Page 86 of Cooking Up My Comeback
The kitchen is organized chaos. The good kind that happens when people who love each other are creating something together. Crew stands at the counter arranging ingredients with the focus of a kid on a mission. Tally sits at the breakfast bar with Lila, debating the merits of different Christmas movies.
“What are we making?” I ask, setting down my gifts and wine.
Hazel turns from the sink, eyeing my gift bag with a knowing smile. “Did you get Amber something special?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe.”
“I’m preparing Grandma Pearl’s stuffing recipe,” Amber says. There’s reverence in her voice when she mentions her grandmother. Family recipes are sacred. I get that.
“And Hazel’s roasting a ham,” Tally adds. “Fair warning—she takesit seriously.”
“Good. I respect serious ham preparation.”
“What can I do to help?” Standing around watching feels wrong. These people work as a team.
Mason raises his hand like he’s in school. “You can be my assistant! But you need safety equipment too.”
Before I can protest, Amber hands me an apron—thankfully one that just saysGrill Master—and Ellen drags over a step stool.
This is what I’ve been missing, not just Amber, though she’s everything, but the belonging and the way they fold me in like I’ve always been here.
“Okay,” Amber says, tying her apron with graceful efficiency despite the chaos. “Brett, you’re on mashed potato duty. Crew, cheese and cracker tray. Mason, you’re my sous chef for peach chutney.”
“What about me?” Tally demands.
“You and Lila handle the ham glaze. Try not to burn anything down.”
“No promises.” Tally grins.
I’m washing potatoes, listening to Mason explain the scientific properties of peach preservation—which mostly involves lots of “because” statements and wild hand gestures—when Jack appears from the back porch.
“How can I help?” he asks, then sees me and smiles. “Brett! Good to see you.”
“You too.” And I mean it. Jack’s one of those guys who makes you feel welcome without trying. Solid. The kind of stepdad these kids deserve.
“You can help Brett with potatoes,” Hazel says, handing him a peeler. “Fair warning—he’s never made mashed potatoes for ten people.”
When’s the last time I cooked for so many? Try never.
“Don’t panic,” Amber says softly, appearing at my elbow. “It’s just like cooking for one, but with more butter.”
“And more chaos,” Jack adds.
“That’s the best part,” Mason announces, climbing onto his step stool with dangerous determination. He’s got a measuring cup in one hand, a bag of flour in the other. “I need to pour this for the chutney thickener.”
“Mason, wait—” Amber starts.
Too late. He dumps flour toward the measuring cup, misses, and sends a white cloud billowing across the counter. Most lands on my shoes.
I look down at my flour-dusted boots. “Well. That’s one way to season the cook.”
Mason’s eyes go wide behind his goggles. For a second, I think he might cry. Something protective flares in my chest. This kid doesn’t need another adult disappointed in him.
Instead, he starts giggling. “You look like a snowman!”
“A handsome one,” Amber says, grabbing a kitchen towel. Our fingers brush when she hands it to me. That simple touch sends warmth shooting up my arm.
“They needed seasoning anyway,” I tell Mason, dusting off my jeans. “Thanks for the help, buddy.”
