Page 42 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Oh, this is going to be a disaster,” she says, but she’s grinning now with that infectious optimism that makes smart people do stupid things. “I love it. Nothing says ‘professional restaurant preview’ like hoping our burners don’t blow out in the wind.”
This is a terrible idea. We’re nowhere near ready for public consumption. We don’t even have a real kitchen yet, and she wants to serve food to half the town using equipment designed for camping trips.
“So you’re in?” I ask, because apparently my mouth has decided to ignore my brain’s very reasonable objections.
She’s quiet for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that’s absolutely not supposed to be distracting but completely is.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s do it. Let’s give this town their first taste of The Salty Pearl.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But if we food poison half of Twin Waves, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”
And just like that, we’re committed to something that could either be brilliant marketing or complete disaster. With Amber, it’s usually both.
The next three weeks pass in a blur of permit paperwork and what Mason apparently calls “the crab laboratory.” Every time I stop by with coffee and health department updates, Amber’s kitchen looks like a science experiment gone wrong—recipe cards everywhere, testing bowls covering every surface, and her growing collection of remoulade variations that she insists I taste-test.
I should probably be more resistant to these taste-testing sessions. Should maintain more professional distance. But watching her face when I try her latest creation, seeing the way she holds her breath waiting for my reaction—it’s becoming the highlight of my day, which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people in trouble.
The practice sessions in my backyard become routine. There’s an odd intimacy about learning to work together in a space that’s not quite a kitchen but not quite camping either. She’s patient when I burn the first three batches of fish because propane burners apparently have attitude problems. I’m patient when she rearranges our setup for the fourth time in an hour, claiming she’s “optimizing workflow” when really she’s just nervous.
By the end of week two, we’re moving around each other like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days. By week three, I catch myself looking forward toour planning sessions more than I should, considering this is supposed to be about business.
Which brings me to this morning, festival day, standing in Amber’s driveway bright and early, watching her load half of Williams Sonoma into my truck. How did I go from guy who never stays anywhere longer than a year to someone who’s planning festival booths and thinking about restaurant openings?
This is dangerous territory. The kind that leads to putting down roots and making commitments I’m not sure I’m equipped to keep.
Amber emerges from her house carrying a cooler that probably weighs more than she does, muttering about food safety protocols.
“Need help?” I ask, reaching for the cooler.
“I’ve got it,” she says, then immediately trips over the garden hose and nearly face-plants into my truck.
I catch her by the elbow, steadying her before she can execute what would have been a spectacular crash landing. “Definitely got it.”
“Shut up. I’m nervous.”
“About what? You’ve been cooking for crowds for years.”
“That was different. That was a job. This is...” She gestures at the trailer, the coolers, the banner Hazel helped us make that readsThe SaltyPearl: Coming Soonin letters that are only slightly crooked. “This is ours.”
And there it is. The weight of what we’re doing, what we’re building together. This isn’t just a test run or a marketing stunt. This is the first time anyone in Twin Waves will taste food that represents our shared vision.
Our shared vision. When did I start thinking in terms of “our” anything?
“Hey,” I say, waiting until she looks at me. “Remember what you told me about your grandmother’s cooking? About how food is love made visible?”
She nods.
“That’s what you do, Amber. Every time you cook, you’re making love visible. Today’s no different.”
The words come out easier than they should, considering I’m not usually the type to offer emotional support. But something about her nervousness brings out protective instincts I didn’t know I had.
“When did you become so wise about cooking philosophy?” she asks.
“I’ve been hanging around this chef I know. She’s taught me a few things.”
