On Thin Icing (16 page)

Then there’s the issue of rolling out the noodles. If the noodles are too thin, they’ll break. If they’re too thick, they’ll become a gummy gooey mess. It takes a little patience and finesse, but it’s totally worth the effort.

To start, I measured flour and piled it onto the island. Then I made a hole in the center with my fingers, sweeping flour to the sides to create a volcano with a soft crater in the middle. Since we were going with an Italian theme I cracked eggs into the crater, and added two extra yolks. I’ve found that the addition of yolks gives the noodles a lovely satin texture.

Using a fork I began pushing the flour into the pool of eggs. There’s debate among chefs about adding salt to the noodles versus adding it to the water. I like a hint of kosher salt in my pasta. The only caution is to avoid sea salt; it will ruin the silky-smooth texture of the dough. A sticky ball began to form as I forked the eggs and flour together.

At this stage in pasta making it becomes more of an art than a science. I determined how much more flour to add based on the feeling of the dough. Once it held together, I began using my bench knife to fold in more flour.

“That’s quite the process,” Sterling said, watching as I ditched the knife and started kneading the dough by hand. This is my favorite part of pasta making. I know some people dread the kneading process, but it’s nearly impossible to overknead the dough.

“You want to give it a try?” I asked, rotating the dough and pressing my hands into it.

“I think I’ll just watch this time.”

“It’s super easy. I’ll keep working this for about ten minutes or so. I don’t want to dry the dough out, especially with the thin air up here.”

“How can you tell when it’s done?” Sterling studied the dough.

“You want it to have nice elasticity.” I pressed into the ball of dough with my finger. “It should be springy.”

“What do you do with it when it’s done? Stick it in the fridge?”

“No. Not unless you want gray noodles.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, if you refrigerate the dough it will turn a grayish color. It doesn’t affect the flavor, but, yuck!” I stuck out my tongue. “No one wants to eat gray noodles.”

Sterling laughed. “Can you imagine serving Lance gray noodles?”

“He would flip.” I dusted more flour onto the counter. “Once I finish kneading this, I’ll wrap it in plastic and let it rest for a few hours. Then I’ll teach you how to roll it, and get you started on the beans.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sterling replied. The oven dinged, signaling that the almond bars were ready. He walked over to remove them from the oven. “Uh, Jules. We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” I replied with my back to him.

“You better come look at this.”

I brushed flour onto my apron and went to see what was wrong. My jaw dropped as I stared at the oven. The almond bars had risen to the size of a basketball. They were wedged between the oven racks.

“How did that happen?” I threw my hand over my mouth. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Sterling bent his head toward the oven. “How are we going to get that out of there?”

“That is crazy. It has to be the altitude.” My mouth hung open as I gaped at the sight. I felt like we were in an episode of
I Love Lucy.
Mom used to love watching reruns of Lucy’s antics in the kitchen when I was a kid. “What if you hold the bottom of the pan and I’ll try to remove the oven rack?”

Sterling handed me two oven mitts. “Go for it.”

It was impossible not to laugh as we tugged and twisted the humongous almond cookie bars from the oven. What a rookie mistake. I should have accounted for the altitude and adjusted my recipe. Thank goodness Carlos wasn’t here. He would never let me live this down. Once we finally got it out, Sterling placed it on the counter. We both stood back and stared. Then we collapsed in another fit of laughter.

“That’s insane. I should take a picture,” Sterling said.

“I know.” I laughed and shook my head. “The question is, can we salvage it?”

Sterling looked doubtful.

I racked my brain, trying to remember everything I could about high-altitude baking. “What if we stick it outside in the snow? The cold air might deflate it a bit.”

“Where do you want me to put it?” Sterling asked.

“Um, somewhere where it won’t get wet.” I glanced out the window. “That might be hard. We can cover it in foil and you can stick it under the overhang. It’s worth a shot, right? Otherwise we can make a new batch. This time I’ll cut way down on the baking soda.”

Sterling covered the monstrous mound with tinfoil. “I sort of hate to let it deflate. This is pretty awesome.”

