“You were giving it a memorial service.”
I rescued the bun and slid smoked gouda inside while the bread was still hot enough to soften it. The cheese melted against the buttered surface, smoky and rich, clinging to the curve of the dog when I set it in place.
Flint passed behind me to grab the bucket of clean water between stations. He kept enough space to behave, which somehow made the awareness sharper.
“Behind you,” he said.
“Fire-safety contractor and traffic announcer. Impressive range.”
“You’re holding mustard over your tray.”
I looked down. The bottle hovered at a risky angle.
“Helpful,” I said.
“That was the idea.”
I finished the first bison dog with a line of slaw bright enough to make the camera happy, then added mustard drizzle in a clean zigzag. The apple caught the light. The cabbage looked crisp. The gouda had melted into the bun just enough to promise salt and smoke in one bite.
Ed came in tight for the beauty shot.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Ed Barlow, was that praise?”
“It was an observation. Don’t make it emotional.”
I built the next three faster, each one a little cleaner than the last. Flint’s bacon crisped across from me, the edges curling deep brown while his beans sent up a rich smell of smoke, molasses, onion, and pepper.
My stomach made a small, traitorous sound.
Flint heard it.
Apparently, my stomach had excellent projection.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“I’m inspired.”
“You growled at my beans.”
“I was warning them.”
He glanced at my finished tray. “That one’s yours?”
“Careful. That sounded like interest.”
“It’s a good-looking dog.”
The words were ordinary. They still mattered, because Flint Sparks didn’t throw compliments around like garnish.
“Thank you,” I said. “I accept compliments in cash, public praise, and signed statements admitting gourmet has value.”
“I said it looked good. I didn’t confess to a crime.”
“Give it time.”
The first tasting went to the kids.
