check to Toys for Tots in front of millions of television viewers! No. I said pomegranate! It’s the pink one. Do you enjoy being employed?!!”
I pick up a microplane grater and calmly begin shaving nutmeg seeds into a bowl. It’s been my experience that Aunt Miranda’s tirades can go on so long that she forgets about me and walks away from her phone. I shouldn’t have picked up. This call is throwing me off my schedule. I have a plan for the day, as usual. There is very little that makes me happier than a solid plan.
Today’s agenda:
1. Test the recipe for Mince Pies
2. Update The Cozy Brownstone Kitchen, (Maybe a blog post on Potted Meat?) and respond to questions from my followers
3. Go to the butcher to pick up the crown roast I ordered for my next recipe test
4. Make lunch for myself and Huddie and eat it together while watching the end of You’ve Got Mail
5. Research the origins of the preservation of Potted Prawns in the days before refrigeration
6. Prepare said crown roast, with an array of winter vegetables
7. Test a recipe for a Bakewell Tart,
8. Watch some animal planet with Hudson, and maybe the first part of Love, Actually
9. Early bedtime with my fat new Harlequin Superromance novel and Hudson (he never judges what I read)
Perfection!
“…and the baby for the crèche scene needs a laminate,” Aunt Miranda is still shouting. “Strangling hazard? So remove the cord and pin it onto his pyjamas, do I have to solve every problem? What? Then Velcro it! It’s not rocket science. Of COURSE the mother needs an all-access pass as well. Do you think the baby is going to climb up into the manger and swaddle himself? Why are you still standing here? GO!”
“Right then, sorry about the interruption,” she says smoothly transitioning back to me. “Charlotte, dear, I’m ringing to respond to your invitations to Christmas Eve brunch and Christmas dinner. I have some very big deals in the works, and I’m not at liberty to discuss them at this point, confidentiality agreements, meow meow, etcetera. At this point I’m afraid I still can’t commit.”
None of this comes a surprise, of course. Aunt Miranda may be my only family, apart from a few very distant cousins numerous-times removed who live in far-flung tiny villages dotting England and Wales, but she is first and foremost a businesswoman.
“Oh,” I respond, trying not to sound disappointed, “it’s just that I’ve already blogged that I might have a crowd here in the brownstone so I can serve the traditional English feasts I’ve been working on recently. I mean, this is a really good way to test the recipes for the cookbook I’m researching. I’m told by my agent, Beverly, it’s expected to sell big.” This latest cookbook, The English Manor Cookbook: Traditional Meals for Holidays, Shoot Lunches, and More, is due out next year.
Hudson takes advantage of my being distracted by climbing onto a kitchen chair and straining his pointy little muzzle toward the bowl of beef fat. I swat him away. “Hey you, you had your share.”
Sometimes I forget he’s a dog and treat him like a person, but his animal instincts come roaring to the forefront when there’s raw meat within smelling distance. “Huddie, shoo!” Disappointed, he hops down, and slinks to his basket in the corner of the kitchen.
Aunt Miranda sighs down the phone line. “Why can’t you just fly off to Saint Thomas like other sane, single young women and forget Christmas is even happening?”
I hear the subtext: Because that would be so much more convenient for me.
“That’s what I’d do…” she continues. “A few frozen cocktails, a chaise lounge, a bottle of tanning oil, a personal butler. Before you know it, Christmas will be done and dusted, and you’ll come home bronzed and more relaxed than you’ve been in years, if you catch my meaning.”
“Subtle, Aunt Miranda. Is that how you speak to the Dalai Lama when you’re overseeing his blessing ceremonies? Anyway, I don’t want to leave New York at Christmas time. I’m planning to put up my tree tomorrow.” I feel a frisson of pleasure buzz up the back of my neck. I love everything about having a real, living Christmas tree. I love choosing it, I love springing the branches free from the bundling, I love the herbal floral fragrance, and I just adore draping it in lights. “You should try it some year.”
“What’s the point? I’m never at home. Besides, if I wanted a sticky pine tree swathed in handmade ornaments and drugstore tinsel, I have people for that. You know, Charlotte, you could have people, too.”
“I don’t need people.” I lean over and give Hudson a little scratch on the belly. He twitches, and bicycles his stubby legs. He smiles a blissed-out smile.
“I’m saying that I have connections. I could give you a leg up to a real career.”
“I have a real career.” I pick up my nutmeg and begin grating with renewed determination.
“Pfft! When are you going to stop testing recipes for cookbook authors, and write a cookbook of your own? For heaven’s sake, how many awards did you walk away with when you graduated from The Culinary Institute of America? I’d never have sanctioned your turning your back on university in favor of The CIA had I known you’d toss out any chance of success and waste your time with that little blog.”
“This recipe testing and my ‘little blog,’ happen to pay my bills, thank you very much. I’m getting more and more paying sponsors every day. Since last month, 37 more members have signed up.”
“Ah, yes, your ‘Charlotte’s Chefs.’ Has it ever occurred to you, young lady, that you spend more time with the followers on your blog than you do with live humans?”
“Charlotte’s chefs are live humans.”
“Technically, yes, but you must see my point. A 26-year-old girl shouldn’t rely on online friendships and a stray dog as her entire social sphere. She should be out in the city, getting dirty and making mistakes. Speaking of dirty, have you heard from James?”
My back stiffens as I accidentally hack a large chunk of skin off of my knuckle. “Ouch,” I cry, chucking the microplane and the nutmeg into the sink. “No, I have not heard from James, and I’ve asked you repeatedly not to bring him up.” I crouch down on the floor, gather Hudson into a hug, and suck on my wounded finger.
“With your talent and his star-power, you could be someone by now. I know you blew your chance by turning James down way back when, but I’ve an idea he’d welcome you back with open arms. Team up with a real player like that firecracker, and you’d be a New York Times columnist and a leading restaurateur in short order. Your literary agent, the one who gets you all those testing jobs… what’s his name? Beverly Chestnut! That’s it. He’s said as much a number of times. What a character that man is! Ha! The bolo tie he wore to the World Literacy Fund Charity Ball slayed me. Genius! All I’m saying, darling, is that you could be someplace in this world.”
“I am someplace in this world.” I look around my cozy kitchen, decorated just the way I like it with a combination of French country touches, and mid-century appliances. “I’m