I shook my head as he walked away. I couldn’t believe how much the altitude was impacting everything. For the remainder of the weekend, I needed to carefully review and adjust each recipe.

At that moment a loud explosion shook the kitchen. For a second I wondered what I’d done this time. Had I forgotten to turn off the pressure cooker? The lights flared and then cut out. Everything went dark.

Chapter Eighteen

The power was out. Excellent. As if cooking at high altitude wasn’t enough of a challenge, now I was going to have to do it without electricity. What else could go wrong this weekend?

Everyone in the dining hall gasped. I heard Lance trying to calm them down. “Not to worry, it’s just a tree, darlings. Just a big nasty tree.”

Mercury had mentioned that the lodge had a generator. Hopefully she’d be able to get power restored to the lodge soon. In the meantime I needed to implement a backup plan. Since the stove was gas, we could manually light the burners and use them for our pasta sauce, the beans, and boiling the noodles. The pizza oven would have to be our primary source for baking.

I dug through the top drawer to find matches and lit the candles on the windowsill. Mercury had left us Mason jars with giant votive candles. I lit those as well and placed them strategically around the kitchen. Our biggest obstacle was going to be seeing in the dim kitchen.

The flaming candles and light from the brick oven gave the kitchen a romantic glow. I positioned one of the votives in front of me and reviewed the menu. It was doable. Except that using any of our kitchen equipment was out—mixing would have to be done by hand. And hopefully Mercury had a French press. We could boil water and make coffee in the French press. Otherwise guests were going to have to go without.

Sterling returned. “Uh, so the power’s out.”

“Yep.” I held up the Mason jar. “Looks like we’re going really old school this afternoon. How is it out there?”

“It’s nuts. I’ve never seen that much snow.”

“What’s the vibe in the dining room?”

“Lance has it under control. He’s playing up the drama factor, of course. But they’ve got tons of candles and the fire is going. They’ll be fine. Mercury is running around outside with Gavin trying to get the generator working.”

“Fingers crossed,” I said.

“Well, if nothing else we’ll have some really puffed-up cold almond pastry to give everyone.”

“I like your attitude. That’s something all good chefs need—a positive attitude and an ability to improvise.”

I went into organization mode. It’s a skill I perfected on the ship. Running an efficient kitchen requires quick thinking and delegation. “Keeping everything at temperature won’t be an issue,” I said. “We need to limit how often we open the fridge and freezer until we see if Mercury can get the generator working. Everything in there should be fine for a couple hours. We can always take stuff outside as needed, so I guess our focus is dinner.” I handed him a list of ingredients for the pasta sauce. “You start prepping everything for the red sauce and I’ll make the frosting for the almond bars—or hunks—or whatever we’re going to call them.”

Sterling and I navigated dinner prep in the candlelight. I melted chocolate on the stove and removed cream cheese and butter from the fridge. Getting it to room temperature, or even slightly warm, was going to be essential. Usually we whip it on high speed to give our frostings a light and creamy texture. My forearms were about to get a workout.

Mercury came in to check our progress. If I thought I was having a hard day, her day had to be a thousand times worse. Her pajama bottoms were damp with snow. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks looked windblown. “I’m not here with good news.” She sounded dejected. “Gavin can’t get the generator going. He’s trying one more thing, but if it doesn’t work it looks like we’re going to be without power until a crew can get through.”

“That’s okay,” I tried to reassure her. “We’ve got a plan. Guests might have to huddle together, but at least they’ll be fed.”

She gave me a half-smile. “That’s good, but I’m worried about the cold. The fireplace is our only source of heat.”

“We’ll boil water for tea and hot chocolate. I saw that you have a stash of instant tea and packages of hot chocolate. We’ll keep that supplied.” Usually I’m not a fan of watery hot chocolate, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We didn’t have enough burners or time to make our signature milky hot chocolate.

Mercury looked relieved. “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask Carlos to bring out a couple bottles of peppermint schnapps and Kahlúa. That should raise everyone’s spirits.”

“Definitely.” I checked the clock on the wall. It must be battery operated because its second hand clicked in a steady rhythm. “It’ll be happy hour soon. Crack open some bottles of wine, we’ll have warm drinks, warm food, and a cheery fire. It’ll be fine.”

