Page 1 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
1
Avery
Igrin at my father as he lays a special treat in front of me at the bar. My son, Charlie, is already munching on his own offered pile of pastries. My dad—Dominick Caruso—is a famous pastry chef, at least in the region. He might not be nationally or globally renown, but he is damn good at what he does.
And that is to make the most flavor-intensive pastries in existence. That’s my truth, and I’m sticking to it.
What’s in front of me is distinctly green, and I purse my mouth. Matcha, mint, pistachio, green apple, or lime? Certainly not avocado, since I don’t see any savory garnishes.
Dad isn’t a fan of food coloring. He’s too focused on flavors for that, and dyes change the taste. I would know. We had that argument when I was seven. He stopped using them altogether in his bakes.
For his chocolates and macarons, however, he uses a smidge. Their vibrancy is a part of their appeal. I get it. He uses as many natural colorants as possible.
I sniff, closing my eyes to take in the scents of sugar and flour and butter. Vanilla, green tea, and lime. My mouth waters. I reach for a fork.
Dad is grinning at me before I take my first bite. It's a cake of some kind, layered high like an opera cake, but I never can keep the different kinds of sponge separate in my head. I can, however, pinpoint every ingredient he includes in one.
A small triangle slides onto my fork. I start with it at the front of my palate. The sweet notes of the sugar and white chocolate hit me first, then the salt, butter, and almond. Sour from the lime comes after, and the green tea comes last before I swallow.
It’s clean, refreshing, and combines the kind of complexity I’ve come to expect from my dad. I take another, larger bite, and he grins at me.
“You like?” His brows rise high on his forehead, hopeful.
“I do.” I push around the second bite, enjoying the mouth feel. His buttercream is silky and smooth without being too greasy. The sponge is moist and soft but firm enough to hold against the layers. And the ganache with the lime in it is thick as it melts. “Clean.”
His laugh is boisterous. “No notes?”
I tip my head to the side.
Dad points at me. “Ah. Tell me.”
“Maybe a little less gelatin? Pectin instead? Or just let the chocolate in the ganache do the work instead.” I smack my lips and go for a third bite. “Maybe pistachio flour instead of almond? Is that too much green?”
“No. I like it. They are in season soon, so it will match well.” Ideas are spinning in his head already. It’s a look I know far too well.
“Mmm-hmm. Just don’t forget that your grandson is here while you lose yourself in a new round of tests.” I steal one morebite for the road. I never seem to finish an entire full-sized treat. I’ve always been a fan of samplers.
For obvious reasons. The super-taster skills my dad has honed in me since I was young have set me up to try anything. Well, almost anything. That man will never offer my son a Twinkie or Oreos again after the fit I threw when they changed the recipes.
No. Thank you.
I wash my hands and straighten my jumpsuit. It’s sleek and professional, as smart as it is sexy, the kind of impression I want to make on my first day at my new job as a chocolate taster. I mean, talk about dreams coming true.
The little girl I used to be is practically screaming and jumping up and down in my head.
I round the counter to plant a solid kiss on my son, Charlie, ruffling his dark hair as he chews through a chocolate croissant. “Don’t eat too many of those. You need to eat real food, too.”
“That is real food,” my father scolds.
I plant my hands on my hips and watch him do the same. “Balancedfood. Fruits, vegetables, meats. And not all wrapped up in a buttery crust, as delicious as that might be. It will make you slow on your skates.”
The pout forming on my son’s mouth turns into a grimace. “As long as I don’t have to eat kale.”
I laugh. “No. You don’t have to eat kale.”
He nods and takes another enormous bite. Charlie truly looks so much like his father—the darkness of his hair and how it flops in his face, those almond-shaped eyes, the natural tan to his skin.
I shake my head and point at my father. “Not too many treats. Yes?”
