Page 67 of Booked for the Holidays
Lucas nods and pats my shoulder. “That’s good, Theo. If you ever want to commiserate over feelings, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate you.” I sniff the air. “Is something burning?”
“SHIT.” Bridget barrels over to the stove, smoke rising from the pan. Lucas gets shoved away and I stifle my laughter as he stumbles back. “I burnt the latkes!” She turns the appliance off, using a potholder to fan away the smog.
“Fuck, I was supposed to be watching them.” I jump off my stool and duck under the counter, hurrying to stand beside her. Charred, burnt lumps of whatusedto be potato stare back at me. “Sorry, Bridget. That’s totally my fault.”
“No, it’s not. I got distracted and… Dammit.” She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut. “Felicity spent so much time on the brisket and I ruined the meal.”
“Hey.” I drape my arm around her shoulder. “You didn’t ruin anything. Look, this one is still salvageable. This one, too.” With my free hand, I use a spatula to slide three of the latkes out of the pan, placing them on a paper towel to cool.
“We’ll never win if I serve lumps of coal to people who have eaten food from around the world.”
I chuckle. “They’ve probably eaten crickets and fermented sharks. Still think a burnt piece of potato will do them in?”
“That sounds disgusting.”
“My point exactly.”
“I just don’t want us to lose out on $100,000 because I messed up.”
“That’s why y’all are doing a practice run, right? To learn how to do this better the next time. You’ve never made these before. In fact… Hey. Felicity. Can you come here real quick?”
“What’s up?” she asks as she approaches.
“We had a slight mishap,” I start. Bridget keeps her face tucked into my shoulder, embarrassed. “Have you ever burnt your latkes before?”
Felicity grins. “My first time making them, I actually started a fire. There was smoke everywhere. The fire department came. I ruined the first night of Hanukkah. My dad was so pissed, but my mom thought it was hysterical.”
Bridget perks up. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a running joke to this day. If something smells like it might be burning, you can hear my mom hollering through the house, ‘Felicity! Did you leave the latkes on too long again?’”
“I burnt three of them. They cook way faster than I thought.”
“Three? That’s not bad at all. And… Jeez, Bridge. These other ones look perfect.”
Bridget pulls away from my hold. “Really?”
“Really,” Felicity says, giving her an encouraging smile. “The brisket is done, so let's give all of this a try.”
Felicity hands out pieces of brisket. We pass the latkes around, each taking a half. Lucas proudly displays his donuts on a little wooden tree he made for the occasion. Chandler and Bradley provide the applesauce and sour cream. Mac bounds over with Ziggy, eager to grab a few bites for herself.
It’s nice being with these people. Half are standing, half are sitting. The chatter is bearable, and we drift between conversations, jumping in and out in between bites. Each component of the plate tastes better than the last, the food a delicious representation of teamwork. The meat is tender and the crunch of the potato is perfect. The jelly-to-donut ratio is spot on. It’s easily one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten, made in the small kitchen of a bookstore, by a bunch of folks who barely know each other.
Kind of fucking cool, if you ask me.
“This was awesome, y’all,” says Felicity. “Was it perfect? No. I definitely over seasoned the meat. But everything tasted so freaking good. It’s the thought that counts. I doubt anyone else will serve the judges a plate with both brisket and gingerbread cookies on it. So thank you, for letting me share part of my tradition with you. I can’t wait to do this again in a month.”
There’s a round of applause and Bradley whistles. Chandler takes another donut and Lucas starts to gather up the dirty pans, dropping them in the sink.
I nudge Bridget with my elbow. “See.”
She sighs and folds her arms over her chest. “You were right.”
“Say that again,” I tease.
“Hush.” Her foot kicks my shin, and I smile at the playful gesture.
