We do nap after having fun, and I wake feeling refreshed. I’m not sure if it’s the fresh air out here, so much cleaner than what I get in the city, or if it’s just being with Lucy that does it. I feel like I could lie here with her for ages, luxuriating in our shared warmth, in the scent of grass and fields coming through the window on a light breeze. But I know we have cooking to do, and I’m impatient to get started.
Lucy yawns and sits up after I move to the edge of the bed and snag my clothes from the floor. My shirt and jeans are wrinkled, but it doesn’t matter. I shake out the worst of it and pull everything on, run my fingers through my hair, smoothing the snarls. In my pocket, I have a hair elastic, and I use it to put my hair into a ponytail. Lucy sits up next to me, tugs on the end.
“I wish we could stay here for a while longer,” she says, leaning in to press her lips against my neck.
“Me too,” I reply, “but that chicken won’t make itself.” My stomach growls.
“I’m hungry too,” Lucy says.
We rush downstairs after Lucy has dressed, and I see her mother puttering about in the kitchen, singing to herself. She’s tidied up, washed all the dishes, and all the vegetables are piled neatly on the counter, gleaming with dampness.
“I washed them all,” she says, turning to greet us. “It’s still a lot for one night.”
“We’ll have leftovers for days,” I quip.
Michelle goes to sit at the kitchen table. “What will you do with the daikon?”
“I was thinking fries,” Lucy remarks. I look at the large white bulbous vegetable, and I can’t quite see it. Isn’t it a radish of sorts?
“Will people want to eat radishes?”
“That’s why we make them as fries,” Lucy says. She picks up the daikon and takes out a wooden cutting board and a large knife. She chops the top off and then makes quick work of slicing it into fry-sized pieces. “Call it fries and everyone will want some,” she says. “But what to put on it? I was thinking a bit of vegetable oil for the baking, then some chilies and sesame oil for flavor.”
“Let’s do it.”
“There’s a cookie sheet just there by your foot,” Lucy says, pointing, and I bend down to take a sheet from a small cubby at the end of the counter. Lucy finds a bowl and dumps the daikon pieces into it. I set the cookie sheet on the counter. “And there’s sesame oil and chilies in the pantry,” Lucy adds, and I go to collect what she needs. The scent here is tantalizing, a mix of spices and other things I can’t quite identify. I glance about after I turn the light on and finally spot a rack of glass jars. Chilies are in a smaller jar, and I take it down. On a lower shelf are a number of bottles, and I see the sesame oil. I take both back into the kitchen. Lucy takes a spoon to the chilies and sprinkles a good amount over the daikon, tossing it in the bowl. I open the sesame oil. It’s stronger than I expected.
“Just a bit of that,” Lucy says. “Too much and it’s overpowering.”
I let a small stream into the bowl and Lucy tosses the daikon some more, coating it evenly. She puts the radish onto the cookie sheet and then turns to the oven. “Still not hot enough,” she says. “But soon. We can snack on these while we work.”
I turn to the fridge and take out the chicken. Lucy sets out another two bowls, one larger, one smaller. The honey is nearby and the soy sauce is already out on the counter. I can’t resist opening the honey and dipping in one finger, bringing it to my lips. The taste is sweet, but not sugary or heavy, almost floral. It melts on my tongue.
“This is so delicious.”
“It’ll make the dish,” Lucy says.
“I hope so.”
“Add some ginger,” Michelle adds. “Keep it from being too sweet.”
I spoon the honey into the larger bowl and add some soy sauce. Lucy chops up a thumb of ginger and puts it into the bowl. I take the chicken thighs and place them in the bowl, tossing and mixing them with the sauce. My stomach growls again. Lucy takes out a square Pyrex pan.
“We can put it in here,” she says. I dump the chicken in, making sure that the sauce is evenly spread.
“I think we need some aluminum foil,” I say. “I worry that it’ll scorch otherwise.”
“In the drawer there to your left,” Michelle says. I open the drawer and pull out the box. I cover the pan. Lucy checks the oven.
