Free The City Baker's Guide to Country Living by Louise Miller Page A

wasn’t on the porch while I played. “He is. What are you doing with him?”
    â€œMe?” Martin turned away from me again. He walked a couple of paces, then turned back. “I came home today to find your dog and one of the goats lying on my mother’s sofa.”
    â€œWere they asleep?”
    Martin gaped at me. “Uh, no.” He put his hands in his pockets.
    â€œWhat were they doing?” I had no problem picturing Salty lying on someone’s sofa. I just thought he would be too excited to sleep next to a goat.
    â€œApparently they were watching TV,” Martin said in a tight voice.
    â€œWhat were they watching?” I asked.
    â€œ
Duck Soup
.”
    â€œGod, I love that movie,” I said, laughing.
    â€œMe too.” Martin sat down on the bottom step and leaned his head against the railing. I tucked my skirt around my knees and sat on the top step. “My mother was in the La-Z-Boy, snoringaway, with Mabel and your dog on the sectional. I managed to get them both out without waking her.”
    I pressed my lips together, picturing Martin whispering and gesturing wildly. “Well, I’m sorry if Salty had anything to do with liberating your goat. The vet said he has separation anxiety. He’s pretty good with doorknobs and latches.”
    Martin reached down and stroked Salty’s head behind his ears. Salty let out a low groan and rolled onto his back. Martin laughed and rubbed Salty’s belly.
    â€œWell,” he said to the ground, and then stood. He glanced up at me, his mouth open as if to speak, then turned and began walking into the sugar bush behind the cabin.
    Salty stood and watched him as he disappeared into the trees, then padded up the steps, brushing past me, and into the cabin, no doubt ready for his supper.

Chapter Four

    T he next morning I made a test batch of pumpkin crème brûlée. While the milk scalded on the stove, I whisked together egg yolks and pureed pumpkin, the bright orange mixture brilliant against the blue bowl. As I poured the milk slowly into the bowl, whisking all the while, a cloud of cinnamon and ginger wafted up, filling the kitchen with the scent of fall.
    â€œSmells good,” said Tom as he walked by, carrying a crate of heavy cream into the refrigerator. I sliced a piece of frangipane tart for him.
    â€œYou’ve been holding out on me,” Tom said, mouth full. Flakes of puff pastry flew into the air.
    â€œHow so?” I transferred the custard into a glass pitcher and poured the mixture into the tiny pumpkins I had hollowed out the day before, lined up in a roasting pan.
    â€œHere I am, having breakfast every other day with a banjo picker, and I didn’t even know it.”
    I put down the pitcher. “How did you . . . ?”
    â€œAnd here I am, in need of a banjo picker.” Tom took a long sip of his coffee.
    â€œTom, I hate to break it to you, but I hate the Eagles.” I wipedmy hands on my apron, then cut myself a piece of the tart. “I just don’t see myself as a Beagle. Besides, I
frail
, I don’t pick. Now, what do you think of the tart? Too almondy?”
    â€œHow can you not like the Eagles?”
    â€œI’ve got two words for you. Hotel Cali—”
    â€œYou’re losing the taste of the apple.”
    I nodded, taking another bite. I had been thinking the same thing.
    â€œNow, it’s not the Beagles that need a banjo player. It’s the Hungry Mountaineers.”
    â€œThe who?”
    â€œMy contra-dance band.” Tom looked longingly at my plate.
    â€œTake it,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Are there a lot of dances around here?”
    â€œTen or so a year. Next one’s during the festival.” Tom popped the last bit of my tart into his mouth, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief to wipe his lips.
    â€œI’ve never played in a contra-dance band