Page 42 of Clinically Delicious
“Yeah.” I dredged the chicken in flour, seasoned with salt and pepper. “It really does.”
“Is that why you’re a nanny now?”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“Kind of. I needed a change of scenery. And I like kids.” I heated olive oil in a large skillet, waiting for it to shimmer. “Plus, your dad pays better than most restaurants.”
That was true, actually. Dr. Lyon’s salary offer had been generous—probably because he’d gone through so many nannies that he’d had to start offering combat pay.
“Do you miss it? Cooking?”
I slid the first chicken breast into the hot oil, listening to the satisfying sizzle. “Sometimes. But I still get to cook. Just not in a restaurant.”
“You should cook for us more often. Dad usually just makes boring stuff.”
“Your dad’s busy. He’s got a lot on his plate.” I flipped the chicken; the bottom was perfectly golden brown. “Besides, I bet his boring stuff is still pretty good.”
“It’s okay.” Megan finished zesting the lemon and held it up proudly. “Is this enough?”
“Perfect. You’re a natural sous chef.”
She beamed.
I transferred the cooked chicken to a plate and started on the sauce, my hands moving through the familiar motions without conscious thought. Shallots into the pan, let them soften. Garlic, just until fragrant. Deglaze with white wine, scraping up all those beautiful brown bits. Lemon juice, capers, butter to finish.
This was the part I loved. The alchemy of it. The way simple ingredients transformed into something greater than the sum of their parts. The way a good pan sauce could elevate a basic chicken breast into something worth remembering.
The way cooking made me feel competent and capable and like maybe I wasn’t a complete disaster after all.
“It smells really good,” Megan said, watching me work.
“Wait until you taste it.”
I let the sauce reduce, tasting and adjusting. More lemon. A pinch of salt. Fresh cracked pepper. The butter emulsified into the wine and lemon juice, creating a glossy, silky sauce that caught the light.
Beautiful.
I returned the chicken to the pan, spooning sauce over the top, letting it warm through while I started the pasta water.
“Can I help with anything else?” Megan asked.
“You can set the table. Plates, forks, knives, napkins. Make it fancy.”
“Fancy how?”
“However you want. It’s your table.”
She slid off the stool carefully, mindful of her cast, and headed for the dining room with the kind of serious concentration that suggested this was an important mission.
I was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the smells of garlic and lemon and butter, and for the first time in months, I felt like myself.
Not the anxious mess who’d shown up late to her first day. Not the disaster who’d let a kid break her arm. Not the idiot who’d said, “towel situation,” and then fled like a spooked cat.
Just Cate. The one who could cook. The one who’d spent four years learning technique and theory and the precise temperature at which butter browns. The one who’d dreamed of running her own kitchen someday.
The one Tracy had beaten.
I pushed the thought away, focusing on the pasta. Fresh fettuccine only needed three minutes in boiling water. Once ready, I’d toss it with butter and parsley, letting it soak up some of that pan sauce. Simple. Classic. The kind of dish that looked effortless but required perfect timing and technique.
