brood.
She cleaned the nest boxes, then added more pellets to the feeder and checked the levels in the water can. Around her the hens clucked amiably enough, except for the malevolent mutterings of Hen Nine. She stepped outside and collided with the outraged Robespierre, who danced around her, squawking.
“Oh, give it a rest,” she muttered and tossed him a handful of cracked corn. He paused in mid-squawk, then started pecking at the scattered kernels, ignoring her intrusion into his domain.
MG looked regretfully at the green side yard. If she weren’t so tired, she’d run the hens out to let them do a little grazing, but she just wasn’t up to it at the moment. Sighing, she carried the eggs back to the house then returned the feed sack to the utility shed.
Inside, she checked the refrigerator. Yes, she had one can of the cheapest beer available. At least now she’d be able to afford something better, assuming she didn’t devote all her cash to the mortgage. She popped the top and sat down to review her day.
Lunch had been an exercise in thinly organized chaos. Three chefs handled the orders, Darcy and Leo from breakfast and a third chef, Jorge, who’d come in while she was washing cherry tomatoes. He’d glanced at her, unsmiling. “That’s my hat.”
By then, MG had forgotten that she was wearing a hat at all. She gave him a cautious look. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He shrugged. “Looks better on you than on me.” She didn’t think he’d uttered another word for the rest of the afternoon.
“Your job is to make sure we’ve got all the stuff we need at each station,” Darcy said grimly. “Keep an eye out to see if anybody’s running low on anything. Today you’ll blow it. Tomorrow you won’t.” She didn’t add or else, but she didn’t need to. MG got the message.
Actually Jorge and Leo didn’t need much from her—they set up their own stations at the grill and the range, all their bowls of ingredients within easy reach and the garnishes ready to be arranged on the plates. She figured they knew about how much they’d need of anything, and unless there was an unexpected rush on some dish, they were probably set for the duration.
It was Darcy who needed replenishing most often with the salads and cold plates she was fixing. MG trotted from cooler to counter to pantry shelves, keeping her supplied with the premade salad bases, refilling the bowls of dried cranberries and walnuts, locating hotel trays of pulled chicken and shaved steak and crumbled bacon.
Fairley’s role seemed to be largely traffic cop. He stood near the computer where the orders came across, yelling the names of the dishes they needed in shorthand. “Ravioli, Cobb, Special.” The finished plates appeared on the counter in front of him for inspection, then moved onto the waiter’s trays to be taken into the dining room.
The only crisis had come late in the lunch rush. “You,” Leo yelled in her direction. “More frozen ravioli. Now.”
MG stiffened. Freezer. She knew where the cooler was, but the freezer was something else, wasn’t it?
“What are you waiting for? Get moving. Now!” Fairley’s voice cracked across the kitchen.
“Over there.” Darcy inclined her head toward a double-door stainless steel cabinet at the side.
MG ran to open the freezer door, then stopped, staring. The interior was full of bags and containers, all carefully labeled. Was she supposed to take the time to read the labels on every bag?
“Here.” Fairley’s hand shot by her face, and he yanked a bag of pasta from the top shelf. “Learn your job, goddamn it. We don’t have time for your screw-ups.”
He tossed the bag to Leo, who emptied the contents into the pan in front of him.
MG walked back to Darcy’s station, trying to make herself as small as possible. She really didn’t want to attract any extra attention just then.
After a moment, Darcy glanced at her. “More cranberries. Come on. Move.” Her voice didn’t have
She cleaned the nest boxes, then added more pellets to the feeder and checked the levels in the water can. Around her the hens clucked amiably enough, except for the malevolent mutterings of Hen Nine. She stepped outside and collided with the outraged Robespierre, who danced around her, squawking.
“Oh, give it a rest,” she muttered and tossed him a handful of cracked corn. He paused in mid-squawk, then started pecking at the scattered kernels, ignoring her intrusion into his domain.
MG looked regretfully at the green side yard. If she weren’t so tired, she’d run the hens out to let them do a little grazing, but she just wasn’t up to it at the moment. Sighing, she carried the eggs back to the house then returned the feed sack to the utility shed.
Inside, she checked the refrigerator. Yes, she had one can of the cheapest beer available. At least now she’d be able to afford something better, assuming she didn’t devote all her cash to the mortgage. She popped the top and sat down to review her day.
Lunch had been an exercise in thinly organized chaos. Three chefs handled the orders, Darcy and Leo from breakfast and a third chef, Jorge, who’d come in while she was washing cherry tomatoes. He’d glanced at her, unsmiling. “That’s my hat.”
By then, MG had forgotten that she was wearing a hat at all. She gave him a cautious look. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He shrugged. “Looks better on you than on me.” She didn’t think he’d uttered another word for the rest of the afternoon.
“Your job is to make sure we’ve got all the stuff we need at each station,” Darcy said grimly. “Keep an eye out to see if anybody’s running low on anything. Today you’ll blow it. Tomorrow you won’t.” She didn’t add or else, but she didn’t need to. MG got the message.
Actually Jorge and Leo didn’t need much from her—they set up their own stations at the grill and the range, all their bowls of ingredients within easy reach and the garnishes ready to be arranged on the plates. She figured they knew about how much they’d need of anything, and unless there was an unexpected rush on some dish, they were probably set for the duration.
It was Darcy who needed replenishing most often with the salads and cold plates she was fixing. MG trotted from cooler to counter to pantry shelves, keeping her supplied with the premade salad bases, refilling the bowls of dried cranberries and walnuts, locating hotel trays of pulled chicken and shaved steak and crumbled bacon.
Fairley’s role seemed to be largely traffic cop. He stood near the computer where the orders came across, yelling the names of the dishes they needed in shorthand. “Ravioli, Cobb, Special.” The finished plates appeared on the counter in front of him for inspection, then moved onto the waiter’s trays to be taken into the dining room.
The only crisis had come late in the lunch rush. “You,” Leo yelled in her direction. “More frozen ravioli. Now.”
MG stiffened. Freezer. She knew where the cooler was, but the freezer was something else, wasn’t it?
“What are you waiting for? Get moving. Now!” Fairley’s voice cracked across the kitchen.
“Over there.” Darcy inclined her head toward a double-door stainless steel cabinet at the side.
MG ran to open the freezer door, then stopped, staring. The interior was full of bags and containers, all carefully labeled. Was she supposed to take the time to read the labels on every bag?
“Here.” Fairley’s hand shot by her face, and he yanked a bag of pasta from the top shelf. “Learn your job, goddamn it. We don’t have time for your screw-ups.”
He tossed the bag to Leo, who emptied the contents into the pan in front of him.
MG walked back to Darcy’s station, trying to make herself as small as possible. She really didn’t want to attract any extra attention just then.
After a moment, Darcy glanced at her. “More cranberries. Come on. Move.” Her voice didn’t have
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