Page 18 of Savoring Christmas (Sugarville Grove #8)

MIA

T hursday night, potatoes had just come out of the oven, their skins wrinkled and split from the heat, when Mia’s students started to file in. Cannoli sat near the door like a furry greeter, tail thumping lightly each time someone came close enough for a sniff or a pat.

She smiled at Harold and Thelma as they found their stations. Abby set her tote on the counter with an enthusiastic thump. “Let’s do this.”

Kris came in juggling his coat and a tin of cookies. “Don’t get too excited—they’re from the bakery, not me. One of the mothers brought them for Santa this afternoon.”

“They’re still appreciated,” Mia said, laughing. “Tell Santa thank you.”

Reese hung her coat, a hint of color in her cheeks that hadn’t been there Tuesday.

In fact, to Mia, she seemed heartier and more robust than she’d been just a week ago.

Her face had lost that gaunt look that had made her look haggard.

She had such a pretty face, with big green eyes and a full mouth.

Her hair, usually pulled back in a bun, was loose about her shoulders.

“Reese, how are you, dear?” Thelma asked.

“I had a good day yesterday,” Reese said. “I’ve been practicing. Cooking, I mean. I tried the Chicken Marsala and potatoes again and shared them with the other teachers at my studio. They were all very complimentary.”

“That’s fantastic,” Mia said.

Logan arrived, bringing another couple bottles of wine, courtesy of Max. Cannoli trotted over to investigate the bottles before returning to her usual slow circuit of the room, tail wagging faintly as she stopped at each station for her customary greeting.

“I think Max feels guilty that they pushed me into this,” Logan said. “Which I’m totally milking. Thus, more wine.”

“Good for us,” Harold said.

Logan’s grin was quick, and his eyes met Mia’s briefly, sending a small thrill up her spine. Meanwhile, Cannoli had settled into her corner spot, dark eyes following the clatter of bowls and chopping of vegetables as if she were keeping score.

“Do you know anything about Patty and the kids?” Abby asked. “I don’t see them here tonight either.”

Mia quickly filled them in on Patty’s car and losing her job.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Thelma said.

“Logan and I are working together to help them,” Mia said. “We’ll keep you all posted. But for now, I want to hear how everyone’s doing. Aside from Reese, is anyone cooking at home?”

Thelma adjusted her reading glasses. “Harold and I have been practicing our knife skills together. I think I’m improving.”

Harold grinned. “She’s just being modest. Her julienne is quite sexy.”

Everyone laughed. Except for Thelma, who blushed like a teenager. Cannoli tilted her head at the sound, as if even she found Harold’s comment amusing.

“I never thought of proper slicing as sexy but who am I to judge?” Mia asked. “How’s everyone else doing?” She retied her apron strings. “Does anyone else have a cooking success story to share before we get going?”

“I tried the Marsala at home,” Abby said. “Luke loved it so much he asked if we could put it on the Christmas Eve menu. Which is a very big deal in the Hayes family. I finally have something to contribute. I’m so happy with myself.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so pleased and proud. All right, we should get going.” Mia clapped her hands lightly. “Let’s see what we can do with a little flour, some potatoes, and an egg.”

She held up a warm russet potato. “Tonight’s challenge: homemade potato gnocchi. Four ingredients—potatoes, flour, egg, salt. Simple in theory. Tricky to master. But you’re all going to do splendidly.”

Kris groaned good-naturedly. “Famous last words.”

“Our goal tonight is light, pillowy gnocchi—not the heavy kind that sinks like stones.” Mia hauled out the two ricers she’d brought from her restaurant. “And we’re going to learn how to use this bad boy.”

“Is that some kind of torture device?” Logan asked, brow raised.

“It’s a ricer,” Thelma said. “I’ve had one for years that I never use.”

“Well, let’s change that tonight. First, we have to peel the cooked potato.

You want them still warm but not hot enough to burn your fingers.

” Mia demonstrated, steam curling upward as she slid the skin from the potato.

“Baking instead of boiling keeps them dry. Moisture is the enemy of good gnocchi.”

Cannoli gave a hopeful sniff toward the counter, as if she thought potatoes might somehow lead to dog treats.

Mia pressed the potato through the ricer, the soft pile falling onto the board.

“I always wondered what one of these did,” Abby said.

“It’s a must if you want fluffy gnocchi,” Mia said.

“You put the salt, flour, and egg in the middle of the potato. And then we fold it together gently. This is not bread dough, so we don’t want to overwork it.

The dough should feel soft, almost delicate.

If it starts feeling tough, you’ve gone too far. ”

Abby peered at the mound. “What happens if it starts out too sticky?”

