Nuts

  To Peter—for becoming my husband four days before this book became real.

  Acknowledgments

  This entire series came into being one afternoon at the Schlafly Farmers Market in St. Louis, Missouri. Mr. Alice and I were there on our regular Wednesday with our reusable bags, cash in hand, ready to support our local farmers and get some fantastic food to boot. And, as it quickly does where I am concerned, it dissolved into debauchery. Debauchery because standing behind the table in a new stall was the cutest mother-lovin’ farmer I ever did see. He was tall, handsome, and scruffy in that adorable way, and he was holding the largest cucumber I’d ever seen.

  No joke.

  By the time I got up to the front of the line, Mr. Alice wondering why I was giggling so, I’d outlined a brand-new series centering on farm to table . . . and farmers on tables. In my head, I began to rifle through a catalog of possible titles.

  Lettuce Do It.

  Beet It.

  Hey That’s My Cucumber You’re Holding.

  Thank goodness, I went with the slightly less embarrassing but no less ridiculous Nuts. By the time we’d gotten into the car, bags full of beautiful locally produced vegetables, fruit, bread, poultry, sausage, and these adorable little hand-held apple pies (you know I love an apple pie), I’d begun thinking of possible places I could set this new series. Hudson Valley, New York, seemed like a perfect fit. The more research I did in the area made it feel even more perfect, and other stories began to suggest themselves. I spent a week playing up there with my bestie Nina Bocci, and we explored beautiful little towns like New Paltz, Hyde Park, Tarrytown, Sleepy Hollow, and were introduced to one of my very favorite places on the planet, Mohonk Mountain House. More on that later. . . .

  We also had the privilege of touring an absolutely incredible farm in Pocantico Hills, just outside Tarrytown. Blue Hill at Stone Barns, a restaurant and agricultural center, is a place everyone should get to explore at some point in their lives. This place is 100 percent the inspiration behind Maxwell Farms, and it’s a truly magical place. They’re innovative, they’re driven, and most of all, they’re respectful of the land they farm and the animals they raise.

  The next time I visited the Hudson Valley, I took the Metro North train out of Grand Central, and was blown away at not only how beautiful a rail line it is but how quickly you can go from being in the most exciting city on earth to the perfect quiet stillness of sleepy river towns. I was hooked on All Things Hudson.

  Back at home, I was getting to know more and more of the farmers that I would see each and every week at the farmers market. I know the guy that raises my chickens. I know where to find the absolute best blueberry jam around, and I know the woman who makes it. And I know a guy who can make a kielbasa so good you’ll want . . . well . . . another kielbasa. This farm-to-table thing, it’s not just a trend—it’s the way it used to be, a community knowing where its food is coming from and making the choice to support it. It’s better for us, better for small farmers, better for the land, and holy shit does food taste different when it’s grown with love and thought and respect.

  And good-night nurse, there are some great-looking farmers out there . . .

  Thank you to everyone who helped me bring this book into the world. The usual suspects like Nina and Jessica, Micki and Christina, who listened to me panic and pushed me through it. Thank you to all the experts in their field who patiently answered my private questions, my farming questions, my would-this-grow-together questions. Thank you to the people who grow our food and make it wonderful for us.

  There are farm shares and CSAs in cities and towns around the country. Look for them, google them, seek them out. Try something new, cook something in a new way, and ask questions. And if you see a great-looking farmer holding his cucumber, for the love of God send me a picture.

  Alice

  XOXO

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About Alice Clayton

  Chapter 1

  “Okay, let’s see. Dashi broth is done. Bok choy is roasting; shrimp are a’poachin’. Gluten free as far as the eye can see,” I told myself, leaning on the stainless steel counter in the most beautiful kitchen ever created. If you liked midcentury California modern. And who didn’t? Miles and miles of stainless steel and poured polished concrete.

