Chapter 6 Talia
Talia
Istared at the text message on my phone for the third time that morning, already regretting my moment of weakness when I’d agreed to this.
The butternut squash sat on my cutting board like a golden accusation.
What had I been thinking, agreeing to teach cooking lessons when I had permit applications to finish, contractor estimates to review, and about seventeen other things related to opening the bistro that demanded my attention?
The old bakery space wasn’t going to renovate itself, and every hour I spent on something else was an hour I wasn’t moving forward with the only plan that mattered.
But Jace had asked so hopefully at the farmers market last week, all earnest enthusiasm about wanting to learn proper knife techniques and seasonal cooking.
And I’d been caught off guard by how his request had made me feel, competent and valued, like maybe I did have something worth teaching despite my spectacular professional failure in Chicago.
So I’d said yes. And now I was stuck with a commitment I didn’t have time for and couldn’t gracefully back out of without seeming like the flaky omega everyone probably already assumed I was.
I arranged my tools with more force than necessary, each item placed precisely because at least I could control this small corner of my increasingly chaotic life.
Eight-inch Wüsthof chef’s knife, freshly honed on my ceramic steel.
Cutting board positioned at the correct height, damp towel underneath to prevent slipping.
Small bowls for mise en place, because proper organization was the foundation of any successful dish.
The familiar ritual did nothing to settle my nerves this time.
I had three contractor bids sitting on my laptop that needed comparison and response by tomorrow, a health department inspection report full of compliance requirements that made my head spin, and approximately zero bandwidth for playing teacher to an alpha who’d probably lose interest after one lesson anyway.
My phone buzzed again. Bringing some things from my last foraging trip. Thought you might find them interesting.
Despite my stress, curiosity flickered. Jace had mentioned his foraging work when we’d talked at the market, connecting his ranger knowledge to food sourcing in ways that had actually sounded fascinating.
The sweet boy who’d followed me around my grandmother’s garden had grown into a man who understood seasonal ingredients and sustainable harvesting.
Which was exactly the kind of thinking that could keep me distracted from business planning I couldn’t afford to postpone.
The sound of his truck in my driveway made my pulse quicken for reasons I refused to examine. Through the window, I watched him approach, moving with that easy outdoor confidence, carrying what looked like a small basket covered with a cloth.
He knocked, and I forced myself to open the door with something approximating enthusiasm instead of the resentment I’d been nurturing all morning.
“Hey,” he said, his smile warm and genuine and completely oblivious to my internal turmoil. “Thanks again for agreeing to this. I know you’re busy with the bistro planning.”
The acknowledgment of my time constraints actually helped. At least he wasn’t assuming I had endless free hours to dedicate to his education.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back. “What did you bring?”
He set the basket on my counter and pulled back the cloth with the kind of reverence usually reserved for precious artifacts.
“Late chanterelles from the north ridge, some black trumpet mushrooms from the oak grove near Whisper Creek, and wild rosemary that’s still going strong despite the cold nights. ”
The mushrooms were beautiful, earthy golden chanterelles with their distinctive trumpet shape and darker, more delicate black trumpets that looked like they’d been harvested with expert care.
The rosemary gave off that sharp, resinous scent that always made me think of Mediterranean cooking and warm summer nights.
“These are incredible,” I said, professional interest temporarily overriding my stress. “You found all of this locally?”
“Within five miles of town. The chanterelles are past their peak season, but there’s a grove that gets afternoon sun and holds moisture longer than most spots.
The black trumpets grow in a mycorrhizal relationship with the oaks, so once you know where to look, you can harvest sustainably for years. ”
His excitement was infectious, the way it had been when he was eight and showing me the “secret” patch of wild strawberries he’d discovered. I found myself genuinely curious despite my determination to stay detached.
“So what do you want to learn today?” I asked, refocusing on the teaching plan I’d reluctantly prepared.
“Everything.” His grin was slightly sheepish. “But specifically, knife skills. I can field-dress a deer and filet a trout, but I have no idea how to approach that squash properly.”
