Mom patted Noah’s arm again. “You’re pretty much the only thing she’s talked about since she landed in Colorado.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was the morning of the festival. We’d spent every waking moment over the past three days planning, preparing, and strategizing. I’d moved out of my suite at the resort and moved into one of the old lodge cabins with my parents. One without holes in the roof and with a still-functioning outhouse nearby. Noah even let me borrow a surprisingly comfortable sleeping bag and loaned my parents a couple of fold-out cots.
The Adventure Center parking lot had transformed into a bustling hive of activity, with enthusiastic volunteers, busy vendors, wildlife photographers, and one very determined Chinese-American family wielding woks and fryers like they were about to take on the Mongol hordes all by themselves.
“No, absolutely not!” Mom waved her special wooden spoon, the one she claimed could detect dishonesty in both dumplings and daughters, at the portable kitchen setup. “This burner is far too weak! How are we supposed to get proper wok heat with a camp stove? We need fire!”
Dad nodded sagely beside her. “Therestaurant burner gives ten thousand BTUs. This gives maybe ten. It’s like trying to get a tan with a flashlight.”
Diego, who had somehow appointed himself my parents’ personal assistant, portable kitchen fixer, and taste tester, crawled out from under the makeshift cooking station with grease smudged across his forehead. “Try it now, Mrs. Li.”
Mom turned the knob, and flames leapt up with enough ferocity to singe her eyebrows. She cackled with delight, the kind of laugh that usually preceded culinary magic. Or minor kitchen disasters. “Now we can cook proper food!”
“Let me know when you need more taste testing,” said Diego.
“That boy is skinny, but he eats like a teenage bear,” Mom observed, already mincing ginger at a speed that rivaled a commercial-grade blender.
I turned back to the makeshift fusion menu Noah and Dad developed. They’d spent the previous evening gathered around the Adventure Center’s old wooden table, sipping Colorado craft beer, snacking on dumplings, and brainstorming dishes that would merge Colorado mountain cuisine with Chinese influences.
“So we’ve got Disco Chicken Dumplings,” I read off our list, “which, to be clear, are made with regular chicken and absolutely no trace of endangered sage grouse.”
“And High-Altitude Har Gow,” Noah added, pointing to the next item. “With trout instead of shrimp.”
“Sage Grouse Sage Buns,” I continued, choosing to ignore the hastily brainstormed pun. “Also not containing any actual grouse ingredients.”
“Mountain Mating Dance Momos.” Noah gave me a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with himself for that one.
“And for dessert, Huckleberry Egg Tarts and MigrationMoon Cakes.” I chewed my lower lip, surveying the ambitious menu. “You think we can pull this off?”
Noah leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he studied the list. “With your mom’s motivational techniques? Absolutely.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with Mom’s motivational tactics. Speaking of motivation,” I said, nodding toward the far side of the parking lot where Brie presided over a growing village of pop-up tents and tables. “Your sister has somehow transformed this place into a festival grounds overnight.”
Brie moved between vendors with clipboard in hand, directing traffic with the casual authority of someone born to organize chaos.
Local artisans who’d been left with a free weekend by the cancellation of the downtown festival had rallied to our cause, setting up booths to sell everything from hand-carved wooden grouse sculptures to “Save the Disco Dance” t-shirts that Parker had designed and rush-ordered from an eco-friendly printer in Boulder.
“Mrs. Miller’s bringing extra berries for your moon cakes,” Noah said, checking his phone. “And Al’s bringing over a taxi-full of flapjacks and syrups from Mabel’s Diner. Insisted he would be doing the syrup-making demonstration himself.”
The way the community mobilized made something warm unfurl in my chest. This wasn’t the carefully curated support of paid sponsorships and strategic partnerships I was used to. This was real people showing up because they cared.
“I still can’t believe we pulled this together so quickly,” I admitted, watching Jenn stride purposefully toward us, her muck-stained stable overalls exchanged for jeans and a t-shirt bearing a stylized grouse silhouette.
“Got an update,” said Jenn. “Local news is sending a crew.Nothing major, just the affiliate station from Grand Junction, but it’s something.”
“Every bit helps,” Noah said, his gaze drifting toward the large screen Parker set up at our main stage area.
Parker stood on a ladder, directing two volunteers with the authority of a Hollywood director. “The projector needs to be angled three degrees higher. And make sure those speakers are positioned for maximum acoustic dispersion!”
For someone who usually spent his days taking artful photos of anime figurines, Parker had morphed into a surprisingly competent technical director. He’d created a multimedia presentation that would showcase the grouse footage between music sets, complete with infographics about habitat loss and conservation efforts.
“Marketing update!” Parker called, spotting us. He scrambled down from his ladder perch and jogged over, tablet in hand. “We’re trending regionally on all platforms. The hashtag #SaveTheGrouseDance has been used over ten thousand times since yesterday.”
“And the crowdfunding campaign?” I asked.
“Just hit twenty thousand. People are donating from all over the country.” Parker swiped through analytics on his tablet. “Your original video has been viewed over half a million times, and we’ve got commitments from influencers with a combined following of twelve million to share content from today’s event.”