“Light dusting of flour should fix it,” Mia said, brushing her fingers over the counter. “But don’t go crazy. Too much flour makes them dense.”

Logan scribbled away in his notebook. Mia bit back a smile. Cannoli strolled by and rested her chin on his knee, clearly more interested in attention than gnocchi-making technique.

She divided the dough into portions. “Now, this is where the fun starts. We roll each portion into ropes. About three-quarters of an inch thick. No thinner or they’ll fall apart in the water, no thicker or they’ll be gummy in the center. Think of them as little snakes that actually taste good.”

Kris grinned. “That’s an image I didn’t need. Postmen hate snakes.”

Mia demonstrated, rolling the dough under her palms with even pressure.

“See? Gentle. You don’t have to rush it.

Let the dough tell you when it’s ready.” She lined up the rope neatly.

“Once you’ve got your rope, we cut them into pieces.

You can leave them as is or roll them over a fork for ridges.

The ridges aren’t just for looks—they help catch the sauce. ”

Thelma nodded. “I knew there was a reason.”

Mia smiled. “There’s always a reason. Okay, everybody, go for it. I’m here to answer questions.”

Soon they were all hard at work, quiet conversation weaving between stations. Cannoli made a slow lap of the room again, stopping just long enough to sniff Harold’s station before moving on, as if checking that everyone was following instructions.

“Do you guys want to hear some gossip?” Abby asked.

“Always,” Kris said.

“You’ll probably already know this, Kris, but it was news to me,” Abby said. “There’s someone new in town. A mysterious billionaire. Name of Grant Stratton.”

Logan raised a brow. “How do you know?”

“He called me out to the house to examine one of his horses.” Abby rolled out her dough rope.

“Way up north—a road that veers off of Fox Hollow. From what I can tell he had the land cleared for his house. And by house I mean mansion. Let’s just say I nearly got lost between the gate and the front door. ”

Thelma paused mid-roll. “Really, there’s a house out there?”

“Apparently, he keeps to himself.” Abby shaped her gnocchi with quick flicks of her fork. “He mentioned he’s looking for a permanent housekeeper. Big place like that needs someone full-time. There’s even a guest cottage. Which had me thinking about Patty and the kids.”

A housekeeping job. A guest cottage. And a certain mother of three who’d just lost her job. “That’s a very interesting idea,” Mia said.

“Very much so,” Logan said.

Cannoli let out a soft “whuff” from her corner, as if agreeing with the plan.

“I told him I knew someone who might be perfect for the job,” Abby said. “And he agreed to meet Patty.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Thelma said. “How old is he?”

“I’d say later thirties, early forties,” Abby said. “Very good looking.”

“I see.” Thelma pursed her lips.

“What are you thinking?” Harold asked laughing. “Matchmaking?”

“I mean, why wouldn’t he fall in love with Patty?” Thelma asked, eyes dancing. “It would be very romantic.”

“Kind of like Cinderella,” Reese said, sounding dreamy.

Mia made her way around the room, and, as always, the results were as varied as the personalities in the class. Cannoli shadowed her for a few minutes, tail wagging like she was the sous-chef in charge of morale.

Thelma’s ropes were smooth and even, each piece lined up in perfect rows like little soldiers. Harold’s gnocchi, on the other hand, were varied—some fat and plump, others thin as pencils. “They’re a mess,” Harold said.

“Not to worry,” Mia said. “Let’s see how they cook up. This is a dish that takes a few tries to master, so you mustn’t be disappointed if they’re not perfect tonight.”

Abby’s pieces were surprisingly uniform, but she’d pressed each one with a heavy hand, the fork ridges deep enough to qualify as dimples. “Too much?” Abby asked in a worried voice.

“The sauce will have plenty to cling to,” Mia said, touching Abby’s shoulder.

Kris’s were eclectic. A few perfect, most wildly uneven. “Do Harold and I get points for variety?”

Mia laughed. “Sure. Why not?” Cannoli barked once, startling Kris into almost dropping his gnocchi.

Reese’s were, of course, meticulous—each piece identical, their ridges delicate and perfectly formed. Her little tray looked like something from a cookbook photo shoot.

“Reese, you really are the star of the class,” Thelma said.

Reese flushed and dipped her chin, clearly embarrassed but also pleased.

And then there was Logan’s. His ropes weren’t bad, but the pieces were cut generously—half of them closer to gnocchi boulders than pillows. Cannoli sat beside his station, watching as if she were waiting for him to “accidentally” drop one.

“Well, those are hearty,” Mia said.

He grimaced. “Too big?”

“A bit, but that’s okay,” Mia reassured him. “Again, this is everyone’s first attempt at a difficult dish, so don’t be too hard on yourselves.”