  Countless appliances and chefs’ tools sat against the herringbone subway tiles, shiny and untouched by their owner’s hand. Touched only by my hand— private chef and banisher of the evil gluten in this land of blond and trendy. Specifically, Hollywood. Specifically, Bel Air. Specifically, the home of Mitzi St. Renee, wife of a famous producer and chaser of that most elusive of brass rings . . . never-ending youth.

  And at thirty-two (who would have thought that someone only five years older than me could talk down to me like it was her job), in a town where thirty was the benchmark for older men marrying for the love of tits, Mitzi was obviously concerned about her age. Holding a honeydew, I paused to consider said tits. Said tits were attached to a beautiful woman. Said tits were attached to a not-very-nice woman. Said tits were attached to an asshole, truth be told.

  I shook my head to clear it, and started to cut up the melon. One-inch cubes with crisp edges; no rounded corners here. Next up were cantaloupe balls, rounded and plump. No ragged hollows; simply perfect balls. I heard how that sounded in my head, snorted, and moved on to the watermelon triangles. Acute. Obtuse. Did Mitzi appreciate the knife skills that went into her fruit bowl? Doubtful. Did she notice the culinary geometry that composed her a.m. energy burst? Probably not. No one noticed the perfection of my melons—but everyone sure noticed hers.

  My inner dialogue and I moved on to assembling Mitzi’s plate—she liked her dinner served at exactly 6:30 p.m. Some people hired private chefs just to do the cooking. Some even took the credit, while the chefs were hidden in the kitchen. And others assumed that because I worked in a kitchen and was paid for cooking, I also was a butler of sorts. But with the kind of money Mitzi paid me, I was okay serving her trendy Asian-fusion, low-calorie-but-high-in-taste dinner on a tray in her dining room.

  As I was pulling the bok choy from the oven my phone suddenly rang, surprising me and causing me to bump my hand on the inside edge of the oven. Hissing in pain, I set the pan down on top of the range. When I saw who the caller was I quickly pressed decline, then gave the bok choy a once-over. Selecting the greenest and the most pristine, I carefully placed it in the center of a white porcelain bowl, creating a tiny green tower just as the egg timer went off, alerting me to my shrimp.

  Poached in a court bouillon with the faintest hint of Thai chili and cinnamon, they were pink and perfect. Stacking three on top of the bok choy trio (symmetry, always symmetry), I then sprinkled bias-cut scallion, pickled garlic, and shallots that had been ever so slightly browned in peanut oil (a secret that would never be disclosed to Miss Fat Gram Counter) all around. Setting the bowl onto an enameled tortoiseshell tray, I then poured the dashi broth into a white porcelain pitcher, and put exactly three-fourths of a cup of kaffir lime–scented jasmine rice in a matching bowl. Portion control is essential to mainta
ining a size zero lifestyle in a size zero town. Just as I was gathering up the tray to take into the dining room, my phone rang again. I hit Decline once more, noticed the time, and internally cursed myself for letting it get to 6:32 without noticing.

  In the dining room, my client was perched at the head of the table, eating alone as usual. Her husband was always working, though whatever momentary soft spot I might have had for her disappeared when she made a show of looking at her watch.

  “So sorry it’s a little late; the bok choy needed just a bit extra tonight,” I chirped, setting down the tray and serving her from the left.

  “Why, Roxie, what’s four minutes? I mean, four minutes here, seven minutes there, let’s just relax all the rules, shall we?” she chirped back as I poured the broth from the pitcher, circling around the center.

  She pays you well. Very well.

  Gritting my teeth, I smiled at her Botoxed forehead and whisked away the empty pitcher. Why, Roxie indeed.

  I headed back into the kitchen to finish up her “dessert” and her coffee, box up her breakfast and lunch for tomorrow, and clean up. Dessert had giant neon quotation marks around it inside my head, since it was hard to visualize such a lovely word applied to sugar-free carob-based wafer cookies set just so into shaved lemon ice. I wasn’t opposed to the lemon ice, or the “cookies”—which, let’s face it, also needed the quotation treatment. But they were not so much dessert.

