WARM WINTER KISSES a feel good Christmas romance novel by JILL STEEPLES Page B
Authors: JILL STEEPLES
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being paid for this. Honestly, I felt like pinching myself.
“These mushrooms have been picked fresh this morning in some woods not far from here. ” He held them up to the camera as if he was showing off precious jewels. “But I’m not suggesting you go out and pick your own. All these lovely varieties are available in our supermarkets now. Forget those bland button mushrooms your mum used. ” He laughed, his eyes flashing over in my direction. “Instead pick up some morels, chanterelles or porcinis. They all have their own intricate flavours, rich, nutty and woody, but most of all they’re fantastically versatile. Delicious too. Put them in a sauce to serve with some pasta or throw them into a risotto. The list of things you can do with them is endless. But today what I’m going to show you is something very simple. Wild mushrooms on toast.”
His voice, without any noticeable trace of accent, was deep and warm, and he had a way of making the names of those mushrooms roll off his tongue as if he was reciting a love sonnet.
He didn’t have a script, just some hastily scribbled notes, but the words flowed effortlessly, as if he’d been rehearsing all night.
As he threw some olive oil and garlic into the pan on his stove, his eyes flashed with that passion he was so well known for. I wondered if the rest of the female population would be hanging on to his every word, like I was now, salivating at the sound of his earthy culinary suggestions.
I shook my head, took a sip of the coffee that had grown cold in the cup and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. It wasn’t easy, not with those heady smells filling the small cabin, reminding me again that I’d missed breakfast. I was beginning to make a habit of it and my poor tummy was crying out to be fed. I hoped its gurgling would be drowned out by the sounds coming from the kitchen.
“This makes a fantastic quick meal. Delicious and nutritious. What could be better? ” He spoke straight into the camera lens, as he pushed his finished dish of wild mushrooms on lightly toasted brioche to one side and beckoned me to try it. I wondered if, after all, he’d heard my stomach grumbling noisily in the background.
‘Breakfast,’ he said to me, off camera, as he turned his attentions to his next recipe, an interesting sounding cep soup.
It would have been rude to turn it down so I pulled up a stool just opposite to where Rocco was doing his bit and tucked into the meal he’d prepared. For a moment, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I mean, really, did it get any better than this? Breakfast prepared by a top Michelin-starred chef. Some people pay hundreds of pounds for the privilege and here was I enjoying the pleasure, in the company of the great man himself on a floating oasis. Oh, and did I mention how heart-meltingly gorgeous he was? Yes, I’d really landed on my feet with this job, I thought, as my tongue licked the remains of the creamy mushroom sauce from my lips.
Chapter 7
That’s not to say there weren’t any hiccups during those first weeks. There were a few, like the one with the puff pastry that refused to puff. Fortunately, neither I nor Paul or Dave felt the full wrath of Rocco’s temper on that front although the recalcitrant pastry didn’t fare so well. It was dumped unceremoniously in the bin.
‘Anyone with any sense would buy a packet,’ he said, echoing my own feelings and wondering if, at last, Rocco and I could be bonding on the culinary front.
‘Should I run to the shops and get some?’
He glared at me as if I’d suggested murdering my own mother.
‘This is a cookery programme we’re producing here, Beth, not a bloody kids ’ jamboree. How will I teach the nation to cook if I can’t show them how to knock up some pastry? I’ll do it again.’
Once we’d got over that small issue, and then the one about the missing side of venison, as well as the close shave with a mandolin that left Rocco dripping blood for half
“These mushrooms have been picked fresh this morning in some woods not far from here. ” He held them up to the camera as if he was showing off precious jewels. “But I’m not suggesting you go out and pick your own. All these lovely varieties are available in our supermarkets now. Forget those bland button mushrooms your mum used. ” He laughed, his eyes flashing over in my direction. “Instead pick up some morels, chanterelles or porcinis. They all have their own intricate flavours, rich, nutty and woody, but most of all they’re fantastically versatile. Delicious too. Put them in a sauce to serve with some pasta or throw them into a risotto. The list of things you can do with them is endless. But today what I’m going to show you is something very simple. Wild mushrooms on toast.”
His voice, without any noticeable trace of accent, was deep and warm, and he had a way of making the names of those mushrooms roll off his tongue as if he was reciting a love sonnet.
He didn’t have a script, just some hastily scribbled notes, but the words flowed effortlessly, as if he’d been rehearsing all night.
As he threw some olive oil and garlic into the pan on his stove, his eyes flashed with that passion he was so well known for. I wondered if the rest of the female population would be hanging on to his every word, like I was now, salivating at the sound of his earthy culinary suggestions.
I shook my head, took a sip of the coffee that had grown cold in the cup and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. It wasn’t easy, not with those heady smells filling the small cabin, reminding me again that I’d missed breakfast. I was beginning to make a habit of it and my poor tummy was crying out to be fed. I hoped its gurgling would be drowned out by the sounds coming from the kitchen.
“This makes a fantastic quick meal. Delicious and nutritious. What could be better? ” He spoke straight into the camera lens, as he pushed his finished dish of wild mushrooms on lightly toasted brioche to one side and beckoned me to try it. I wondered if, after all, he’d heard my stomach grumbling noisily in the background.
‘Breakfast,’ he said to me, off camera, as he turned his attentions to his next recipe, an interesting sounding cep soup.
It would have been rude to turn it down so I pulled up a stool just opposite to where Rocco was doing his bit and tucked into the meal he’d prepared. For a moment, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I mean, really, did it get any better than this? Breakfast prepared by a top Michelin-starred chef. Some people pay hundreds of pounds for the privilege and here was I enjoying the pleasure, in the company of the great man himself on a floating oasis. Oh, and did I mention how heart-meltingly gorgeous he was? Yes, I’d really landed on my feet with this job, I thought, as my tongue licked the remains of the creamy mushroom sauce from my lips.
Chapter 7
That’s not to say there weren’t any hiccups during those first weeks. There were a few, like the one with the puff pastry that refused to puff. Fortunately, neither I nor Paul or Dave felt the full wrath of Rocco’s temper on that front although the recalcitrant pastry didn’t fare so well. It was dumped unceremoniously in the bin.
‘Anyone with any sense would buy a packet,’ he said, echoing my own feelings and wondering if, at last, Rocco and I could be bonding on the culinary front.
‘Should I run to the shops and get some?’
He glared at me as if I’d suggested murdering my own mother.
‘This is a cookery programme we’re producing here, Beth, not a bloody kids ’ jamboree. How will I teach the nation to cook if I can’t show them how to knock up some pastry? I’ll do it again.’
Once we’d got over that small issue, and then the one about the missing side of venison, as well as the close shave with a mandolin that left Rocco dripping blood for half
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