“Almost hot enough.”
Once the oven dings, I put the chicken in, noting the time. “Forty-five minutes should do it. How long will it take the daikon to cook?”
“We should put those in right away also. And I’ll put on some rice,” Lucy says, opening their rice cooker and taking out the metal bowl inside. I grab the cookie sheet of daikon fries and stick them in the oven on the lower rack. “The chicken will go well with some rice underneath, then the frisée on the side.” She measures out the rice, then goes to the tap and pours water over top. She swishes the bowl, stirring with her fingers, then drains the water and refills it to the measuring line. I sidle over as she puts the bowl back into the rice cooker.
“Isn’t it easier just to use a pot on the stove?”
“This is a set it and forget it method,” Lucy says. She lowers the lid and makes sure it is sealed, then plugs in the cooker. “Perfect rice every time.” She pushes down the single button. “There are fancier machines, but this one does the trick.”
I glance around the kitchen. Until the chicken is done, everything is ready to go. I grab my phone, where I’ve stored ideas for other recipes.
“I was thinking we could have one chicken recipe, one fish, and then one vegetarian.” I scroll through my notes. Lucy pulls down a well-worn cookbook in a black binder.
“It’ll be hard to choose.”
* * *
We sit together on the sofa, and Mama sits down in the easy chair next to us, looking interested.
“Maybe you should do something more traditional,” she suggests. “Like your great-grandparents might have made in their café.”
“Here in town?” Kitty asks, leaning forward.
“Here,” Mama confirms, “but it wasn’t their first. The family had one in British Columbia as well, until they wanted to move. Small towns and villages like their restaurants.”
I flip open the old cookbook, seeing the recipes in the familiar simple writing that Mama had said belonged to my great-grandmother. “I’m not sure most of these would work,” I say. There are so many recipes here that are just too Western—there’s sandwiches and soups and side dishes.
“Let’s see.” Kitty leans over, closer to me, her gaze skimming the pages. “What about chop suey?”
Mama chuckles. “That’s not really Chinese, but it is Canadian, for sure. And easy to make. Noodles, bean sprouts, and scraps of leftovers.”
“That’s it?” Kitty asks, looking surprised. “I always thought there was more to it.”
Mama shrugs. “Depends on the café, and what they have around. Ming Nhon, you could make your father’s favorite. Pineapple chicken balls.”
“That was Dad’s favorite?” It’s my turn to be surprised. “Those aren’t Chinese.”
“Canadian Chinese, like the chop suey,” Mama says. “And quite delicious on a cold winter day.”
“I liked them too, growing up,” Kitty remarks. “But we didn’t get Chinese food much. My mother didn’t really like it.”
“Are your parents excited for the new restaurant?” Mama asks. She takes the binder from me and flips through the pages, looking for something.
“I haven’t mentioned it to them,” Kitty says. She looks down at her hands.
“How come?” I can’t imagine not telling Mama about something so important.
“They’re busy people,” Kitty says, “And I’ve been busy too. We’ll catch up again soon.”
I want to ask Kitty more, but I’ll do it in private. Here with Mama, she might not feel as inclined to expand on her relationship with them.
“Ginger beef,” Mama says, turning the binder back to me. “That is everyone’s favorite. Always.”
Kitty leans in, looking over the recipe. “You know, I’ve tried to make ginger beef so many times, but it never turns out the same way as in a Chinese restaurant, no matter how I try.”
Mama taps the page. “Here’s the secret,” she says. “Not too hard. Your father got it from the fellow at the restaurant in Calgary that made it up.”
Kitty looks awed. “The Silver Inn. We ate there once when I was a kid, and it was so, so good,” she says. She leans back against the sofa, a dreamy smile on her face. “They let me eat as much as I wanted that visit.”
“We might be able to make it for the restaurant,” I offer.
“We can’t make too many things,” Kitty says, opening her eyes. “There’s only the two of us cooking and serving.”
