Chapter 9: Roux

By noon on Saturday, Eleanor had gone to the house, and I had the whole shop kitchen to myself.

"You're sure about this?" Rémy asked.

He had put a fourteen-quart pot on the big burner.

Beside it he had left a bag of flour, a jug of oil and a cutting board.

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm going to serve them dinner."

"At the house?"

"At their table. In my apron."

He thought about that.

"You'll need more than one pot," he said. "Twelve at the table, and the mother. They won't be polite about it."

"Thirteen," I said.

"Thirteen, then." He put a second pot on the stove. "I have a truck."

I looked at him.

"I'm only offering the truck," he said. "The rest is yours."

I started the roux.

Flour and oil, equal parts, over medium heat. It is the one thing in a kitchen you cannot hurry.

Mawmaw taught me at six, standing on an upturned crate. She told me the roux would tell me when to stop.

I stirred, and the flour went from white to the color of sand.

At two o'clock, the back door opened and Mireille stepped in without knocking.

She had her coat over her arm and her face scrubbed bare.

She hadn't slept either.

"I told them I was bringing cider to the house," she said. "I have an hour."

"Close the door."

She closed it. She stood on the mat and twisted her coat in both hands.

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