Page 14 of Savoring Christmas (Sugarville Grove #8)

MIA

O n Tuesday night, Harold and Thelma showed first, both looking bright-eyed and full of life.

Mia noticed they brushed hands before going to their cooking stations.

Had they driven in the same car? Were they having a romance?

Wouldn’t that be something? Cannoli gave a soft bark from her bed in the corner, as if to greet them.

They both went over to say hello to her and give her some pets.

Abby came in next, gushing about how much she was looking forward to class and that she’d tried out her pasta and sauce on her family.

“They went bananas over it,” Abby said. “And my husband had three helpings. I’ve never been so proud in my life.”

“I’m thrilled to hear that,” Mia said.

Cannoli got up from her bed to come say hello to Abby, who made a fuss over her as any good veterinarian would.

Reese smiled at everyone as she hung her coat on the back of her chair, but she seemed a little off. Smudges of purple under her eyes hinted at a bad night’s sleep. Cannoli padded softly over and rested her chin on Reese’s shoe until Reese reached down for a quick scratch behind her ears.

Kris hurried in, apologizing for being a few minutes late. “The line out at Santa’s Village was quite long tonight.”

“God bless you,” Abby said. “You’re a saint.”

Logan came last, with bottles of wine tucked into his briefcase. “My brother Max sent these out from his store. They’re Italian wines, so he insisted I bring them.”

“How sweet of him,” Abby said. “Max is so thoughtful.”

“He can’t stop laughing about my attendance in this class,” Logan said, rolling his eyes. “But he’s going to be sorry when he sees that the joke’s on him because I love learning to cook.”

He and Mia exchanged a quick glance. One that sent shivers up her spine. How could she concentrate on teaching when one of her pupils was so gorgeous? And such a good kisser.

Once everyone was settled, Mia went to the front of the room to start their lesson. “Tonight, we’re tackling Chicken Marsala with garlic mashed potatoes.”

The announcement sent a ripple through the group. As if she knew Mia had it all under control, Cannoli circled twice in her bed before curling back up, her dark eyes following Mia like an attentive sous-chef.

“I love Chicken Marsala,” Kris said. “My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid.”

“I always order it at restaurants,” Abby said. “But isn’t it hard to make?”

“It can be tricky, but not for you guys,” Mia said. “This recipe is great for impressing dinner guests. Kris, this might even be the one for your surprise anniversary dinner.”

Mia moved to the center station where everyone could see her, ingredients already arranged.

“First, we’re going to pound these chicken breasts thin—about half an inch.

Don’t be shy about it.” She demonstrated with the meat mallet, the rhythmic thwacking echoing through the kitchen.

“Even thickness means even cooking. Nobody wants raw chicken at their dinner party.”

She held up the flattened breast, translucent in spots where the fibers had broken down. “See how it’s uniform now? This will cook in about four minutes per side instead of ten, and it won’t be tough as shoe leather.”

Moving to the flour station, she set out three shallow dishes in a neat row.

“This is a dredging station. Flour seasoned with salt, white pepper, and just a pinch of garlic powder in the first dish. Beaten eggs with a splash of cream in the second—the cream helps it stick better. And seasoned breadcrumbs in the third.”

She picked up a piece of chicken, holding it over the flour.

“Light coating. Don’t bury it—we want the chicken to taste like chicken, not like flour.

” The breast went in with a soft puff of white dust. “Press gently, flip, press again. Shake off the excess.” Flour cascaded back into the dish like snow.

“Too much flour and your sauce will be gluey. Too little and you won’t get that golden crust we’re after. ”

She dipped the floured chicken into the egg mixture, turning it until it was coated on all sides, then lifted it over the bowl to let the extra drip away.

“Now straight into the breadcrumbs. Press them in so they stick—don’t just roll it around.

You want an even layer, edge to edge, so every bite gets that crunch. ”

The skillet on her burner was already shimmering with oil and butter—a combination that filled the air with a rich, nutty fragrance. Cannoli’s nose twitched from her corner bed as the aroma reached her.

“Oil and butter together. The oil keeps the butter from burning, the butter gives us flavor. Listen to it—” The chicken hit the pan with an immediate, aggressive sizzle that demanded attention.

“That sound tells you the pan is hot enough. No sound means no sear. Too loud means it’s too hot and you’ll burn the outside before the inside cooks. ”

“Always with the sounds,” Logan said, chuckling, as he wrote in his notebook.