“The storefront has enough chairs for fifty,” I add, “but I think we’ll do less than that. Thirty, maybe. And if we have as much prepared ahead of time as possible, or at least prepped, we should be fine.”
“Thirty plates, plus serving?” Kitty rubs her temples. “I don’t know if that will work.” She frowns. “We might need to hire a server.”
That will complicate things, add more paperwork and tax. Beatrice mentioned it as we were leaving the store. “I don’t know if we can afford that. I think we might need to speak to an accountant.”
“We can do that,” Kitty says. “I think Cindy knows someone. Her brother, maybe, or a cousin. I can’t recall. But I’ll ask her.” She pulls out her phone and texts.
“If you can’t, then I can do it,” Mama says.
“Mama…” I begin.
“No Mama anything,” Mama says, holding up a hand. “I’ve worked hard all my life and one more night or two won’t hurt me. I’m not ancient yet.” She smiles. “Not quite, anyway. And you can pay me in food.” She sniffs the air. “Like your chicken, which is almost done.”
The timer on the stove dings, and just then, I hear the click of the rice cooker. Kitty hops to her feet, and I follow. She puts on the oven mitts and opens the door, releasing more of the smell of honey and soy. I inhale deeply. She lifts the glass dish and carefully peels off the foil cover. A rush of steam emerges.
“Almost perfect,” Kitty says. “We just need to let the chicken brown.” She checks the oven rack, then puts the dish back in, pulling out the daikon fries before she closes the door. “Five more minutes.”
“Rice is done,” I note. “We should get the salad ready.”
“Olive oil, truffle oil, a bit of mustard, and a touch of sherry vinegar, I’m thinking,” Kitty says. I take down a metal bowl and hand it to her.
“Sounds perfect.”
I grab the ingredients from the fridge and she begins to mix, not measuring any of the ingredients as she goes.
“Make this often?” I ask.
“Not with truffle oil,” she says, “but oil and vinegar dressings are my go-to. I never use store-bought.” She whisks the mixture expertly, and I tear the frisée into smaller pieces and put it into another bowl. Kitty sets the dressing aside. “We’ll drizzle that at the last second. Keep the frisée crisp.”
I take a pair of tongs and serve the daikon fries onto each of three plates. They’ve turned a delicious golden brown and I can’t wait to taste them. Kitty peeks into the oven window.
“Chicken looks done,” she says, grabbing the oven mitts again. She takes out the dish and the chicken looks and smells mouth-wateringly good.
“How should we do the rice?” I ask. “We can just put a scoop, loose, or we can pack it into a rounded ice cream scoop.”
“Let’s try each of them,” Kitty says, “and see what turns out best.”
I place one loose scoop of rice on one plate, then dig out our old ice cream scoop and use it to scoop a second serving, carefully inverting it onto the plate. It mostly sticks to the shape. Kitty takes the tongs and sets pieces of chicken on each plate, either on top of the rice on the loose pile, or beside the molded rice on the second plate. Over each, she drizzles some of the extra sauce, doing a zigzag design on the molded rice.
“The molded version looks more professional to me.”
Kitty looks carefully at each. “I agree. I think we should do that for the restaurant.” I scoop the rice onto the last plate and she finishes with the chicken and its drizzle of sauce. Then she picks up the small bowl of dressing, whisking it once more. She slowly pours a portion over the frisée and tosses it in the bowl.
I dig out a second pair of tongs and place some of the glistening frisée along the side of each plate.
“It looks delicious,” Mama says, coming up beside us. She takes two plates to the table, leaving me with the remaining one.
“Let’s eat.” Kitty snags the plate from under my hand and sidesteps me, hurrying to the table.
“Trying to beat me?” I laugh and follow Kitty to the table.
“Maybe,” Kitty says. She takes a forkful of the rice and chicken, and I swear she inhales it, it’s gone so fast.
“You really are hungry,” Mama remarks, chuckling.
“Starving,” Kitty says after she’s swallowed. “Just starving.” She looks up at me then, and from the look in her eyes, I’m pretty sure she’s not only talking about food.