Free Ring of Truth by Ciji Ware Page B

graduate of the CIA and a well-known food blogger. And she’s my guest today at the food writers luncheon, so cool your jets, will you, Sara?”
    â€œWell, how do you expect there to be a food writers lunch with this mess, Renato!” she shouted, and Kerry sensed the woman was on her way to a complete meltdown.
    An amateur in the kitchen...
    Kerry surveyed the counters. A big bundle wrapped in white butcher paper and marked SALMON FILETS had yet to be opened. Piles of winter root vegetables, including carrots, turnips and beets, along with Brussels sprouts, were draining on a sideboard—uncut. On the marbled pastry counter it appeared that Sara, her cheeks smudged with flour, had been working on making Parker House rolls. Close by, a big bag of sugar stood, unopened, probably waiting for someone to prepare the dessert.
    Just then, sirens could be heard as a county fire truck and an ambulance pulled up outside. Ren dashed through the screen door.
    â€œIn here, fellas...” he shouted and within minutes, the groaning chef was strapped on a gurney and wheeled toward the door. “Sara, you go with him!” Ren ordered. “Make sure he has his wallet with his insurance information.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI mean it,” barked Ren. “You ride in the ambulance with him and text me when the hospital can confirm what’s wrong. José and I will handle the lunch. Now, get going! ”
    â€œAre you crazy!” she screeched. “You can’t even fry eggs and José is nothing but a glorified bus boy! Send him in the ambulance—”
    â€œWe’re going to need a bus boy today, and a sous chef, and a hard worker, and José is all three. Now do what I say!” he insisted.
    â€œOr what? ” she hissed, her eyes shifting over to Kerry. “You’ll recruit Ms. CIA to replace me... after all I’ve done around here!”
    â€œWill you just do what I’m asking?” Ren said measuring out his words equally.
    Sara shot both Kerry and the hapless José equally poisonous glares and stormed out behind the EMT brigade. Kerry was relieved to see the woman sprint into a nearby building that looked as if it might have been a former bunkhouse and quickly emerge with a wallet in her hand. Soon, the sirens began to wail once more, and the two red vehicles disappeared up the ranch road in a cloud of dust.
    Kerry glanced at her watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning.
    â€œWell... Mr. Montisi... José,” she said with a sense of excitement she hadn’t felt since the meal she’d produced for her “finals” at the Culinary Institute of America, “it’s two hours to Show Time. Let me lend you a hand.”
    ***
    Â  For Kerry, the next hours were a complete blur as José readied the outdoor grill—located just steps from the kitchen door—and prepared the root vegetables for roasting, after which they’d be finished on the open fire, along with the salmon which would be cooked, al fresco, at the last minute.
    Kerry donned a long white chef’s apron that hung to her ankles and immediately went to work creating a dill aioli sauce for the salmon from a giant jar of mayonnaise, lemon, fresh garlic, Ren’s olive oil, along with fresh herbs she cut from the kitchen garden when she raced out to gather a huge basket of greens for the salad.
    â€œBe sure to mention to the tour guide that we made both the dressing and salmon sauce with Montisi Extra Virgin Olive Oil,” she urged Ren with an encouraging smile, hoping to calm the near-panic atmosphere in the kitchen. For her part, she’d felt nothing but a soaring sense of exhilaration, up to her elbows in fresh ingredients.
    The heart knows, doesn’t it, Kerry?
    Ignoring the Claddagh’s latest little message, Kerry thrust a small lettuce leaf into the dressing, sampled it, and added another large dollop of Napa Valley Mustard, an additional