She moved the chicken gently in the pan, the flour coating already turning golden at the edges. “Don’t move it around too much. Let it do its thing. Four minutes on the first side. Use the time to prep your mushrooms.”

Her knife work was swift and sure as she sliced cremini mushrooms into thick, meaty pieces.

“Quarter-inch slices. Thinner and they’ll disappear into nothing.

Thicker and they won’t cook evenly with the sauce.

” The blade rocked in a steady rhythm against the board.

“Always cut them just before you need them—mushrooms are like sponges. Cut them too early and they’ll get soggy and lose their texture. ”

The chicken flipped with a satisfying sizzle, revealing a perfect golden-brown crust. “That’s what we’re looking for.

Color equals flavor.” She moved the pieces to a warm plate, the residual heat from the pan making them continue to sizzle softly.

“Don’t worry about them being fully cooked yet—they’re going back in the pan to finish with the sauce. ”

Now came the mushrooms, hitting the same pan with their own chorus of sizzles.

The earthy aroma immediately filled the space around her station.

“Don’t crowd them. Crowded mushrooms steam instead of sear.

We want them golden and caramelized, not gray and sad.

” She moved them around the pan with practiced flicks of her wrist. “See how the moisture is cooking out? That’s the water content evaporating.

Once they stop releasing liquid and start browning, we’re almost there. ”

“Now for the garlic.” She minced three cloves with quick, precise cuts. “Garlic burns fast, so it goes in last. Just until fragrant, maybe thirty seconds.” The smell that rose from the pan was immediate and intoxicating, sharp and sweet at the same time.

“Time to deglaze. This is where the magic happens.” She held up the bottle of Marsala wine, amber liquid catching the overhead lights.

“Pull the pan off the heat first—alcohol and open flame don’t always play nice together.

” The wine hit the hot pan with a dramatic hiss, steam rising in aromatic clouds.

“All those brown bits on the bottom of the pan? That’s flavor.

The wine dissolves them and becomes part of our sauce. ”

She swirled the pan, scraping up the caramelized bits with a wooden spoon. “Let it reduce by half. You’ll smell when the alcohol cooks off—it goes from sharp and boozy to mellow and sweet. Kris, you might need to remember that this round.”

“What?” Kris spoofed, wide-eyed, as everyone laughed.

The liquid bubbled and concentrated, darkening to a rich amber. “Now the cream goes in, just a splash to bind everything together and give it body.”

The sauce transformed instantly, turning silky and golden. “And the chicken goes back in to finish cooking.” The pieces nestled into the bubbling sauce, which immediately began to coat them. “Two minutes, just enough to heat through and let the flavors marry.”

Meanwhile, at the potato station, she had Yukon Golds boiling in heavily salted water.

“The water should taste like the ocean. Potatoes are bland—they need salt from the very beginning, not just at the end.” Steam rose from the pot in waves.

“Twenty minutes for this size. You want them tender enough that a fork slides through like butter, but not so soft they fall apart.”

She demonstrated the mashing technique with a few test potatoes, the masher moving in confident strokes.

“Always mash them hot. Cold potatoes turn gluey no matter what you do.” Warm cream and butter went in gradually, the mixture transforming from chunky to silky.

“Use warm cream; cold cream will cool down your potatoes and make them dense. And butter—real butter, not margarine. We’re not counting calories tonight. ”

The finished dish came together on the plate almost like art—golden chicken glistening with dark Marsala sauce, creamy potatoes piped in an elegant swirl, a sprinkle of fresh thyme adding color and fragrance.

“There. Finished.” Mia wiped her hands on her apron. “Now let’s see what you can do.”

Everyone leaned in, the collective intake of breath almost audible, and, for the first twenty minutes, it seemed like things would run smoothly.

Cannoli made quiet circuits of the room between stations, earning a quick ear scratch here, a murmured hello there, before settling back by Mia. However, things began to fall apart.

At the far end of the counter, Logan’s skillet began hissing louder than the others, an angry, spitting sound that cut through the kitchen’s ambient noise. A moment later, a sharp, acrid scent hit the air—not quite smoke, but the warning that came just before.

“Ah, come on,” Logan muttered, his spatula scraping against the pan as he flipped the chicken to reveal a side just past “golden brown” and edging into “charcoal.”