Sylvie nodded.
“Hmph!” Julia scooped up a handful of dough, pulling and stretching until she’d transformed it into a blossom. “That’s what everyone wants to know about this week. But I refuse to use my skills for such utter nonsense. Food is meant to bring people together, not tear them apart.”
The hum in the air grew louder.
Julia’s voice shot up a few octaves. “What did you say your name was again? Never mind. My point is, Clarity Consommé is meant for important matters, not winning classroom bets.”
“I’m not making bets. Thisisimportant,” Sylvie pressed on. “My mom is competing.”
A fluttering suddenly caught Sylvie’s eye. Amber packets of honey, with bulging bug eyes, zigzagged through the air. Silky wings jutted out the sides, moving fast as a hummingbird’s wings as they circled above the flower.
Sylvie watched as they landed on the petals, pulling hungrily at the gobs of dough.
Julia tried to grab one, but it shot back up.
Sylvie lunged forward, snatching a packet. “Ouch!” She gave her hand a shake as the packet buzzed away.
The edges of the tablecloth bunched and wrinkled as Julia glowered at her. “Grabbing them like that will guarantee a sting. Besides, if they sense danger, they’ll mount a collective attack. That’s the last thing I need. So please, Susan—”
“Sylvie.”
“Right, Sylvie. Sit quietly until the consommé takes you back.” Sylvie stared up at Julia.Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to meet your idol.Things weren’t going well. Sylvie glanced at the clock.Soon the effects of the consommé will probably wear off. I need clarity, and not just about the Golden Whisk.Sylvie eyed the bees as they zipped erratically through the air.As long as they’re loose, it’ll be impossible to get Julia to answer any questions.She needed a plan. Sylvie cleared her throat. “You don’t want your company to get stung, do you?”
“Stung? Oh, dear! I hadn’t thought about that.” Julia frowned as she pulled another gob of dough from the bowl on the counter. “I may have to cancel the dinner party.”
“Or … I could help you get them back into the jar,” said Sylvie with a smile.
Julia turned. “Youcan help me fix this?”
“Sure … if you want.”
“Well, it would be terribly rude to cancel my party last minute … but even worse for my guests to be attacked.”
Sylvie eyed Julia’s kitchen. It was littered with dustings of flour, spices, and a slender vase full of fresh lavender. For a moment, Sylvie just stood there. She only knew the basics about bees.They use pollen to make honey, and smoke calms them, for some weird reason.Of course, these weren’t typical bees.Still, maybe there’s a way?
“Bees like lavender and anise,” said Sylvie, pointing to the spice jars and little vase. “Plus, valerian is supposed to be relaxing. May I try something?”
“Go ahead,” said Julia. “Though you hardly look like an apiarist.”
“This isn’t about the right beekeeper.” Sylvie scooped up a sticky handful of dough. “It’s about the rightrecipe.”
The first time Sylvie made pumpkin pie, she’d added too much clove. It wound up tasting like patchouli, instead of the start of a snow-filled season. She didn’t want to make that mistake again.Just a pinch of lavender,she decided.
Sweat beaded on her brow as she kneaded herbs and spices into the dough. Sylvie pulled and stretched it into a lovely bouquet. She lifted it into the air.Please work! Please!
The robust aromas tickled her nose. The honey packets circled lower, dancing around Sylvie’s head. One landed. Then another.Yes!
Sylvie stared as they burrowed deep, sucking at the herb-laden blossoms. A moment passed. The heads of the packets began to droop. Their wings grew quiet. Sylvie carefully picked one up and handed the snoozing honey packets to Julia.
“Well done!” Julia’s voice clucked like a happy bird. “What was that you used?”
“Lavender. Anise. Ground valerian root.”
Julia gave an approving nod. “Sounds a bit like herbs de Provence. It certainly added new flavor to this sour situation.” Julia smiled down at her. “Thank you, Sylvie Jones. I owe you one.”
Sylvie stared. According to culinary lore, the one hundred pleats in a chef’s hat represented the number of ways a chef had mastered cooking an egg. Sylvie had always imagined earning her place in the kitchen once she’d accomplished this feat. But in this moment, Sylvie felt as if she’d already arrived.I just rescued Julia Child’s dinner party.“Will you answer my questions now?” Sylvie asked hopefully.
“Yes,” said Julia. “But choose them carefully. The more you ask, the murkier things get.”
