"Anyway. I can't remember the last time I used maple syrup in anything."
"I suppose in Europe they're more likely to use honey," she says, and she's right, but there was nothing stopping me from doing something different after I opened the restaurant with Pierre.
But I hadn't. It dawned on me that I'd been so eager to please Pierre, his parents, the fans of French cuisine, that I'd forgotten who I was. No wonder the food critic had slated my food.
"I know what I need to do, Mom. As soon as I have the money from Pierre, I'm moving to LA to work with Spencer. And this time, it'll be on my terms. My food. My decision."
She stops her palette knife midway to the cake and places it back on the bowl.
"In that case, you shouldn't miss the Maple Festival up in Fairlington. It might inspire you."
I'm not sure what to make of the way she's looking at me, but she might be right. It could inspire me to create new recipes.
If I can get time off from the bar, I'll go.
And look at me not even thinking about Skyler being there as a reason to attend the fest.
Go me.
10
Skyler
The sky is gray. That's no surprise. After all, this is Vermont. But the atmosphere at the Maple Festival is anything but.
There's always this buzz, almost like an electrical current, that transfers from person to person as they walk around the festival, trying all the maple-flavored treats.
If maple could be turned into energy, this last week in April would be enough to supply the whole state of Vermont. That's how amazing this event is.
Fairlington isn't far from Burlington, only about forty-five minutes, but I stayed at a hotel last night so I could set up my stand first thing this morning.
Powered by strong coffee and excitement, I was one of the first vendors to arrive, setting up in the location I was sent to by the event coordinators.
I stand back for a moment to check my display.
There's a banner above the stand to indicate that I'm a winner from last year's maple products contest, and my winner's rosette is pinned to my apron.
Winning here isn't about the prize but the validation it gives.
My A-grade amber maple syrup has won the first prize in its category for the last three years, and I hope to take home the prize again. I submitted my product to the judging panel earlier this week.
I've been trying to secure exclusive supply to a few stores and being able to say I won first prize is definitely opening a few doors. Slowly but surely.
Claire, from Heaven Scent, waves at me. "Looks like I've already won my prize because I've got a front-row seat to the best eye candy in this festival," she says.
I flex an arm, and she pretends to faint. I like Claire. We met at my first festival and became good friends.
We flirt back and forth, which amuses her husband, who says she even flirts with the chickens. Based on how often I see her squeeze his butt, I think he finds her distraction with me a good reprieve.
"What do you think?" I ask. "I have a new display unit. A tree fell on my land and a friend helped me cut it to size."
She stands next to me. "I like it. It looks sturdy and reliable."
I snort. "Are you really talking about the unit?"
"No. I'm waiting for you to tell me if you finally found a nice man to flirt with. I'll start charging, you know?"
I gasp. "You wouldn't. I'm only a poor sugarmaker. All lonely in my cabin, waiting all year for this moment when I get to end my dry spell. With your husband's consent, of course."
