Chapter 7 #3
Pete stares at him under the flickering fluorescents, measuring, evaluative, oddly loaded. Ben thinks, Probably there’s something on my face? and then, treacherously, Does he look at Chris like this? and then tries to banish both thoughts.
Eventually, his grin a sharp slash across his face, Pete says, “Thanks.”
“Oh,” Ben says, weakly. “Don’t mention it. Wasn’t any trouble at all.”
The morning moves fairly quickly, after that.
Pete makes a classic sweet potato casserole first, roasted marshmallow layer and all, with an optional miso-maple-pecan topper, and all in all, it could be worse.
Sure, he says “mashmellow” instead of “marshmallow” in literally every instance, except when he’s explaining that viewers could easily substitute vegan ones; in that case, the word “viewers” seems to be a bridge too far, and what comes out of his mouth instead of “marshmallow” is “mushmallop.” And, okay, while peeling a sweet potato, Pete does launch it in the air in such a way that it manages both to hit the boom mic and the side of Ben’s head.
Ben laughs it off, though, and after a second Pete does, too—a little nervously, maybe, but at least he’s laughing.
The stuffed pepper dish afterwards goes a little better, maybe because Pete goes on a long rant about how he’d rather be doing this with poblano or Anaheim peppers, but every time he posts a recipe with the faintest whiff of heat, he gets eight million emails from readers complaining that he burned their tongues off.
None of the audio is remotely useable, at least not if Ben wants to make it to December without Rick hunting him like “The Most Dangerous Game,” but Pete’s so distracted he chops the vegetables, assembles the spiced rice and squash filling, and stuffs the peppers without making a single mistake.
Granted, when he goes to sprinkle cheese over the top, he seems to remember the camera is there, and immediately casts about three handfuls of cotija all over the floor, but Ben can deal with that in post.
Still, they’re wrapped on the content for the first video by 11:30 a.m., which is the quickest they’ve ever managed to finish shooting.
Ben doesn’t point this out, of course—the goal, ideally, is for Pete to forget that they’re shooting—but he notes it with satisfaction for himself.
And when he passes her, Jaelyn offers him a subtle low five out of Pete’s eyeline, which Ben gladly accepts, pleased with his success.
People start drifting in to taste the first round of dishes as Pete starts on the second.
All of them are effusive with praise, and after a threatening growl from his stomach, Ben snags a slice of the sweet potato casserole himself.
He takes a bite heaped with pecans and beautifully browned marshmallow, and lets out an embarrassing groan at how unbelievably good it is—he doesn’t even usually like sweet potato—which he regrets the second it’s out of his mouth.
He looks up from his plate like a startled rabbit, hoping no one heard him—
—but Pete is staring right at him, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile brighter and more real than any Ben’s ever seen from him while the camera was rolling. It’s all Ben can do not to choke.
He focuses, instead, on the work, asking Pete questions he already knows the answers to, on the theory that the audience won’t.
And Pete answers him easily as he chops and sautés and stirs, conversational, accidentally providing a lot of soundbites that will, stripped of Ben’s half, sound like genuine cooking instruction.
He doesn’t spill boiling water all over the stove while he’s making mashed potatoes, or forget the roasting garlic in the oven and burn it.
When he’s prepping mirepoix for stuffing, he pulls out a food processor and explains his personal system for making huge quantities of the stuff and freezing it, which is so cogent and sensible that Ben can already mentally scrub through the short, bonus shareable video he’s going to cut it into shot by shot.
And just after he’s dumped a huge pile of that mirepoix into a sauté pan, the timer goes off on his toasting bread cubes, and he says, “Ben? Would you mind taking over this for a second? I want to get those out.”
“Sure,” Ben says, embarrassingly soft, half-afraid someone else here, in this kitchen full of elite professionals, is going to say something, insist on jumping in instead.
But nobody moves, or even blinks, and Ben realizes as he slides off his stool and shuffles into place in front of the stove that none of them think this is even remotely odd.
That everyone in this room, with the exception of Ben, has decided for themselves on whatever level that he’s earned this, his strange, uncertain spot.
He takes the handle of the pan cautiously, with a hesitation that feels ridiculous the minute it’s sitting in his hand.
