TWENTY-NINE

AT long last, Matt passed me the sack of food. My hand was barely in the bucket before he cried—

“Wait!”

Oh, for the love of—

“I want you to close your eyes before you take a bite.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

The car was plenty dark already, but I humored my relentlessly annoying ex-husband and let the world go black. Then I clamped my salivating maw around the juicy, breaded meat and (finally!) ate.

Matt obviously did the same because his next words sounded garbled, presumably around a mouth full of Original Recipe.

“Now, listen,” he said. “I want you to think about those old Kentucky Fried TV commercials, and the colonel in the white suit, and the eleven secret herbs and spices. What do you remember about that?”

“Just that you used to joke about them being secret and whether I could detect them . . .” As I finished chewing and swallowing, I realized this wasn’t a guess. It was something I knew.

“Go on,” Matt coaxed.

“All three of us joked about it. Me, you, and our daughter. Chef Sherlock, that’s what Joy called me.”

“And how is that sharp palate of yours doing? Can you detect any of the chicken’s herbs and spices now?”

I took another bite, chewing more slowly.

“Thyme, black pepper, oregano . . .”

“That’s three,” Matt confirmed.

“Don’t be impressed,” I said. “Those are typical spices in brand-name poultry seasonings. Thyme, black pepper, and oregano along with sage and some other spices. But I’m not tasting the usual sage—or rosemary or nutmeg. This chicken breading has a different flavor profile.”

“What else do you taste?”

I lifted the chicken to my nose and inhaled. Took a few more bites, letting the warm morsels roll around every taste receptor in my head.

“Garlic, basil . . . paprika . . . and celery, or more likely celery salt . . .”

“Keep going.”

“Dried mustard . . . a bit of ginger. I’m also getting a tinge of MSG, which I doubt was in the original Sanders’s recipe. But, hey, in fast food, MSG makes everything better.”

“Anything else?”

“White pepper. That’s the real secret ingredient here—one you wouldn’t expect—and it’s used to great effect.”

“You did it, Clare. You named them all.”

“Oh, please. How could you possibly know that? It’s a corporate secret.”

“Open your eyes.”

A bright light nearly blinded me. It was Matt’s phone, shining in the dark van like a small, flat searchlight. On the screen was an article from the Chicago Tribune.

“A few years ago, a Trib reporter went down to Corbin, Kentucky, to do a report on the birthplace of KFC. Colonel Sanders’s nephew showed him an old family scrapbook. Inside, the reporter found this—” Matt scrolled down to the picture of a handwritten list of eleven herbs and spices. “The KFC company refused to confirm its authenticity, but copycat cooks say it’s the real deal.”

“Okay, fine, but I still don’t understand why fast-food fried chicken has anything to do with my situation.”

“Like I said, you tell me. Close your eyes again. Try to picture where you were the last time you tried to guess those chicken seasonings. Can you see it?”

“Yes . . .”

The memory was there. Just like that. No revelation, shock, or surprise. It felt as if I’d walked into a room in my head and observed a painting on the wall. Nothing about the artwork was new. All along it had been there. I simply hadn’t noticed it for years.

“Go on,” Matt said.