I snatch up a bouquet and head inside to pay, where I find myself surrounded by freshly baked loaves of bread, dozens and dozens of English cheeses, fresh cream and butter, and more tins, jars, and boxes of goodies than I can catalogue in my mind. Once I've paid for the flowers, I wind my way through the streets of Belsize Park toward Natasha's house.

At just before nine, the streets are filled with people heading to work, along with moms and nannies walking hand-in-hand with their children on the way to school. In the chaos of last night's taxi debacle, I hadn't appreciated how family-oriented this neighborhood seems, but in the fresh light of morning, I notice how many strollers and skipping young children are on the sidewalks around me. I wonder if Natasha and Hugh are planning to have children. They certainly have enough room in that enormous house.

When I arrive at the front gate, bypassing a few shabbily dressed paparazzi loitering across the street, I press the bell, and Olga buzzes me inside. I walk up the front steps, where she meets me with a typically bland and stony greeting.

“Natasha, she is downstairs with trainer,” she says, eyeing the roses. “You wait in kitchen.”

I nod politely and make my way downstairs to the kitchen, which shows no signs of last night's dinner. The stovetop and counters glisten in the morning light, and the surface of the kitchen table is bare, with the exception of a few stone votives that run down its center. I sit on one of the chairs, and as soon as I do, Natasha emerges from the hallway, her entire body dripping with sweat and her raven locks twisted into a bun on top of her head.

“Good morning,” she pants, making her way toward the refrigerator, showing no sign of animosity from last night's dinner. She rubs her sweaty forehead with the back of her arm as she opens the door and takes out a bunch of kale, a few celery stalks, a peeled lemon, and a knob of ginger. She dumps the produce on the counter and nods at the flowers. “Are those for me?”

“Yes—I finally found a place that sells roses.”

“That's sweet. Thanks. Olga!” she shouts over her shoulder. Olga hurries into the kitchen. “Could you put those in a vase? One of the tall ones. Thanks.”

She pulls out a large juicer from one of her cabinets, plugs it in, and begins shoving the kale inside, leaf by leaf, creating a thunderous whirring sound that echoes throughout the kitchen as the juice empties into a tall glass.

“So I was thinking we could go over the recipe list today!” she shouts above the roar of the juicer. She shoves in a stalk of celery. “You know—get organized before we start testing everything.”

“Perfect,” I say.

Natasha cups her hand to her ear as she rams an entire lemon into the machine. “Sorry?”

“Perfect!” I shout. “That sounds perfect!”

She pushes the rest of the ingredients through the machine, shuts it off, and, in a matter of seconds, downs the shockingly green contents of the glass.

“Ahhh,” she sighs, smacking her lips. “I am addicted to this juice. You have no idea. Obsessed.” She dumps the empty glass in the sink, and turns to Olga, who has reentered the room with a tall crystal vase. “Oh, not that one. Try the Christofle. And I'm finished with the juicer, so you can clean it now.”

Olga nods and leaves with the vase as Natasha turns to me. “I'm going to hop in the shower, but why don't you start sketching out the recipes we discussed last night, and we can get going as soon as I come back down.”

“Sure,” I say. “I brought the project journal I started, so we can use that as a springboard.”

“Great,” she says. “And please—make yourself at home. I'll only be a few minutes.”

 

Ninety-three minutes later, I am still sitting at Natasha's kitchen table, alone.

In the time that has passed, Olga has cleaned the juicer, arranged the flowers, mopped the floor, dusted the entire house, and restocked the refrigerator with more kale, celery, and ginger. I, on the other hand, have done nothing but read my recipe list twenty times and sketched the world's largest doodle of a cat with antlers.

Finally, after 103 minutes have passed, Natasha floats into the kitchen. She wears a drapey black sweater and black leggings, and her thick tresses are pulled into a taut, low ponytail. Her smooth, fair skin practically glows, and I'm tempted to say she isn't wearing any makeup, except she must be wearing something because I can't imagine anyone's skin being so naturally luminous. Her plump lips are stained a fresh berry color, as if she's just taken a bite of a ripe, juicy strawberry, and as she breezes past me and takes a seat at the table, the air fills with the fresh scent of white jasmine and sandalwood.

