"What made you stop?"
The question hits a nerve. My knife pauses mid-cut, then resumes. "Circumstances changed. I needed something different."
She nods, not pressing further. Instead, she watches my technique with evident professional interest. "Your knife skills are still impeccable," she observes.
"Some things you don't forget," I say, scraping vegetables into a bowl. "Would you mind grating the cheese?"
I'm not sure why I ask, I never invite participation in my kitchen routine. But something about her standing there, clearly at home around food preparation, makes the offer feel natural.
"Of course." She takes the block and grater I offer her, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
We work side by side, falling into the wordless rhythm of experienced cooks.
"So where did you cook?" I ask, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Before your sabbatical."
She hesitates again. "A place in Boston. Small, but we did well."
"Name?" I press, whisking the eggs with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Terroir." She says it casually, but watches my reaction.
I try not to show my surprise. Terroir isn't just "a place in Boston." It's arguably the most innovative restaurant in New England, with a six-month waiting list and reviews that border on reverence.
"Decent spot," I say neutrally, testing her. "I heard they finally got their second star last year."
"They did." A smile tugs at her lips, pride mingled with something more complex. "We did."
Now I'm genuinely impressed, though I try not to show it. Running a kitchen like Terroir at her age means serious talent, the kind that doesn't come from connections or luck, but from genuine ability and relentless work.
"That's quite an achievement," I say, pouring the eggs into a heated pan. "For someone so young."
She shrugs, but I can tell the compliment matters. "I started early. Knew what I wanted."
"And now you don't?" The question is perhaps too perceptive, too personal.
She looks at me directly, something shifting in her expression. "Now I'm figuring out what I want next."
I understand it all too well. Twenty years ago, I stood at my own crossroads, made my choice, and ended up here, alone in these mountains.
The eggs begin to set, and I adjust the heat, focusing on the task. "Can you get plates from that cabinet?" I gesture with my chin.
It's been years since I've cooked with anyone, and the ease of it is both pleasant and unsettling.
"This smells incredible," she says as I plate the simple frittata, garnished with fresh herbs I grow in the window.
"It's nothing fancy," I reply. "Just good ingredients, treated with respect."
"Often the best kind of cooking." She takes the plate I offer, fingers brushing mine again. This time, neither of us pulls away quite as quickly.
We settle at the small table near the fire, the storm still raging outside. The contrast heightens everything—the warmth of the room, the simple pleasure of the food, the unexpected intimacy of sharing a meal with a stranger who somehow doesn't feel like a stranger at all.
"This is delicious," she says after her first bite. "The eggs are so rich. Your own chickens?"
I nod. "Heritage breed. They handle the cold better."
"And the herbs… they have this intensity you don't get from store-bought." She takes another bite, eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
I find myself watching her eat—the way she tastes, actually tastes, not just consumes. It's the mark of a true chef, that ability to analyze even while enjoying.
