Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [97]
Paul laid a soothing hand upon her arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You have a child. Let me do it,” he said grimly, and strode forth to place himself between the warring bride and groom.
“Dinner,” he announced loudly, hands upraised, “is served.”
As the official wedding planner, friend of the bride, and unabashed celebrity, Paul’s place for the evening was at the table, serving as host. Lindsay and Cici were the designated servers, and Richard, with his customary elan and unflappable self-assurance, had appointed himself homme de maison, telling jokes as he poured the wine and seated the ladies. Cici found reason to be grateful, for once in her life, that Richard had never met a woman he didn’t like.
Bridget ran her kitchen with an efficiency the top chefs in the world would admire. The menu was taped on the wall above the stove and the recipes for each dish were encased in clear plastic holders and propped up in sequence around the prep station. Ida Mae was on sauces and sautés; Bridget finished and plated each dish; Lori was stationed at the “pass”currently the kitchen table—to garnish and polish each plate before it was placed on the serving tray to leave the kitchen. Noah was responsible for loading the two dishwashers as the courses were cleared, and for keeping the workstations clean and free of clutter as food was plated. The kitchen was hot and steamy, redolent with the flavors of garlic, butter, herbs, and roasting meats, and—for the time being anyway-running like a well-oiled machine.
Lindsay burst through the swinging door. Her hair was starting to escape its neat bun and catch in curls in the sweat on her face, and her eyes had a slightly wild look to them. “Okay,” she said. “The groom just announced that he’s ordered a foosball table for the honeymoon suite. We need to get the first course out there now.”
Bridget thrust two fruit-filled martini glasses into her hands. “Get these to Lori and help her sprinkle gorgonzola and toasted walnuts on top. Lori!” she exclaimed as she watched Lori dip a spoon into one of the glasses she had just garnished and take a bite. “What are you doing?”
“No good chef lets a dish leave her kitchen without tasting it,” Lori said.
Lindsay delivered two glasses of fruit to the table and went back for two more. “Where did you hear that?”
“Food Channel.”
“Hey,” Noah complained, “sounds to me like you got the best job. When do we get to eat, anyway?”
“Well?” Bridget demanded, handing off two more glasses. “How is it?”
Lori shrugged, and that was all it took for Bridget to snatch up her own spoon and taste the fruit. She whirled on Ida Mae. “This is syrup!” she cried. “You dressed the fruit in syrup!”
Ida Mae scowled at her. “So? You always make your fruit salad with a sugar sauce, just like I do.”
“Not this time! This time it’s a vinaigrette! Didn’t you read the recipe?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
But Bridget was already dumping the contents of the glasses into a colander. “Quick,” she commanded Lindsay, thrusting the fruit at her, “rinse this off while I make the dressing.”
The swinging door swooshed as Lindsay rushed to the sink with a colander full of fruit, and Cici demanded, “What’s the holdup? If these people get any drunker we’re going to have a riot!”
“Wrong dressing,” Lori informed her. And she grinned. “Hey, Mom, it’s kind of nice to have Dad around again, isn’t it?”
“I love you beyond all measure,” Cici replied distractedly, and rushed to the refrigerator. Noah helped himself to the fruit that clung to the bottom of the colander when Lindsay dumped it into a bowl.
Bridget was frantically chopping garlic when Cici whirled with a bottle of store-bought vinaigrette in her hand and dumped the contents over the berries Lindsay had just transferred to a big bowl. “Problem solved,” she declared to Bridget’s horrified look. “Now for heaven’s sake hurry up.”
Bridget, with no time to argue, took the cheese biscuits out of the oven as Cici let the door swing closed behind her. “Two on each serving plate,” she told Lori, “with a sprig of rosemary.” And then,