Page 40 of Savoring Christmas
“He called me out to the house to examine one of his horses.” Abby rolled out her dough rope. “Way up north—a road that veers off of Fox Hollow. From what I can tell he had the landcleared for his house. And by house I mean mansion. Let’s just say I nearly got lost between the gate and the front door.”
Thelma paused mid-roll. “Really, there’s a house out there?”
“Apparently, he keeps to himself.” Abby shaped her gnocchi with quick flicks of her fork. “He mentioned he’s looking for a permanent housekeeper. Big place like that needs someone full-time. There’s even a guest cottage. Which had me thinking about Patty and the kids.”
A housekeeping job. A guest cottage. And a certain mother of three who’d just lost her job. “That’s a very interesting idea,” Mia said.
“Very much so,” Logan said.
Cannoli let out a soft “whuff” from her corner, as if agreeing with the plan.
“I told him I knew someone who might be perfect for the job,” Abby said. “And he agreed to meet Patty.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Thelma said. “How old is he?”
“I’d say later thirties, early forties,” Abby said. “Very good looking.”
“I see.” Thelma pursed her lips.
“What are you thinking?” Harold asked laughing. “Matchmaking?”
“I mean, why wouldn’t he fall in love with Patty?” Thelma asked, eyes dancing. “It would be very romantic.”
“Kind of like Cinderella,” Reese said, sounding dreamy.
Mia made her way around the room, and, as always, the results were as varied as the personalities in the class. Cannoli shadowed her for a few minutes, tail wagging like she was the sous-chef in charge of morale.
Thelma’s ropes were smooth and even, each piece lined up in perfect rows like little soldiers. Harold’s gnocchi, on the other hand, were varied—some fat and plump, others thin as pencils. “They’re a mess,” Harold said.
“Not to worry,” Mia said. “Let’s see how they cook up. This is a dish that takes a few tries to master, so you mustn’t be disappointed if they’re not perfect tonight.”
Abby’s pieces were surprisingly uniform, but she’d pressed each one with a heavy hand, the fork ridges deep enough to qualify as dimples. “Too much?” Abby asked in a worried voice.
“The sauce will have plenty to cling to,” Mia said, touching Abby’s shoulder.
Kris’s were eclectic. A few perfect, most wildly uneven. “Do Harold and I get points for variety?”
Mia laughed. “Sure. Why not?” Cannoli barked once, startling Kris into almost dropping his gnocchi.
Reese’s were, of course, meticulous—each piece identical, their ridges delicate and perfectly formed. Her little tray looked like something from a cookbook photo shoot.
“Reese, you really are the star of the class,” Thelma said.
Reese flushed and dipped her chin, clearly embarrassed but also pleased.
And then there was Logan’s. His ropes weren’t bad, but the pieces were cut generously—half of them closer to gnocchi boulders than pillows. Cannoli sat beside his station, watching as if she were waiting for him to “accidentally” drop one.
“Well, those are hearty,” Mia said.
He grimaced. “Too big?”
“A bit, but that’s okay,” Mia reassured him. “Again, this is everyone’s first attempt at a difficult dish, so don’t be too hard on yourselves.”
“All right, everyone. Now it’s sauce time. This is the simplest part of the recipe, but it’s also where the flavor really blooms. You don’t want to rush it.” Mia moved to her skillet, adding butter in generous pats. It began to melt instantly, the pale yellow turning glossy, then foamed, tiny bubbles racing to the surface. “Take a good look at this. Do you see how it’s foamy butstill pale? You must keep a close watch. Butter goes from perfect to burnt in a matter of seconds. We want a nutty, golden brown—not black.”
Mia picked up a handful of fresh sage leaves. “Now for the sage. Whole leaves go right in.” She dropped them into the butter, which responded with a satisfying sizzle. “That sound means they’re crisping. Fresh sage will perfume the butter as it toasts, adding that warm, almost woodsy flavor that makes this dish feel like winter comfort.”
The leaves darkened slightly at the edges, curling. “When the sage is crisp, the butter should be golden and smell a little nutty—that’s how you know it’s done. Don’t walk away, even for a second.”
