“You’re doing it with your shoulders.”
Caprice snapped her fingers again. “Round Two. Kids, you’ll stay with Mandy until tasting. No one near the fires unless Flint or Joelle says so. Ed, get Sunny’s station first. Bright color. Pretty food. Then Flint’s station for the bacon and beans.”
Flint looked at Ed. “Thank you for not calling bacon rugged.”
Ed adjusted the camera. “I respect bacon too much.”
For once, agreement didn’t feel like surrender.
Caprice pointed at me. “Sunny, intro.”
Ed’s red light blinked.
I faced the camera and smiled the smile that had carried me through collapsed cones, county fairs, and men who thought propane grills qualified as personalities.
“Round Two of theGet Fired Up!Cook-Off is all about the campfire main,” I said. “Hot dogs are fast, familiar, and beloved for a reason. But familiar doesn’t mean flat. I’m making bison dogs with smoked gouda, apple-cabbage slaw, and mustard drizzle. They’re smoky, tangy, creamy, crisp, and designed for people who want their cookout food to have a little ambition.”
From behind Ed, Tyler whispered, “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” Lily whispered back. “That’s the point.”
I liked her immediately.
Caprice swung her hand toward Flint.
He stood behind his station with the skillet heating over coals and the beans tucked near the edge of the fire. The afternoon light hit his forearms, catching the pale line of his old scar as he turned a strip of bacon.
“My round is bacon-wrapped firepit dogs and camp beans,” he said. “Good bun, good dog, bacon crisped over coals, beans cooked low with smoke. Nothing fancy. Just food that works.”
“Are the beans spicy?” Benny asked.
“A little,” Flint said. “Not too much.”
“Good. I’m brave, but I have limits.”
Mandy touched Benny’s shoulder. “Thank you for that public service announcement.”
The round began.
Once the camera pressure hit, I remembered who I was. I buttered the buns and set them on the edge of the grate, rotating each one before the heat could scorch. The bison dogs went down with a hard, satisfying hiss. Fat popped. Smoke rose. The scent of meat, butter, vinegar, and sharp mustard slid into the hot air.
Across the clearing, Flint moved with infuriating ease. He wrapped bacon around each hot dog, secured the ends with small skewers, and set them over the coals where the heat licked low and even. He didn’t fuss. He didn’t hurry. He watched the bacon tighten and shine, adjusting by instinct when the fat dripped and flared.
He was good with fire.
I hated appreciating that while preparing to beat him.
“Sunny,” Joelle murmured from beside me.
“What?”
“You’re about to over-toast the second bun.”
I flipped it just in time. “I knew that.”
“Your bun has edges.”
“I was giving it character.”
