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

apparently the Guthrie Harvest Festival—capped off by the Harvest Dinner—was the social highlight of the season.
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    An older man in a tie-dyed T-shirt sat alone in the parlor, sipping coffee out of one of the gold-trimmed peony-patterned teacups.His large hand dwarfed the cup. He looked like he was drinking from his daughter’s tea set.
    â€œChef?”
    â€œLivvy, great to meet you.” Alfred stood up and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled me into a great bear hug. The top of my head came up only to the middle of his chest. He smelled good, like a grandfather—Irish Spring and Right Guard. “Sit, sit. So, you have to tell me what was in that buttermilk custard you made the other day. We sold out by seven o’clock. I didn’t even get to try it.”
    â€œGosh, I didn’t know if that one would go over well. I’ll have to make it again this week.”
    â€œDo, but be sure to hide a cup of it for me.” Alfred smiled through a thick nest of gray whiskers. “Settling in okay?”
    â€œEverything’s good on my end. But Margaret hasn’t said much—or anything—since I started.”
    â€œShe’s been preoccupied. I can tell you that the desserts are phenomenal. And the bread—God, that sourdough.” Al rubbed a reddened palm across his belly. “I’ve put on five pounds since you started.”
    I beamed at him. There is no better compliment you can pay a baker than to tell her she has made you gain weight. “Would you mind saying some of those nice things to Margaret? I’m afraid she’s going to boot me before my trial period is even over.”
    â€œI don’t think she’s thinking about making any staff changes now that the place is officially on the market.”
    â€œThe inn is
for sale
?”
    â€œShe didn’t tell you when you interviewed?”
    â€œUm, no. She didn’t mention it.” I felt equal parts irritation and relief. If the place changed hands, I would have an easy excuse to leave without hurting Hannah’s feelings.
    â€œShe’s turned down offers in the past. I think she wants to make sure it will stay exactly the same. The sale could take awhile.”
    Oh, Margaret was looking for another
Margaret
. Good luck with that. “So, are we serving the Harvest Dinner in the barn?” I had seen a couple of high school boys dragging tables in there earlier that week. “Do we ever get busted by the health department?”
    â€œNo, no. Our Harvest Dinner is one of the town manager’s favorite events. If he shuts us down, he can’t come.”
    â€œThen I won’t worry so much about the dog.” I tilted my head toward Salty, who had somehow broken out of the sugarhouse and was now sitting on a worn velvet couch scratching an ear with a hind foot.
    â€œQuite beautiful,” Alfred said, “the dinner, I mean. I think you’re gonna love it. Very Martha Stewart. We serve all the courses family style, on big platters. It’s mostly locals that attend—we can only seat one hundred in the barn, and most of the tickets are sold by the beginning of the summer. All the guests who are staying at the inn can come, of course, since the dining room is closed that night.” Alfred leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his tie-dyed chest.
    Whether it was served in the barn or in the walk-in refrigerator, I didn’t care. Making desserts for a big, fancy dinner put me back in my element, and I was ready to shine.
    â€œSo, I have a couple of ideas.” I dug my spiral-ringed notebook out of my canvas bag and flipped to the right page. Alfred and I got to work, heads down, leaning over our notes—his shiny with grease stains, mine streaked with chocolate.
    â€œFirst course is a corn consommé,” Alfred said.
    â€œThat’s brilliant. Can you do that?”
    â€œJust the pure