  The one thing I could get on board with was the way Mitzi took her coffee. Kona blend, dark roast, with one—and only one—tablespoon of full-fat, honest-to-goodness homemade whipped cream. She let herself indulge in this one treat, each and every day. Hey, it’s not up to me to tell anyone where to spend their “cheat calories.” Wow, lots of quotations tonight.

  I fired up the stainless steel artisan KitchenAid mixer, retrieved the bowl from the freezer, and poured in a little over half a cup of fresh heavy cream. The bottle was almost empty; I’d have to add that to her market list. I made a shopping list for her each week, then came over several days to prepare meals that she could have on hand. Twice a week I cooked for her.

  Adding a teaspoon of Madagascar vanilla and exactly two teaspoons of sugar to the cream, I let it whip while I tidied up the kitchen, ignoring the beep coming from my phone from the two calls I’d missed while on dashi duty.

  Keeping one eye on the whipped cream and one ear toward the dining room, I tamped the coffee down, readying it to brew exactly four ounces of espresso. When my phone buzzed against the stainless steel counter, I saw who was calling again and slammed the trap shut on the expensive Breville machine.

  “For heaven’s sake, can I call you back?”

  “Well, that’s a fine howdy-do to your one and only mother,” a cheerful voice sang out.

  I closed my eyes in frustration. “Howdy-do, Mother. I’m working. Can I call you back?”

  “That depends. Will you call me back tonight?”

  “I’ll try,” I replied, struggling to get the foam nozzle locked into the espresso machine.

  “You’ll try?”

  “I will, okay?”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise that I’ll— Oh, man . . .”

  “What’s the matter? Are you okay, Roxie?”

  “I’m fine—just a little kitchen mishap. I’ll call you later.” I hung up, staring into the bowl.

  I needed to figure out how to explain to Mitzi St. Renee, a woman whose lifestyle hinged upon her ability to look beautiful and maintain an exquisite body, and whose only indulgence was her evening coffee, that instead of making billowy soft whipped cream . . . I’d made butter.

  Fired.

  Fired?

  Fired.

  F O R. B U T T E R.

  I sat in my car outside Mitzi’s house, tucked high up into the hills. I’d packed up my knives, plucked my last check from her perfectly manicured gel tips, then trudged to my 1982 Jeep Wagoneer.

  Fired. Over butter. I should have known better than to turn my back on cream being whipped. It can go from stiff peaks to buttery squeaks in seconds.

  My phone rang again and my mother’s face appeared on the screen, with frizzy brown braids and a daisy behind her ear. Second-generation hippie. Woodstock Part Deux. I’d inherited my hair from her, but my eyes came from my father. I’d never met him, but my mother said she could always tell our moods based on our eye color. Hazel when I’m calm, a little blue when I’m blue, and a little green when I’m frazzled. I was very celery at the moment.

  I heard the front door shut and saw Mitzi coming down the driveway, likely to tell me it was time to leave. Starting the engine, I waved good-bye with a specific finger and left. Unprofessional, but I didn’t have to care about what she thought anymore.

  I grumbled to myself all the way home, down from the hills, across town to the other side of Highland, where the homes were considerably smaller, giving way to blocks and blocks of apartment buildings filled to bursting with hopeful young beauties. As I approached my building, my phone rang. Again.

  “You really couldn’t wait for me to call you back?” I said as her voice came through the speakers. California’s hands-free law meant that I got to hear my mother’s voice ricocheting off every corner of the car, in stereo.

  “Who knows when that would be? I’m literally bursting to tell you my news!” my mother cried out, giggling excitedly.

  I chuckled in spite of myself. My mother was many things, but her enthusiasm was always hard to resist.

  “It must be big news; it’s late back there. Why aren’t you in bed?” It was almost eleven back east: way past her bedtime.

  “Eh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Listen, Roxie, I’ve got something fantastic to tell you!”

  “Phish is touring again?”

