I didn’t remember until much later that the cauldron had only been half full when I initially pushed it aside.
With the annual Moonvale potluck rapidly approaching, I agonized over what I would prepare. My best bet would be something simple—something that required as little hands-on work as possible so I would have fewer opportunities to screw it up.
I tapped my chin with my fingernail.
Baked goods were out of the question. As were coffees, teas, any hot beverages, as those would certainly be covered. There wasn’t a sign-up list or anything, but it was expected that every folk would bring something different.
I thought about foods I had eaten in other towns during my travels. Vegetable soup would be too difficult to get right, sandwiches were too complicated, dried meats were delicious but were a nightmare to make.
Then the perfect solution came to me.
Chili.
Fucking chili!
Of course! It wasperfect. Chili was similar to stew or soup—one of those toss-the-ingredients-in-and-leave-it types of recipes. All I would have to do was throw the ingredients in a cauldron and let it sit. Almost like a potion.
Potions I could handle, so surely something potion-like would be easy as well.
It was exactly the solution I needed.
I had first tried chili in the breezy, hilly town of Oakhollow. I could remember the moment vividly. I was on a trip to collect some potion ingredients, and Fiella had come with me, of course, on one of her trinket shopping expeditions. She was offbartering for a better price on woven blankets while I sat down at a diner for something to eat. I was so famished that I could have eaten an entire cow. Instead, a tiny, smiley waitress had plopped a steaming bowl in front of me. The chili had been the perfect temperature—hot enough to waft steam over my face but not hot enough to blister my mouth. It was rich, tomato flavored, and full of wonderful textures.
Eating that chili had been a damn near religious experience.
I had been so enraptured by the delicacy that I begged the chef to give me the recipe. I had convinced myself that I would be able to make it at home. I ended up needing to use a truth spell on the chef. I only felt a little bit guilty about it.
He refused to offer up his secret ingredient, but I extracted most of the recipe from him, and I kept the scribbled note tucked away in my personal room’s locked cabinet for safe keeping.
Reciting the unlocking spell and using my fae-iron key, I quickly retrieved the recipe from its hiding space and nudged the door shut with my elbow. I unfurled the crinkled note and laid it flat on my worktable.
Excitement thrummed through my veins.
The recipe read:
Ingredients: tomato (both fresh and jarred), green pepper, red pepper, onion, ground beef, beans, broth, herbs of choice, salt and pepper, garlic (omit if folk of the blood sucking variety will be ingesting). Secret ingredient still a mystery.
Combine ingredients and simmer for at least two hours. The longer the better. Serve hot, with bread on the side, or poured over a grilled cheese sandwich.
The potluck was in two days, sosurelytwo days of simmering would make the chiliextradelicious. Delighted with myself for my brilliant idea, I skittered to the grocery store to secure my ingredients.
CHAPTER 5
Tandor
The cellar underneath Ginger’s Pub was a room I had become increasingly familiar with over the years. I couldn’t begin to count the hours I had spent in the damp, dark space, adding herbs to brews and monitoring their developing flavors.
Though the pub belonged to Ginger, I had been working for her for so many years that I had slowly acquired more and more tasks and responsibilities. We were more like partners than we were employee and boss.
My favorite task was brewing. I enjoyed interacting with customers, but nothing beat the joy of creating the perfect beverage.
It took five years for Ginny to even allow me within two paces of the cellar that housed her precious brewing barrels. She even bought an expensive enchanted lock for the door to keep nosey folk out.
These days, I understood her protective tendencies. The brews were my pride and joy.
While Ginger still handled most of the ales and the wines, ciders were my domain. Trying new flavors was one of my favorite pastimes. They weren’t all successes, and some of them were raging failures, but it was the experimentation that keptme intrigued and kept my mind whirling. The possibilities for improving kept me on my toes.
I poured a few drops from the barrel that I had been working on for weeks—my concoction for the annual potluck. The liquid was an orange, golden brown, gorgeously smooth and artfully rich. I examined the brew, holding it up to the glow of the lamplight. Not an impurity or imperfection in sight. The aroma was fruity and hoppy, with a cinnamon finish that rounded off the profile. I inhaled deeply, feeling very satisfied with my spice choices.
