This could help me figure things out.
Sylvie peered over her shoulder. She was still alone.
Bubbles floated toward the glossy surface as Sylvie stared into the consommé. She gave her eyes a rub.
Pictures were gathering in the bubbles, like fat droplets of rain filling storm clouds. People. Places. Some familiar, some Sylvie had never seen before. A gentle voice whispered out of the stock pot.Do you seek an answer true?
Sylvie dared to nod.
Then, clarified broth is the perfect brew.
It will help you shed new light,
And bring forth the vision that is right.
A force pressed itself against her. Questions raced through Sylvie’s mind. She slid her backpack to the ground and picked up a spoon.I need this.Warm broth brushed across her lips.
The world around Sylvie immediately started to shake. Blue peg boards dotted with rows of copper pots shot out of the walls. Sylvie hopped out of the way as a butcher block countertop rose out of the floor like a submarine. The stove buckled, twisting into a dining table.
Sylvie stared as the buttery gold tablecloth lifted itself up. It bunched together, forming rivulets of fabric. The tasseled edges twisted and turned until they settled into a bouquet of soft brown curls. The linen had transformed into a towering woman. The woman cast an unhappy glance at Sylvie. “I only had one appointment on the books for today, and they’ve already left.”
“You mean Flora Jackson,” blurted Sylvie.
“Who?” asked the woman, scratching at her brown curls. “Did you, or this Flora, forget to make a reservation?”
“Err, no … I mean, yes.” Sylvie craned her neck, trying to meet the woman’s gaze.It’s her! I can’t believe it’s her.
The kitchen that had risen out of the ground now hummed with sounds. A boiling pot. A whirring mixer. An odd buzz that reminded Sylvie of a swarm of insects.
“Aside from the required appointment, only fourth-year students are allowed to make Clarity Consommé.” The woman’s voice rang out like a peal of bells. She raised a buttery brow at Sylvie. “You look much too young.”
Sylvie stretched her neck, trying to make herself appear larger. “I’m here on my own, not as part of a class.”
The woman gave a satisfied nod. “That’s what I thought. What’s your name?”
“S-Sylvie Jones.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“J-Julia Child.”
“In the flesh … or at least, the fabric,” hooted the woman.
Sylvie pinched herself. She’d never imagined meeting Julia Child, even if it was just a fabric form. Most kids her age probably didn’t even know who Julia Child was. But she was Sylvie’s idol. Julia was an icon, responsible for bringing French cuisine to America. During her life (which ended long before Sylvie was born), she’d written nearly twenty cookbooks and hosted a dozen television shows. She had pioneered the way for female chefs.This is beyond cool and intimidating.
“Well, I don’t know how you got your hands on my recipe. But I’m afraid you’ll have to leave as soon as the effects of the consommé wear off.” Julia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t be too long. I have guests coming for dinner, and the honey has gotten loose again.”
The what?A sticky gob dripped down from the ceiling, landing squarely on Sylvie’s forehead.
“Oh, dear, you see what I’m dealing with today.” Tablecloth Julia handed Sylvie a napkin. “My apologies.”
“Thanks.” Sylvie dabbed at her forehead, but the napkin just stuck to it, as if it had been superglued.
“My honey is so much better than the stuff sitting in jars, but it does require work to harvest. Some might call it tedious to put so much time into one little thing. But I detest spells that have been boiled down to their essence.”
“Uh, yeah. Me too.” Sylvie smiled. “Listen. I know you’re busy, but I really need your help. If you could just tell me about Jack Bass and the Golden Whisk.”
“The cooking competition?”
