Page 30 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

He washes his hands, dries them on a towel tucked into his apron, and approaches. When he leans in to kiss me, it feels natural, as if we've been doing this for years rather than days. His lips taste faintly of something herbal and bright—he's been tasting as he works.

"My grandfather's special mountain trout." He gestures to the pristine fillets. "Caught this morning by Hank Turner up at Crystal Lake. Still swimming at dawn."

The fish gleams pearlescent under the professional lighting, its flesh the pale pink of sunrise. Next to it, small piles of ingredients wait in precise grouping—fresh herbs, mushrooms, tiny potatoes with soil still clinging to their skins.

"First rule of cooking—mise en place." He hands me an apron. "Everything in its place before you begin."

The apron smells of laundry soap and faintly of him. I tie it around my waist, ready to play student to his teacher.

"We'll start with the herbs." He guides me to a cutting board. "Hold the knife like this."

His hand covers mine, adjusting my grip on the chef's knife. His chest presses against my back, warm and solid. This position is ostensibly instructional, but the brush of his breath against my ear suggests other intentions.

"Rock the blade, don't chop." He demonstrates, our hands moving in unison. "Let the knife do the work."

The herbs release their fragrance as we cut—thyme, dill, chervil—creating an aromatic cloud that tingles in my nose and clings to my fingers. When he steps away to check something on the stove, I feel the absence of his heat like a sudden chill.

"What's next?" I ask, oddly proud of my neatly minced herbs.

"Mushrooms." He places a basket of tiny golden chanterelles before me. "These grow on the north side of Widow's Peak. I harvested them last week."

I learn to clean them with a small brush rather than water and slice them to preserve their delicate texture. Hunter moves around the kitchen with the grace of a dancer, effortlessly reaching for ingredients and adjusting the heat, all while maintaining a running commentary on his grandfather's techniques.

"He believed food should taste of place." Hunter measures out a splash of amber liquid. "This is local honey mead. The Johnsons have kept bees here for four generations."

Everything connects to story, to history, to the mountains surrounding us. This isn't cooking as I've experienced it in the world's top restaurants—technical, competitive, designed to impress. This is cooking as communion with place, with memory, with legacy.

"Taste." He holds out a spoon with a small amount of sauce, his other hand cupped beneath to catch any drips.

I lean forward, lips parting. The flavor blooms across my tongue—butter richness balanced with herbal brightness and the subtle sweetness of the mead. My eyes close involuntarily.

"Good?" His voice has dropped half an octave.

"Incredible." I open my eyes to find him watching me with intense focus.

"Your turn." He hands me the wooden spoon. "Stir while I prep the garnish."

We move around each other in the spacious kitchen. He shows me how to test the potatoes with the tip of a knife, how to crisp the trout skin to a perfect golden brown, and how to plate with an artist's eye for composition.

"Final touch." He reaches past me for a jar of vibrant orange roe. "Wild steelhead caviar from the river that runs through town."

With tweezers, he places tiny dots of the glistening eggs around our plates. The completed dishes look like edible landscapes—the trout nestled on herb-flecked potatoes, surrounded by golden mushrooms, and the bright pops of roe. Sauce is swirled like a mountain stream around the perimeter.

"Beautiful." I'm genuinely impressed by the dish and how much I've enjoyed creating it.

Without thinking, I pull out my phone, capturing the perfect composition from several angles. The light catches the glistening trout skin, the vibrant orange roe, and the delicate herbs—a masterpiece that deserves documentation.

"For your memory collection?" Hunter asks, looking pleased by my appreciation.

"Something like that." I take one final shot that captures the dish with the mountains visible through the window behind it—place and plate in perfect harmony.

"Not done yet." Hunter disappears into the wine room, returning with a dust-covered bottle. "2010 Kistler Chardonnay. Been saving it for a special occasion."

He uncorks the bottle, pouring golden liquid into crystal stems that catch the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.

"To your first Timberline creation." He raises his glass.

We carry our plates and wine to a small chef's table in the corner of the kitchen—an intimate space where the staff might taste new dishes or hold meetings.

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