Page 66 of A Recipe for Love
‘How long are you back for, Cal?’
‘Just for the next week. Uni finished and I’ve got a month or so before my new job starts. Marketing.’
‘In London,’ his father added.
Hugh sucked the air through his teeth.
‘I know,’ Callum laughed. ‘It’s practically France.’
‘Worse than France. England.’ Hugh glanced at Bella. ‘No offence.’
The three men drained their pints. ‘We’ve got to get back,’ Callum explained. ‘Mum’s making spag bol.’
‘And I’m only supposed to be out walking this little lady.’
The trio headed out and Bella and Adam settled back onto the bench Hugh had vacated. ‘So this is where you did all your teenage high jinx?’ she asked.
‘Oh no. Mr Taggart was a stickler and he knew everyone’s birthdays. He kept a little list behind the bar, so there was no way you were getting served underage. We used to have to nick whisky from our parents’ cupboards and drink it on the lochside. Or out in Pav’s granddad’s boat.’
‘You were drinking whisky when you were a teenager?’ Bella was impressed. ‘Hardcore.’
‘Well it’s basically your patriotic duty around here.’
‘So for this cookery school idea…’ she started.
Adam closed his eyes. ‘Can we not?’
‘Not what?’
‘Not talk about the estate tonight.’ His expression was one of weariness. ‘Just for this evening.’
‘Sorry. It’s supposed to be a night off, isn’t it?’
‘That was the idea, yeah.’
‘All right then.’ She took a long drag from her pint. Hugh was right. It tasted like dishwater. ‘What shall we talk about?’
‘Tell me something about you that I don’t know yet.’
‘OK.’ What was there? Compared with being a laird and growing up in a castle, Bella’s life hadn’t been that noteworthy so far. ‘There’s not much to tell.’
‘How did you get into food?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What got you started with it?’
She shook her head. ‘Everyone’s into food. You have to eat, don’t you? So, I guess that’s what got me started.’
‘No. Well yes, everyone has to eat, but you light up when you taste something amazing and when you’re actually cooking you’re just lost in it. Most people aren’t like that.’
Maybe that was true, but it was incomprehensible to her. How could you not get lost in a perfect piece of dark chocolate, just sweet and creamy enough, or in the scent of a chicken, coated with just a dash of garlic, lemon and black pepper, roasting in the oven?
‘Did you cook with your mum?’
‘Oh God no. She could barely make toast. It was my nan.’ She could still see herself back in the kitchen in her nan’s flat, rolling out biscuit dough or standing up on tiptoes to take a taste of whatever Nan was cooking from the edge of her wooden spoon. She could remember her nan asking her, ‘What else does it need?’ She smiled. ‘I love that it’s never quite the same twice when you cook something. You can take the same ingredients and do the same thing but then sometimes when you taste it, it needs a dash more salt, or a squeeze of lemon, but then other times it’s just right already. But you don’t know until you taste. I can never get bored of it.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds mad, doesn’t it?’
‘No. That’s how I feel about plants. You do everything you know you should and then you have to wait for the weather and the season to change, and sometimes the soil just isn’t right even though you were sure it would be, so you have to change your plan and plant something different. A garden is never really finished, you know. You can always go back in and plant something new or prune something back or move something that’s not thriving like it should be. You have to keep sort of listening to it and tending to it, you know?’
