Page 65 of Booked for the Holidays
“What about you?” Bridget asks as she turns the page of the recipe. “What are y’all doing?”
“Mac, my parents and I have lunch in the early afternoon then spend the evening driving around looking at houses decorated for Christmas. We’ve done it for years now.”
Her chin raises and a piece of potato skin is stuck on her check. She nudges it away with her shoulder and gives me a smile. “That sounds really nice. I’m glad you get to spend time together.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Me too. Do you… maybe you could–”
“Alright, y’all,” Felicity calls out, interrupting me. “Looking good. We’ve got ten minutes left on the brisket, and then it’ll sit for twenty minutes. Once we get those potatoes finished, we’re going to wring out the moisture with the cheese cloth I provided. Then we’ll combine them with the eggs and cornstarch and throw them in the pans!”
“I’m definitely going to fuck this up,” Bridget mutters. Her tongue is caught between her teeth, and her brows are furrowed. It’s her concentrated face, I’ve learned. When she’s focusing hard, determined to finish a task.
“No way. Your potatoes look awesome. You’re doing great.”
Bridget perks up. “You think so?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
“How’s it going, Bridge?” Lucas calls out from his station.
“Not bad! How are the donuts coming along?”
“We should’ve switched jobs,” he laughs. “Theo, you want to help?”
“Nope. The sidelines are just fine.”
“How long have you and Lucas been friends?” Bridget asks.
“Thirty years. Maybe more? Long enough where he knows all of my deepest, darkest secrets.”
“Such as?” She transfers the freshly grated potatoes to the cheese cloth Felicity laid out. Her hands press the material together, liquid draining from the vegetables. I know she’s only half-listening to me, but I like talking to her. She’s easy to talk to.
“Hm.” I hum and try to think of something to share. “I crashed my parents’ car when I was fourteen. Lucas and I snuck out to go to Blockbuster. When I was turning back into the neighborhood, a squirrel darted in front of the car and I smashed into a tree. We were only going twenty miles an hour, but it was enough to do some damage.”
Bridget bursts out laughing. She drops the potatoes into a mixing bowl, using her hands to coat them in the necessary ingredients. I appreciate that she isn’t afraid to get dirty as cornstarch sticks between her fingers. “How much trouble did you get in?”
“A fuck ton. Thanks for teaching me that measurement, by the way. It’s perfect for this story. I didn’t even have a cell phone to call them. Lucas ran the mile to my house and my dad wasfurious.”
Her laughter grows and her shoulders shake. She has to pause her cooking, unable to keep a straight face. “Please tell me the movie was worth it?”
I groan. “It wasMatilda. And we loved it.”
“Theo Gardner. You are something else. You watched it for Miss. Trunchbull, didn’t you?”
“Guilty.”
The smile on her face hangs around as she transfers the coated product to the hot frying pan on the stove behind her. I hear her hiss in pain, retreating backward.
“Ow. Shit.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. I’m off the seat, leaning over the counter to see if she needs help or if she’s hurt.
“I’m fine. The oil is hot.”
“Careful, Brownie. I’m a big fan of potatoes. I can’t have you hurting yourself before they’re finished.”
“Keeping me around for the muffins and potatoes, huh?” she says, back turned toward me. She’s taking her time, making sure each mixture gets placed in the pan carefully and correctly. I hear the sizzle of the oil. The smell begins to permeate the air, a combination of pepper and onions. It smellsgood.
“One of the reasons.”
