Page 15 of Noel I Won’t
“It’s fine,” Noel said. “Knock yourself out, big guy. Just don’t ruin my bird.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I murmured.
Maggie carried out the pie while Noel poured the gravy into a dish. I opened a cabinet to withdraw a cutting board, along with the carving fork and knife.
Noel left me to it, and I made fast work of slicing up the turkey and transferring a bit of white and dark meat to a serving dish.
When I joined them in the dining room, everyone was seated. I set the platter of meat in the center of the table, then took my place across from Noel.
“Before we start, I’d like to just tell you what everything is,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. Here we go. The hoity-toity chef routine. Like I couldn’t see that there were mashed potatoes in the bowl in front of me?
“I took a few liberties with some of the dishes,” he said.
I listened, taken aback, as he went through the lineup. Not just mashed potatoes, buttruffle-infused mashed potatoes.Heart-healthy stuffing with pears, onions, and walnuts. Honey-baked sweet potatoes. The list went on…
At first, I was a little miffed. He’d messed with a lot of traditional recipes. But many of them were adjusted so his father could enjoy them as well. And even the ones that weren’t changed to be heart healthy… well, it was tough to complain once I tried them, and every single one was mouthwateringly delicious.
He’d taken all our Thanksgiving favorites and somehow…made them better.
I took a bite of the truffle potatoes Noel had prepared for everyone but his father, savoring the earthy flavor, then some of that stuffing with the pears, which was just the right balance of sweet and savory, and looked at Noel with new eyes. He wasn’t just a cook, some guy who could run a diner in Riverton or Granville.
He had a rare talent. I hadn’t grasped it before. Couldn’t have. There was cooking, and then there was…
Art on a plate.
“You’re quiet,” Noel said about halfway through the meal. “Do you not like it?” He pushed his chair back. “I made some backup mashed potatoes, with just butter and cream?—”
“You made all this, plusbackups?”
He colored a little. “Thanksgiving is so traditional.” He glanced at everyone around the table. “I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s meal.”
“Oh, honey, it’s all really wonderful.” She looked at her husband. “Right, Ed?”
He nodded. “This stuff you made just for me is pretty good. Different, but good.” He held up a spoonful of what looked like whipped potato. “I don’t know what it is, but…”
Noel’s lips twitched. “Those are whipped turnips.”
“Seriously?” His dad looked down at his plate, betrayed. “It just tastes like peppery potatoes.”
Noel chuckled. “They’re quite good in the right recipes. No one gives turnips their due.”
“I guess not.”
He glanced at me, a wary expression on his face. “What about you, Hopper? Would you rather I brought out some of the more traditional recipes instead?”
I could tell he expected me to say yes. Maybe because he thought I’d relish the chance to criticize him, or maybe because he didn’t think my palate could appreciate the difference.
But I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.
“Why would I want anything but the best, Noel?” I asked. “I do have some taste.”
His eyes widened a fraction, and pink seeped into his cheeks. Could it be that Noel Grisold was actuallyflatteredby something I’d said?
Well, stranger things had happened.
I took another bite of truffle-infused mashed potatoes and tried not to think about how my father had never shown up.
