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

essence of corn.”
    My mouth began to water. “Then a salad?” I asked.
    â€œBaby red oak greens with toasted black walnuts and a maple vinaigrette.”
    â€œWith goat cheese?” I licked my lips.
    Alfred smiled and ran his fingers up and down his hairy arm. “An excellent idea.”
    â€œI could make croutons out of a dried-apple spice bread.”
    Alfred leaned in a little closer. “Or maybe just a thin slice of the apple bread with the goat cheese spread on it.”
    â€œYum.” We weren’t even to the main course yet. “What’s next?”
    â€œPrime rib, with a cipollini au jus. We get the beef from the Haskell farm.”
    â€œNot Snowball,” I gasped. I had spent the better part of Tuesday afternoon letting the cow gum at my coat sleeve.
    Alfred laughed. “You’ll get used to it. And, no, not Snowball. She’s a heifer, for one thing. She’s used for milk and breeding.”
    I let out a long breath. Only a couple of weeks in the country and I was getting dangerously close to becoming what all chefs loathed—a vegetarian. “So what’s the wraparound?”
    â€œWild mushroom risotto and roasted Brussels sprouts.”
    â€œI could make popovers,” I offered.
    Alfred closed his eyes. “With chives?”
    I smiled. “Done.”
    A cheese course would follow. Vermont cheddar with quince paste, fresh chèvre with homemade blackberry preserves, and a sheep’s-milk blue cheese with pears poached in port. And then dessert. Pumpkin crème brûlée baked in hollowed-out miniature pumpkins. Apple galettes with frangipane in puff pastry. Pears stuffed with cognac-soaked figs and wrapped in phyllo,baked to a crispy golden brown, the fruit inside tender and succulent. And thin chocolate shells, filled with a thick amber caramel, studded with toasted pecans and a layer of dark chocolate ganache just barely sweetened.
    Alfred and I leaned back in our chairs and smiled at each other, our foreheads glistening with sweat. All we needed was a couple of cigarettes.
    â€œIt’s going to be a meal to remember, Livvy. If she does sell, it will be a great meal to go out on.”
    â€œFantastic.” I raised my arm in the air, like I was standing in front of a roaring crowd, about to take a bow. “It could be my debut and grand finale, all in one.”
    Alfred laughed. “You know, you are nothing like I thought you’d be.”
    â€œWhat did you think I would be like?”
    Alfred rubbed his fingers in his beard, considering. “Intimidating?”
    â€œHow intimidating can a baker be?” I asked. “We make brownies all day. Besides, my hair is purple. Nothing says ‘easygoing’ like purple hair.”
    â€œI love it. My mother was a hairdresser right up until the day she died. She made the ladies’ hair blue—although I don’t think it was on purpose.”
    â€œAnd she let you go gray?”
    â€œOh, she tried, believe me.”
    Margaret walked into the parlor. She looked at me and at Alfred, then over at Salty asleep on the sofa. “In the kitchen, please, Ms. Rawlings. When you are done.” She nodded at Alfred before disappearing into the back of the house.
    I rolled my eyes. “I’m settling right in.” Alfred laughed as we headed back to the kitchen.
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    My last task for the day was to put together a poaching liquid, which I wanted to steep overnight. Margaret came out of her office just as the port was coming to a simmer and, to my surprise, sat down on the stool that Tom used on the mornings he delivered the milk. Silently, she watched me scrape a finger of fresh ginger with the edge of a tarnished silver teaspoon.
    â€œI’ve never seen ginger peeled that way,” she commented.
    â€œI picked it up from one of the prep cooks at the club—he was from India.” I placed the piece of ginger in