Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence Page B

I’m Angie, and while you’re waiting to talk with Chef Henri, I’ll jot down the question you’re planning to ask him.”
    â€œOkay. Let’s try it. My question is: I’ve got a recipe here that I want to use to make some oyster beef. It says to put in a teaspoon of five spices, but it never tells me what the five spices are . I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”
    Her life was in an upheaval, and someone wanted to talk about oyster beef? Angie sighed. What was she supposed to do when the man she loved…her eye caught the question she’d written on the tablet. With a start, she forced her thoughts back to the radio show, tore off the paper, slid the window open, dropped the paper into Henry’s tray, shut the window, and sat back down with a sigh. “Actually, there’s no problem,Barbara. The recipe doesn’t mean to use five spices. It means, use the seasoning called ‘five spices.’ It comes in a jar already mixed for you. You can find it in any grocery store with a well-stocked Chinese food section.”
    â€œOh? That’s all? Geezo-petes, why didn’t the recipe say so? Well, let me hang up, I don’t want to ask Chef Henri something so dumb. Thanks so much, Angie.”
    Angie stared at the telephone. Geezo-petes? Suddenly, she hit the phone line button again. “Barbara, wait!” All was silent.
    Damn! That did it. She’d lost a caller. And Lunch with Henri had so few of them, losing one was a minor disaster. Never again could Angie allow some stubborn, moody, unwilling-to-discuss-it-properly man get in the way of her job.
    A minute later, miraculously, another call came in. She jabbed the phone button.
    â€œHello!” she shouted.
    â€œIs this the radio?”
    She forced herself to sound cheerful. “Yes, lucky caller. This is the Lunch with Henri radio show. I’m Angie, and I’m here to write down your name and your question for Chef Henri. Welcome!”
    â€œOh, why—um, my name is Anthea.”
    Angie wrote it down. “What’s your question for Chef Henri?”
    â€œAm I on the air?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œOh. Good. I want to ask about pizza bread dough. I like to make my own pizza toppings, but I hate making the bread. Yeast is so much trouble. Does Chef Henri have any simple recipes?”
    â€œOh, that’s a great question. Let me just finish writing it here.” She jotted it down, then dropped it in Henry’s tray. “Chef Henri will love it. I’m sure he’s got lots of ideas. I’ll never forget the time my boyfriend—my sort-of boyfriend, that is—brought me a pizza. He thought he was bringing me Italian food—which is like coals to Newcastle, as they say—but really, it’s so American, I had to laugh.” She remembered Anthea’s question. “I used to make pizza for him using frozen bread dough.”
    â€œWhat a great idea!”
    â€œAfter it was defrosted, he would help me stretch it over the pizza pan. That was fun. We’d talk, and as the yeast warmed up, the dough would rise, and he’d warm up, and he’d rise…. Oh, well, I’m sure Henri will have lots of good ideas for you.”
    â€œI can’t imagine anything easier than what you just said. Thanks.”
    To Angie’s surprise, the phone went dead. She shrugged, then glanced at the monitor. No one else was waiting to have their call screened.
    â€œAnd now,” Henry said, “it’s time to go to our phones so that you, our callers, can ask me anything your hearts desire about cooking. Our first caller is Barbara from Novato. Hello, Barbara.”
    No answer. “Barbara?”
    Angie vigorously shook her head. Henry noticed and frowned. “Uh, Barbara seems to have been cut off. How about Anthea from…hmm. Anthea? Hello. Hello? Hell —oh.”
    Angie’s head shaking was a little slower this time.