The fries are regular potato wedges, but the sauce is a spicy mixture that makes my eyes water in the best possible way.
Watson attempts to investigate the offerings, but I gently redirect his attention to a piece of lobster roll instead. No need to give him spicy food and ruin everyone’s day—especially whoever steps in the aftermath.
“And I’ve loaded up on star-spangled sliders,” Aunt Cat contributes, producing a basket of mini burgers with buns dyed red, white, and blue—I’m guessing there’s been a run on food coloring this week. She passes them out, and we make quick work of them. They look like something Dr. Seuss would serve at a Yankee Doodle tea party, but they taste like America should—beef, cheese, and enough grease to lubricate a Chevy Malibu.
Watson’s nose twitches as he processes all the competing food scents, his expression growing increasingly hopeful with each new addition to our feast—and his belly is growing, too, because I can’t deny that cute pooch a single thing.
We’re debating whether the Declaration of Independ-ants corn dogs are worth the inevitable food coma when Niki squeals with the volume of someone spotting a celebrity—or a group of hot men with bare, oiled-up chests. Hot bods are her weakness. It’s honestly impressive how fast she folds.
“Oh my goodness, is that Julia Washington?” She waves frantically at a woman emerging from the covered wagon that’s been converted into a food truck. “Julia! Over here!” Either Julia owes her money or Julia’s a good friend. My sister only has two modes when it comes to women.
Watson barks at Niki’s outburst, then spins in a circle as if he’s trying to locate the emergency snack that requires this level of chaos.
The woman turns, and I get my first good look at Julia Washington. She’s exactly what central casting would order for a reassuring maternal figure—sturdy build, graying brown hair in a perpetually messy bun secured with what appears to be a pencil, and wire-rimmed glasses that give her the look of everyone’s favorite librarian.
I’d guess she’s in her early fifties, though she has one of those timeless faces that could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty. She’s wearing a colonial-style dress in navy blue with white trim, complete with a bonnet that somehow manages to look authentic instead of ridiculous.
“Niki Canelli!” Julia beams, wiping flour-covered hands on an apron decorated with tiny Liberty Bells. “I haven’t seen you since you got yourself banned from the farmers’ market for that incident with the cucumber vendor.”
So she does know my sister.
Watson immediately gravitates toward Julia, his tail wagging as he detects the promising scents of flour and butter clinging to her apron.
“That was a misunderstanding about organic certification,” Niki replies, giving me the side-eye. “Julia, meet my sister Effie, our Aunt Cat, and our honorary aunt, Carlotta.”
“I do know Carlotta.” The woman’s smile sours. “But any relatives of Niki’s are good by me,” Julia says warmly, then pauses as she takes in Aunt Cat and Carlotta’s bedazzled holiday getups. “My, those are certainly some festive outfits you’ve got on. And Carlotta, I hear congratulations are in order—Charlie’s diner is doing wonderfully.”
“Thanks,Little House on the Scary Prairie,” Carlotta beams with maternal pride. She also has a talent for gifting people dicey nicknames. “Cha Cha has the Sawyer family business sense, and she happens to have her daddy’s stubborn streak. Of course, she also got my good looks, so it evens out.”
“Charlie runs the Honey Pot Diner,” Niki explains to me as if I just fell out of a coconut tree. “Right next to our bakery. She’s Lottie’s sister and my boss.”
“And one of my good friends,” I add, shooting her a look that asks what she’s been smoking. I may need some later.
“And she’s Mayor Nash’s other daughter,” Niki points out.
Mayor Nash has more kids than I can count, but two of them were born from an affair with Carlotta. That’s the level of lusty chaos we’re dealing with here—on both his part and Carlotta’s. Scandal might as well be her middle name.
Watson positions himself strategically between Julia and me, hoping to maximize his chances of receiving treats from multiple sources. The yummy odds are in his favor.
“Cha Cha is one who didn’t inherit his political ambitions,” Carlotta adds with a cackle. “She’s a smart girl. Politics is messier than the restaurant business, and that’s saying something, seeing as she’s watched a kitchen explode in real time more than once.”
Most likely because Carlotta was at the helm of those blasts. And my Aunt Cat, too.
Julia blinks at Carlotta with a blank expression. Funny thing is, most people give that exact expression when it comes to Carlotta and my Aunt Cat.
“Would you ladies like to try my Founding Fathers fried chicken?” Julia offers, producing a basket of golden pieces that smell as if they were personally blessed by George Washington himself. “And, of course, you’ll have to try my Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding. The pudding is nonnegotiable.”
She gestures toward a display of small ceramic ramekins painted with tiny Liberty Bells that match her apron. “This is what I’m really known for—sweet corn pudding with my secret family spice blend. The recipe’s been in the Washington family since before the Revolution. I stake my reputation and my business on it. I guarantee you’ve never tasted anything like it!”
I bet I haven’t.
“Oh, I’ve heard about this!” Niki exclaims. “Everyone at the farmers’ market raves about Julia’s pudding.”
“Well, if you’re going to twist our arms,” Carlotta says, accepting a ramekin with a tiny spoon. “I never could resist a family secret.”
“Me neither,” Aunt Cat agrees, digging in immediately. “Mmm, this is divine! What’s in that spice blend?”
Julia’s eyes twinkle. “Now that would be telling! Let’s just say it’s a combination that would make Martha Washington herself gnash her wooden teeth until I fessed up.”
