Page 5 of Deep Fried Devotion
Magic happened. Instead of wandering off in search of immediate gratification, the small crowd pressed closer to his window, eager to try everything. Soren distributed tiny spoons topped with green pearls that burst with sour-salty flavor, and suddenly the wait became entertainment instead of inconvenience.
"How'd you make the pickle juice stay together like that?" a teenager asked, genuinely curious now.
"Trade secret," Soren said with the first real smile Birdie had seen from him. "But it involves some chemistry and a lot of trial and error."
By the time Birdie's oil reached proper temperature, Soren had transformed her equipment crisis into an impromptu cooking demonstration. Her customers hadn't just stayed, they'd multiplied, drawn by the excitement.
"Thank you," she said as she dropped fresh batter into the heated oil. "You didn't have to do that."
"Your success reflects on the whole corner," he said, echoing her earlier words back to her.
She liked hearing her own reasoning spoken in his steady voice.
The rest of the evening flew past in a golden blur of satisfied customers and steadily growing lines. Birdie discovered that Soren's technical expertise balanced her intuitive cooking style like two puzzle pieces that had been cut from the same picture. When she got caught up chatting with customers and forgot to check her timers, he'd catch her eye and tap his watch with the ghost of a smile. When his scientific explanations started making people's eyes glaze over, she'd jump in with translations that made everyone laugh.
"What he means," she told a confused grandmother, "is that it tastes like coffee but surprises you."
The woman nodded with sudden understanding. "Like my late husband. I'll take two."
As the fair wound down at eleven, Birdie tallied her earnings while Soren cleaned his equipment with the thoroughness of someone performing surgery. The numbers were better than she'd dared hope. Not enough to quit her day job, but solid proof that her concept could work in the real world.
"How'd you do?" she asked, genuinely curious about his success.
"Your people skills are impressive," Soren replied, and she could tell the compliment was genuine. "I usually just hand food over and hope for the best."
Coming from him, it felt like winning a James Beard Award.
"Your technical knowledge saved my entire evening," she admitted. "I would've been serving charcoal bricks without your help."
They stood in the quiet of the winding-down fair, surrounded by the evidence of their first day as unlikely partners. Birdie's truck still sparkled with rainbow chaos, and Soren's remained a monument to organized sophistication, but somehow the contrast felt complementary rather than jarring.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, though they both knew choice had nothing to do with it.
"Same time tomorrow," Soren agreed.
As Soren finished cleaning his equipment, Birdie caught a glimpse of him slipping a piece of paper under her windshield wiper. He locked up his truck and shouldered a small overnight bag.
"Heading out?" she asked, securing her own truck for the night.
"Hotel nearby. You?"
"I've got a sleeping bag." She patted the side of her truck with affection. "Wouldn't be the first time I've camped out at a fair."
"See you in the morning, then."
After he disappeared through the fairground gates, probably to catch a ride, she retrieved the small piece of paper from her windshield and unfolded it to find a note written in penmanship they didn't teach anymore:
Temperature control is the key to consistent results. Oil should be 350°F for optimal browning without burning. —S
It wasn't exactly a love letter, but his thoughtfulness—the way he'd noticed her struggle and taken time to help—made her smile as she settled into her truck for the night. Tomorrow suddenly seemed full of delicious possibilities.
Chapter Three
Birdie woke to the sound of gravel crunching under tires and the distant hum of generators coming to life. She unzipped her sleeping bag and peeked out of her small tent pitched beside her food truck. The fairgrounds were already stirring in the pre-dawn light—other vendors arriving, the smell of coffee drifting from early setups.
She'd slept surprisingly well considering she was camping on fairground grass, though she suspected the previous day's excitement had worn her out more than she'd realized. After pulling on yesterday's clothes and running a brush through her hair, she emerged from her tent to discover a small mountain of covered dishes were arranged beside her truck like offerings at a shrine. Casserole containers, pie plates, and mason jars sat in orderly rows, each adorned with handwritten notes tucked under their edges.
"What in the world?" she murmured, bending to read the first tag written in spidery handwriting.