“I appreciate the pep talk.” Mercury actually smiled.

“Do you have a French press? If you do, we’ll get coffee steeping, too.”

Mercury walked to the far wall of cupboards and bent down on her knees. She removed a toaster and stuck her head into the cupboard. “That’s weird,” she said, holding up an empty bottle of wine. “How did that get in here?”

“No idea.” I shook my head.

She looked puzzled. “Why would someone put an empty bottle in here?”

I didn’t respond. The first thought that flashed in my mind was that someone who had a drinking problem probably stashed it in there. I knew Mercury’s husband usually ran the kitchen. Could he have an addiction?

Mercury reached back into the cupboard and found the French press. She pushed to her feet and handed it to me. “This isn’t yours, is it?” She held the empty wine bottle in her other hand.

“Nope.” I caught Sterling’s eye. He grimaced.

Sterling had been in recovery for a couple of years after spending time on the streets in Northern California. I knew there was no way it was his, either. Once he turned his life around, he said he never looked back. He told me he didn’t even like the taste of alcohol anymore. I could tell by his expression that he was thinking the same thing that I was—whoever stashed the empty wine bottle probably had a reason they were hiding it.

Mercury studied the label. “This is one of our most expensive bottles. It’s a private reserve. This is a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of wine.”

She tucked the empty bottle under her arm, and sighed. “Okay, I have to go check on whether or not Gavin has made any progress with the generator. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She started toward the door, paused, and looked back at both of us. “Thank you for being so professional and calm. I really do appreciate it.”

“This place gets weirder and weirder.” Sterling raised one eyebrow after Mercury left. “Who do you think is drinking in secret?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Mercury’s husband? He’s usually the one running the show back here, but who knows. It seems like there’s been a steady stream of people in and out of the kitchen since we’ve been here.”

As I spoke I thought about finding the two used wine glasses on the island this morning. Could whoever had been here last night shared that bottle of wine? Did Carlos have anything to do with the empty bottle of expensive wine? He was definitely a wine connoisseur and appreciated a good bottle, but he would never drink someone else’s reserve wine without permission. Would he?

I had to stop second-guessing Carlos, and more importantly myself.

Sterling had diced onions, garlic, and fresh basil for the tomato sauce. He placed them in ramekins next to the stove. “These are ready to go. You want me to start on something else, or should I get coffee going?”

“Why don’t you do coffee and water for tea and hot chocolate. I’ll start the sauce as soon as I finish the frosting.” I returned to the stove and added cubes of butter into a saucepan. Could the wine bottle and glasses have anything to do with Tony’s murder? I hadn’t mentioned them to Thomas and the Professor, but I probably should. It might be a stretch, but what if whoever killed him plotted how to do it first? What if two people were responsible for his murder? Maybe they had a drink before they trekked down to the marina. Or, maybe they had a celebratory drink after they finished the deed. I shuddered at the thought.

“Are you getting cold?” Sterling asked. He lit the burner next to mine and placed a tea kettle on it.

“Yeah, it’s starting to cool off in here, isn’t it?” That wasn’t a lie. The temperature had dropped since we lost power. I didn’t want to tell Sterling that my mind was running wild scenarios about Tony’s death.

“Do you want my coat?” Sterling asked.

“No. I’ll be fine. I just need to keep moving.” I danced back and forth on my feet to prove my point.

“Should I go check on the almond bars?”

I stirred the molten chocolate then lifted the spoon a few inches above the saucepan. The glossy liquid poured in a thin stream. I stuck my pinky in for a taste. The buttery chocolate melted in my mouth. “That would be great. This is ready. Let’s see if we can get creative and salvage something.”

Sterling didn’t bother to put on a coat. He pulled up his hoodie and left to brave the elements once again.

“Hello?” a timid voice called.

“Come on in.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Whitney said. She wore a fur-lined parka and matching gloves. “Oh, it’s much warmer in here. You’re lucky.”

“Is it cold in the dining room?” I set the spoon on the stove, and removed the chocolate glaze from the heat.