At least he was honest about his limitations. I selected my favorite chef’s knife, the weight of it familiar and comforting in my palm despite the chaos of everything else in my life.
“This is where we start,” I said, settling into teaching mode because it was easier than thinking about permit applications. “How you hold your knife determines everything about your efficiency, safety, and final results.”
I demonstrated the proper grip, thumb and forefinger controlling the blade while the other three fingers wrapped around the handle. “Pinch grip, not fist grip. Your hand becomes an extension of the blade.”
Jace watched with the same concentrated attention I remembered from childhood, completely present in the moment. “Like holding my field knife for precision work instead of batoning firewood.”
“Exactly.” The comparison was apt, connecting to his existing expertise in a way that would make the technique click faster. “Your outdoor experience translates directly. It’s all about control and respect for the tool.”
I handed him my second-best knife, hyperaware of his fingers brushing mine during the transfer. The contact sparked something that made me step back quickly, needing space.
Focus. I was teaching, not getting distracted by attractive alphas when I had real work waiting.
“Feel the balance point?” I guided his positioning without quite touching. “There. Now show me how you’d approach the squash.”
He positioned himself at my cutting board, and I had to admit his natural stance was good. “Like this?”
“Perfect. You’ve got natural knife posture.” I moved to stand beside him rather than behind, maintaining the professional distance I needed. “Now, butternut squash intimidates most people, but once you know the technique, it’s straightforward.”
I demonstrated on my own squash, knife moving with practiced precision. “First, we remove the stem end. Clean cut, straight down. This creates a stable base so the squash won’t roll.”
The blade sliced through dense flesh with a satisfying thunk, the mechanical action providing temporary relief from the stress that had been building all morning.
“Your turn.”
His first cut was cautious but accurate, following my demonstration exactly. “Like establishing a stable base camp before moving higher up the mountain.”
“Now we separate the neck from the bulb.” I showed him the division point, how to use the knife’s full length for efficiency. “The neck is solid flesh, easy to peel and dice. The bulb has the seed cavity, so we’ll handle that differently.”
We worked side by side, and despite my worries about the time commitment, I found myself settling into teaching mode. Jace asked good questions, listened carefully to my explanations, and never once made me feel like I needed to prove my knowledge.
Which was surprisingly refreshing after months of second-guessing every professional decision.
“Peeling technique,” I continued, selecting my four-inch paring knife. “Keep your thumb out of the blade path. Small, controlled strokes, following the curve.”
His attempts were clumsy but determined. I resisted the urge to take over, letting him work through the challenge even though my inner perfectionist cringed at his inefficiency.
“Frustrating when you know what you want to do but your hands won’t cooperate,” he muttered.
“Like learning to read animal sign,” I offered, remembering our childhood conversations. “You know there’s information there, but it takes practice to train your eyes to see it.”
He looked up, surprise and pleasure mixing in his expression. “You really do remember that summer.”
“Of course I do.” The admission came easier than I expected. “You made me explain everything three times and took notes in that little field journal you carried everywhere.”
“I still have that journal. Your grandmother’s recipe for blackberry pie is in there, and about fifty pages of plant identification notes you taught me.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest despite my determination to stay focused on business instead of nostalgia. This was why I’d agreed to the lesson, I realized. Because Jace represented a time when cooking was about joy and connection instead of professional validation and spectacular failure.
“Half-inch dice for risotto,” I said, demonstrating the technique and trying to ignore the emotional undertow. “Consistent size means even cooking. Rock the blade, don’t chop. Let the weight of the knife do the work.”
He mimicked my movements, his cuts improving with each attempt. “There’s rhythm to it. Like the rhythm of hiking, finding that pace you can maintain for hours.”
“Everything in cooking has rhythm,” I agreed, moving to the stove. “Chopping, stirring, even seasoning. You learn to feel when something’s right.”
I heated olive oil in my favorite heavy-bottomed pan while he finished his dice, the familiar ritual of building flavors grounding me in the present moment instead of the anxiety spiral that usually occupied my thoughts.