Page 30 of Savoring Christmas
She demonstrated the mashing technique with a few test potatoes, the masher moving in confident strokes. “Always mash them hot. Cold potatoes turn gluey no matter what you do.” Warm cream and butter went in gradually, the mixture transforming from chunky to silky. “Use warm cream; cold cream will cool down your potatoes and make them dense. And butter—real butter, not margarine. We’re not counting calories tonight.”
The finished dish came together on the plate almost like art—golden chicken glistening with dark Marsala sauce, creamy potatoes piped in an elegant swirl, a sprinkle of fresh thyme adding color and fragrance.
“There. Finished.” Mia wiped her hands on her apron. “Now let’s see what you can do.”
Everyone leaned in, the collective intake of breath almost audible, and, for the first twenty minutes, it seemed like things would run smoothly. Cannoli made quiet circuits of the room between stations, earning a quick ear scratch here, a murmuredhello there, before settling back by Mia. However, things began to fall apart.
At the far end of the counter, Logan’s skillet began hissing louder than the others, an angry, spitting sound that cut through the kitchen’s ambient noise. A moment later, a sharp, acrid scent hit the air—not quite smoke, but the warning that came just before.
“Ah, come on,” Logan muttered, his spatula scraping against the pan as he flipped the chicken to reveal a side just past “golden brown” and edging into “charcoal.”
Mia walked over, her shoes squeaking softly on the rubber mat, biting back a smile. The heat radiating from his station warmed her face. “Your pan’s too hot.”
Logan glanced up at her, his expression dry as desert wind. “This is a disaster.”
“No, you’re doing fine,” Mia said. “Turn down the heat and try again.”
Across the counter, Abby was attacking her potatoes with a masher. The metal implement made wet, squelching sounds against the lumpy mass, punctuated by her increasingly frustrated huffs.
“These are all lumpy.” Abby frowned, eyeing the stubborn lumps that refused to surrender. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Let me taste them,” Mia said diplomatically, taking a spoonful to check the texture. The potatoes were gritty against her tongue, but salvageable. “Add a little more cream—they’ll smooth out.”
Harold, however, was already moving on to deglazing his pan. Too enthusiastically. His movements were quick, excited, the bottle tilting with abandon.
The second the Marsala wine hit the hot skillet, a flare of blue-orange flame whooshed up toward the exhaust hood, thesudden heat blooming across their faces and sending half the room stumbling backward with startled gasps.
“Mia, help!” Harold shouted, his face flushed from the flame and adrenaline. “Someone grab the fire extinguisher.”
Mia stepped in quickly, her hand steady as she slid his pan off the heat, the flame dying to a gentle simmer. “It’s fine now.”
“Do I still have eyebrows?” Harold asked.
“All intact,” Mia said. “But do be careful.”
At the far end, Reese worked in focused silence, her movements economical and precise. She quietly plated a perfect golden chicken breast beside glossy Marsala sauce and creamy potatoes piped with professional smoothness.
“That looks incredible,” Mia said honestly, genuinely impressed. “How do you feel about it?”
Reese gave a small shrug, her voice soft as tissue paper. “It …looks good.”
“You’ve done very well,” Mia said.
Mia had expected the children by now but so far there was no sign of them. She hoped nothing was wrong but a bad feeling came over her. Patty wouldn’t miss work unless someone was sick.
“I wonder where the kids are?” Mia asked.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Logan said.
Food plated with varying degrees of success—some scorched, some lumpy. Regardless, everyone had done their best and that’s all that mattered.
“Alright, everyone.” Mia settled at the table with her own perfectly plated dish. “Before we dig into our own, let’s do a tasting round. Pass your plates to the right—let’s see what everyone created.”
The plates began their slow journey around the table. Logan’s slightly charred chicken made its way first to Abby.
“I’m sorry I burned it,” Logan said, sounding about eight years old.
Abby took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Actually, the extra caramelization adds a smoky depth. Right, Mia?”