  “Roxie . . .” she warned.

  I bit my lip to keep from saying something snarky. “You found a new brand of wheat germ and you can’t hide your excitement?” Lip biting does not, in fact, always work.

  “I’m so glad you enjoy making fun of your mother, especially with your generic hippie quips. You’re very quippy tonight,” she replied, her voice getting a bit sharp.

  I needed to ease off a bit. After all, it wasn’t entirely her fault that I’d been fired.

  “Your news?” I asked sweetly, before she could go off on a tangent about maybe the reason I was so quippy is that I wasn’t getting enough iron. Or sex. Typical mother-daughter stuff.

  “Right! Yes! My news! Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes, I’m sitting down.”

  “I’m going to be on television!” she burst out, ending in a squeal.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Is Craft Corner back on the air again?”

  Our little town in upstate New York had its own public access channel, and Mom had been contributing ideas for years. Every now and then, when the budget hadn’t been cut in half to seventy-five dollars, they’d ask her to come on and demonstrate. How to make a sweater dress, how to make a ceramic birdbath, etc. Her segment on Jiffy Pop paper lanterns generated the most calls the station had ever received. Three.

  “No, no, not Craft Corner. Ever hear of The Amazing Race?”

  “Sure, sure. Is Channel 47 doing a local version?” I asked, turning into my parking lot.

  “It’s not Channel 47, dear, it’s the actual show! I’m going to be on The Amazing Race—the real one!”

  “Wait, what?” I asked, swinging wide into my spot and almost taking out a trash can.

  “You heard me right! I auditioned for the show last fall when they were in Poughkeepsie, with your aunt Cheryl, and they picked us! We’re going around the world!” she yelled.

  “Okay, stop shouting. Mom, seriously, stop—okay. Okay, hello?” I tried to get a word in edgewise, but it was impossible. She was spouting names of cities and countries right and left, her voice getting ever more excited. Cairo. Mozambique. Krakatoa.

  “Krakatoa? You’re going to a volcano?”

  “Who knows,
that’s the whole point! They could send us anywhere! I’m going on a quest!”

  “With Aunt Cheryl? She got lost in the new A&P. What good is she going to be on a quest?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a pill, Roxie,” my mother said, and I could feel my shoulders tensing up—like they always did when she took this tone.

  My mother was a “free spirit,” and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why her daughter was such a stick-in-the-mud. A stick-in-the-mud who, since she was fourteen, had made sure the lights stayed on, the gas didn’t get turned off, and there was always food in the pantry. Still, I was happy for her.

  “Sorry—it sounds awesome. Really, I’m excited for you,” I said, envisioning my mother and her sister trying to navigate a bazaar in North Africa. “When does all this happen?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, sweetie. We leave in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? Who are you going to get to run Callahan’s?”

  “Who do you think?” she asked.

  She wasn’t— No, she couldn’t possibly think that I’d leave my— No, she would never . . . Hell yes, she would.

  “Are you insane? Like, ‘check you into a place without forks’ insane?”

  “Just hear me out, Roxie—”

  “Hear you out? You want me to leave my business, which is finally starting to get somewhere, to cook in a run-down diner in Bailey Falls, New York? While you go off on some geriatric ‘around the world in eighty days’ bullshit?”

  “I can’t believe you would call me geriatric—”

  “I can’t believe that’s the word you heard!” I exploded. As I sat in my car, eyes bugging out of my head at my mother’s audacity, my phone vibrated with a text. “Explain to me how you think this can work. How can I do this?”

  “Easy. You take a leave of absence out there, you drive to here, and you run the diner while I do this.”

  I took a breath, held on to it for a moment, then let it out slowly. “A leave of absence.” Breathe in. Breathe out. “I work for myself. So a leave of absence means a leave of no more business. A leave of unemployment. A leave of, ‘hey, clients, get someone else to cook for you. I’ll be up to my elbows in tuna noodle casserole back home in Podunk.’ ”