Aisling's Summer Diary

Chapter 15 | Cooking Up a Storm

We had finally booked the hotel Sea Crest’s first official guests!  I was so ecstatic—that is until Siobhan nudged me toward the kitchen.  Oh NO!  I’d forgotten that it ME who had to cook them dinner!  And it had to be perfect!  

4 p.m.

I hadn’t expected to have guests so soon—not with the place still very much a work in progress—so I hadn’t exactly stocked the kitchen like Siobhan had asked me to.  “Please tell me we have something,” I moaned as I rifled through the presses.  Three bags of flour (brilliant, more bread), tea bags, mayonnaise, and two tins of herring (ewwww)!  I stuck my head in the fridge.  Eggs, relish, a head of lettuce, and a bit of moldy cheese.  Well, looks like it’s going to be a set menu! 

I got to work whipping up a fresh batch of soda bread—and this time I made sure to set TWO timers!  There wasn’t enough buttermilk left over for even one mistake, so I was extra careful with my measurements, double and triple checking the recipe just to be sure.  And you know what?  It didn’t look so bad!  After twenty minutes in the oven, I pulled the loaf pans out and tapped the crust with a bread knife.  Maybe a tad over-crispy on the outside, but I could improvise!  Make something that calls for crusty bread—like crostini! 

This wasn’t so bad!  Fun almost!  I twirled around the kitchen, dicing up the lettuce and hard-boiling the eggs, tapping out a sean nós rhythm with my feet.  I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this!  Cooking’s just a series of steps, like dancing; once you get the basics of it down, you can get a bit more creative and throw in one of two of your own unique flourishes.

What am I going to do with that herring though?  It’s cooked already, right?  But I can’t just dump it onto a dish as is.  Hmmm.  I flicked open Siobhan’s trusty cookbook.  Seafood: deep-fried scampi (I wish!), lemon sole with dill sauce (no), fish cakes.  That’s IT!  I could mince up the herring with some bread crumbs and mayo, pan fry them and PRESTO!  Aisling, you are a genius!

When I shot down to the bathroom for a quick break, there was a knock at the door.  More guests?!  I turned back into the hall, chef’s hat flopping, and there, staring up at me from the floor, was a hand-tied notebook.  Someone must have slid it in under the door.  I stooped over to pick it up.  A recipe book?  It was from Slater!  He must have thought I could use some inspiration, and he’d put together a personalized cookbook for me!  He is SUCH a star. 

5 p.m.

I was just about to ring him to say thanks when Siobhan charged in, flustered.  We needed to serve dinner!  Already?!  I haven’t put the crostini together yet!  Ali was waiting for me in the kitchen in a starched shirt and bowtie.  I have to say, he looked smashing in it.  Very James Bond.  “Will you hurry it up!” he said, already nervous.  “They’ve been out there for like ten minutes already!”  “Hold your horses, gees!” I said, whipping the relish and boiled egg together as fast as I could.   

Ali peeked his head through the kitchen door.  He was making ME nervous, pacing around like that!  “HOW LOOOONG?” he groaned.  How long???  How should I know??  “A minute?” I said.  Maybe Ali should refill their drinks.  Again.  That would buy me some time.  OH MAN!  I really hope they don’t walk out on us!  Ali was peeping at them through the door.  “What are they doing?” I asked him, dolloping  the relish onto the toast.  Just sitting.  Sort of smiling at each other.  Well that’s a good sign!  

I grabbed up the plates and spun round to Ali, but my apron caught on one of the cabinet handles and both plates went flying!  They crashed to the floor, spilling all over the tray with a sharp CLANG!  They’re probably not smiling now, I thought, and tried to salvage what I could, piling bits and pieces back onto the plates in a lopsided heap.  I thrust the tray into Ali’s hands, and he darted out into the dining room, smacking the door frame his shoulder and almost falling tray-first onto his knees.  What a nightmare!  

I slunk over to the door, crossed my fingers, and strained to hear.  “What is this?” the man demanded!  OH NO!  That doesn’t sound good!  I could hear Ali fumbling.  “Crostini, ALI!  It’s crostini!” I whispered.  Well, sort of.  I slid through the door to lend a hand, but I could tell by the looks on the guests’ faces it was too late.  The woman eyed her plate, her lip curled in disgust, while her husband picked up his piece of toast and let it fall back onto the table with a dry thwack.  “I think we’ll get something out,” the woman said, and they pushed back from the table.

“No, no, please don’t GO!” I begged.  Siobhan was going to KILL me if our first dinner was a bust!  What about the fishcakes!  I spent two hours on them!  But they’d already gone.  Ali frowned at me, then at the crostini.  It didn’t look that bad, in fairness!  I wonder how it tastes...  I took a big bite.  It was awful!  Beyond awful!  But I swallowed it down and smiled up at Ali—Fine, see?  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. 

Now that my kitchen confidence has been completely shot, I don’t know what I’m going to do.  Complimentary breakfast for the guests to say I’m sorry?  Pfft—only if it’s continental.  Who am I kidding?  I DO need help, but there’s only one person who’s offered, and I can’t even talk to him!  This whole arrangement, it just feels so unfair.  Siobhan and Ali, they’ve got jobs doing things they’re good at.  ME?  I have to do the one thing I’m spectacularly BAD at!  I hate to even think this, but sometimes I it feels like Siobhan’s set me up to fail.

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