Spooning by Darri Stephens Page B

sexually errant brainstorms.
    “They are divine and appropriately named,” Macie replied. She was at the stove already, ready to whip up a sample of her dish. She had really risen to this challenge.
    “Funeral?” Syd questioned.
    “Think potatoes, dirt, corn flakes, grass … a sinful dish six- feet deep, or should I say under. At least six centimeters,” she concluded holding up a brand-new Pyrex dish. “All of you, grab a peeler, a knife, or any sharp object you can find.” We all hovered over the yellow Formica countertops wielding our instruments.
    “A tad phallic,” Tara observed. Syd was digging into the potatoes with swinging scoops of the peeler, each thrust sending a sliver of potato skin just inches from her face.
    “I've been working on the railroad!” she sang. “All the live long day!”
    “Syd, you peel
away
from you,” I said giving her my best Jane Dough impression.
    “These are tools of mass destruction you know,” Sage sniffed, looking intently at the peeler. Anything to do with food was considered a tactical threat to her waist line.
    “Blood! There is blood!” screamed Syd.
    “That's it kids—abort mission!” Wade commanded. “Abort mission, I said.”
    “It's okay,” Macie agreed as we put down our peelers. “You can use frozen hash browns in this recipe.”
    “Now you tell us!” Tara huffed, flexing her cramped fingers.
    “Now for the rest of the dinner,” Wade continued as we sat back down at the kitchen table. “Sage's making fat-free sorbet to cleanse the palate, Tara's making broccoli with some sort of sauce—”
    “Mystery sauce,” Tara winked, somehow making it sound sexy and mystifying.
    “Syd—white bean salad.”
    “It might be white and brown beans. I'm not sure yet,” corrected Syd.
    “Okay, and I'm making the assortment of stuffed canapés … and Charlie?”
    For the last week, I had been hiding out in the test kitchen at work hoping to perfect my ambitious contribution to our dinner party. After my very first day on the job, my mother had recommended that I find a cozy corner in the kitchen so thatthe good cooking vibes could “rub off on me as much as possible.” I soon found that I was lured into the test kitchen not so much by the desire to hone my culinary skills but by the amazing smells that wafted through the sets. Who knew roasted cauliflower could smell so divine? The head chef was a great guy who let me drool (I mean observe) over his shoulder as much as possible. And he was my hero as he would often recommend shortcuts whenever he could. Case in point: my current task to perfect the Diva's famous toffee for our Halloween soirée.
    “Charlie, you don't need a double boiler but if you use a regular pan, you have to watch the mixture every second and stir, stir, stir,” the chef instructed. I just nodded along scribbling his instructions furiously. I didn't know if I had a double boiler. Nor did I know what I should be stirring the mixture with, a wooden spoon, a metal whisk, a plastic scraper, a spatula? Since working at
S&S
, I could now recognize the variety of utensils that could aid one in the kitchen—but I wasn't up on their exact uses. So I'd decided that I'd just use all four. I was determined to master Jane's toffee recipe for Mr. J. P. Morgan, or put on five pounds trying.
    Now surrounded by my five best friends, I couldn't wait to reveal my plan.
    “I'm making toffee!” I exclaimed a little too eagerly. “Mr. J. P. Morgan loves my toffee. It's his favorite sweet.”
    “You mean he loves Jane's toffee.”
    “Semantics,” I conceded, handing out samples I'd snatched from work. Sage bowed out gracefully as always, but the rest were licking their fingers in delight.
    “Way to step up, Charlie. You learned how to boil sugar?” Macie asked.
    “Yep! Well, these are some of Jane's samples but I think I'm up to the task. Just, um, where do you get a candy thermometer?” All six of us dissolved into little girl