Hasn’t he been doing this as long as he’s been doing anything?
Isn’t his whole life a long series of events punctuated by rounds of sautéing some combination of these specific vegetables?
Pete asks him for his opinion on whether the bread’s gone far enough, though, and Ben forgets to think about it.
He’s turning to look at the tray Pete’s holding out; his arm is moving automatically, tossing the vegetables in the air and catching them in the pan without having to look, his body doing the work out of long practice with no thought at all.
He’s saying the bread looks fine, and Pete’s making a dubious face, and Ben’s laughing as the mirepoix rises and falls again, the weight of it telling him everything he needs to know, alongside the satisfying sizzle as each tiny, oiled piece makes contact with the pan.
He turns back to the stove and seasons the vegetables, answering some question from Adina about whether or not he has opinions on the kitchen’s salt options, and then Pete is next to him, stepping into his space, taking the pan from Ben easily, their hands brushing as they make the exchange.
And for a second, Ben is overwhelmed by a still, sweet image of this same motion, this same moment, in a smaller, more intimate kitchen.
With no test cooks, and no cameras—in less professional clothes, or at a more personal time of the day—this is the kind of moment that might pin together something larger.
Softer. More private. Pete could slide a little further to the left, for example, and let one broad, long-fingered hand rest against the sharp jut of Ben’s hipbone.
It would be warm through Ben’s T-shirt and the thin, barely-there denim of his ancient skinny jeans, hand-patched with a variety of pleasantly odd fabrics.
But that’s not reality, of course. If Pete really did that, Ben would have to—he’d—well, he’d—
Ben realizes, with grave, hideous clarity, that he knows exactly what he would do.
If Pete splayed a hand across his hip—if Pete backed him up with gentle but firm insistence against the nearest wall, counter, or other available surface—if Pete leaned too far and with too much intention into beanie-biting territory—well.
Then Ben would have no choice but to give way to him entirely, the way a delicate spun caramel dome cracks under a pour of molten sauce: spectacularly, and perhaps even exactly as intended, but still somehow a bit macabre to see all that careful work collapse.
Work; Ben has to work. He steps away; he focuses again, or he tries to.
But every thought he has is like one of Rick’s stupid fishhooks, catching him in a delicate place and dragging him back up into the cold, punishing air of understanding.
He tries to untangle himself, to slam the door shut, to engage with whatever stupid internal metaphor will allow him a moment’s peace from the unwelcome, unwieldy, and wholly unworkable truth.
It doesn’t happen. Pete smiles at him, or asks him a question, or holds out a wooden spoon and asks him to taste something, and what limited semblance of mental order Ben’s managed to cobble together splinters into fragments again, leaving him back at square one.
No one notices—or, if they notice, they’re kind enough not to say anything about it.
And Pete doesn’t notice, which is the important part.
He is, in the one real mercy of the day, on a roll; Ben’s not sure if it’s the nature of the challenge, or how many people have come by expressing interest in eating the results, or the fact that after the third or fourth person said, “I’ve never had a game hen, actually,” Pete started taking custom orders.
Whatever it is, by the time a full sheet tray of game hens is resting on the counter in front of him, something within Pete has clearly locked properly into place. He turns to the camera, and smiles.
“So probably,” he says, in an understanding voice, “you wanted this to be a turkey video.” Ben realizes at this point that Pete is addressing the audience; his mouth drops open, and he sees Jaelyn’s eyes widen behind the camera as Pete goes on.
“Thanksgiving is the turkey holiday. But the thing is, turkey involves a lot of planning, so, you know, if you’re watching this two weeks before the big day, go ahead and find a turkey video instead.
If, however, you’re engaging in the time-honored American tradition of figuring out what on earth you’re going to feed everyone in the last twenty-four hours before the holiday, then, my friend: One way or another, you’re having chicken. ”
Ben’s mouth is still open, which he only realizes when Pete turns to look at him, and his smile changes to one of entertainment, and he winks at Ben.
He winks! Ben can’t decide whether to be thrilled or incensed about this, and settles unhappily on a rough mixture of both, although he does remember to snap his mouth shut.