“Well,” she says, letting out a deep sigh as she slides into one of the chairs. “That didn't take long.”

I study her face, trying to gauge her expression, because at 103 minutes, she can't possibly be serious. But there is not a trace of irony in it, which means the joke is on me.

“So,” she continues, “what have you come up with?”

“Before we get to that, I was thinking we could talk a little more about the narrative.”

She rolls her eyes as she lets out another sigh. “The narrative, the narrative—all you want to talk about is the narrative.”

“I just think it will help us figure out which recipes to include. Like, the main dish from last night. Why do you want to include that recipe?”

“Because my grandmother used to make it.”

“Okay. Tell me more about that. When would she make it? Where?”

“I don't know. I guess . . .” She pauses. “She used to throw these amazing dinner parties. She was sort of known for them, even into her seventies. Sometimes she'd babysit my sister and me when my parents were out of town, and we'd get the leftovers the next day for lunch.”

I scribble in my notebook. “What kind of leftovers?”

“You know, like leftover Cornish hens. Potato gratin. Cream of carrot soup. She used to make this chocolate mousse that was to die for.”

“Where did she live?”

“Elkins Park. A small suburb outside Philadelphia.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

She shifts in her seat. “Sort of. Close by.”

“And was this your dad's mom? Or your mom's mom?”

“My mom's.”

“Were you close?”

She clears her throat. “I'm sorry, I thought we were discussing a cookbook.”

“We are.”

“Then maybe we should discuss
cooking,
not my private life.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I just think readers and cooks would love a peek into your life. You're this megastar people idolize, but if we pull back the curtain and show them a bit about you—that you cook, that your grandmother was a supreme hostess—I think people will love it.”

She twirls her oval diamond engagement ring around her finger. “That may be, but in my business, once you open the floodgates—”

“I'm not saying we open the floodgates. I'm saying we make you relatable.”

Natasha stares at me coolly. “Don't interrupt me,” she says.

My cheeks flush. “Sorry.”

“And anyway, how are we going to get people to relate to me?”

“We'll make them feel as if they know you. Personalize some recipes from Natasha the movie star—green juice, truffled white bean purée—and recipes from before you were famous, like Cornish hens, chocolate mousse.”

She purses her lips and stares at me for a long while. “I guess it isn't the worst idea I've ever heard,” she finally says.

A weak endorsement if I ever heard one, but I'll take it.

We spend the next hour roughing out what recipes we'll include in the book, based on the outline her editor sent me: three sections, each devoted to a separate time in her life (childhood, LA, London), and each of those sections subdivided into courses. I'll have to double-check with her editor to make sure we have the green light on the recipe list, but so far, things look good.

“Why don't you give me a copy of the Cornish hen recipe, along with another one or two dishes your grandmother made, and I can start working on those,” I say.

“I don't use recipes, per se,” she says. “It's all in my head.”

“Then just give me ballpark measurements.”

“Fine.” She flicks her diamond ring. “But what about the French fries. And the guacamole. And all of the things we discussed last night.”

“Those recipes are all on the list. But maybe we start with the childhood recipes and then work our way up to the modern-day stuff.”

She doesn't look thrilled, but before she can argue, her cell phone rings on the table. She glances at the screen.

“I have to take this,” she says. “But do whatever you need to do to get started, and fill me in on the rest later. Olga can help you get anything you need.”

“But what about the Cornish hen reci—”

“Petra, hi—tell me you have good news,” Natasha says as she picks up the phone and gets up from the table. She covers the receiver with her hand. “Good luck. Oh—and before you leave today, if you could whip up a loaf of something sweet to have with tea, that would be great. Hugh has been asking.”

She resumes her conversation and heads out the glass door into the backyard, leaving me alone to create recipes out of thin air and pull a loaf of quick bread out of my butt because, apparently, that is what I have been hired to do.