Cook the Books

come back.”
    I waved as I crossed the street. “Of course not. Everything is fine!” I said with a chipper ring in my voice. “Talk to you soon!” I tried to stroll casually to the front door, but my body wouldn’t listen, and I practically ran up the walkway. What the hell is wrong with me? I unlocked the front door and stomped angrily up the stairs to the third floor. I am a sex-starved lunatic who just molested and nearly asphyxiated my boss. I opened the door to my condo, yanked off my stupid puffy coat, and hurled it across the living room, startling Inga and Gato, who went running for the bedroom. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m having an off night, okay, kitties?”
    I stormed into the kitchen. It took more than humiliation to kill my appetite; I was hungry. I pushed food around in the fridge and assessed what I had to work with. Aha, perfect. I pulled out a hydroponic tomato that I’d paid a fortune for, some heavy cream, an egg, and grated Parmesan cheese. I turned on the oven and then sliced the top off the tomato, scooped out the pulp, and flipped the tomato upside down onto a paper towel. I sat in a chair and stared at the tomato while it drained.
    I was totally annoyed with myself. What had possessed me to fling myself at Kyle like that? Furthermore, what was up with that weird neck thing I’d done? Who does that? Obviously I’d been reading too many of those vampire romance books. Stupid Stephenie Meyer. Well, reading about vampires was going to stop immediately. Who knew what more I was capable of? One more vampire read, and I might actually have bitten Kyle. I dropped my head into my hands and shook my stupid skull back and forth. I’ll just pretend this never happened , I thought. The next time I see Kyle, I’ll behave like a completely normal, nonfreakish employee.
    I turned the tomato upright and set it into a small baking dish. I broke the egg into the tomato, poured in a spoonful of cream, and then topped the cream with some of the grated Parmesan. In twenty minutes the egg would be set and I’d have a hot, comforting meal to soothe my frazzled nerves. And the tub of Friendly’s Forbidden Chocolate in the freezer wouldn’t hurt, either. Ah, food.
     

NINE
     
    AFTER attacking Kyle Boucher, the least I could do was devote my Saturday to his cookbook. Gastronomic repentance, I suppose. My success in pulling the book together would prove that I was not some basket case, but a skilled assistant. Besides, the hefty paycheck I’d just received was no small motivator. Even if my bizarre display of affection had spoiled any chance of a relationship with Kyle, I could still whip through the cookbook and rake in some money.
    Easier said than done. I frowned at the computer screen as I scrolled down my rough and incomplete draft of the table of contents. The worst problem was the existence of substantial gaps in some categories and an overabundance of material in others. Twenty-six soups and only four desserts? And five different recipes for roast chicken. Five? I like a good roast chicken as much as the next person, but the recipes were nearly identical. I made a note to delete four and to keep my favorite, the simple salt-crusted chicken that was bound to taste fantastic, judging from the aroma emanating from my kitchen. It had taken me all of six minutes to rub the chicken with olive oil, salt, and pepper, stuff it with rosemary and basil, and then cover it with coarse salt. When it was done, I’d break off the salt crust and dive in. The need to test the recipes provided a good excuse to try out some of the more delicious-sounding ones. Plus, the chef who’d been the source of this recipe had actually taken the time to write a coherent list of ingredients and clear directions. Most chefs were impossible. One recipe I’d tackled earlier this morning was for an Asian-style hotpot that would serve sixty people. Sixty! I’d never heard of half of the ingredients, and the instructions were confusing. Chefs just didn’t seem to understand that the rest of us lacked their inherent brilliance in the kitchen; we needed to be told what to buy and what to do.
    Kyle and I would have to get new recipes for the shortchanged categories in the cookbook, and we’d have to avoid getting yet more duplicate and triplicate recipes, but I hated to sound picky and bossy in asking chefs for the favor of sharing recipes. We need a beef dish that does not have potatoes or leeks but does have cumin and