Chapter 8 - When My Own Son Said I Would Fail
The first thing I did after accepting the catering order was panic.
The second thing I did was call Evelyn and ask whether she'd completely lost her mind.
She laughed.
"Seventy-five portions, Sophie. Not seven hundred and fifty."
"I haven't cooked professionally for a crowd in nineteen years."
"Then this will be excellent practice."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Something always goes wrong. Being professional means learning how to handle it."
The order was for a local community organization's annual volunteer luncheon.
They wanted an affordable, elegant meal with vegetarian options.
Evelyn had offered me temporary access to her licensed catering kitchen under an agreed arrangement, which meant I could work with properly inspected equipment rather than trying to produce seventy-five meals in my family kitchen.
I developed a menu.
Rosemary focaccia sandwiches.
Two varieties of pasta salad.
Roasted seasonal vegetables.
Lemon ricotta cake.
Then I calculated ingredient costs three times.
Laura reviewed my pricing.
Evelyn adjusted my preparation schedule.
And for four glorious days, I was too busy to worry about whether everybody in my house approved.
The trouble started Wednesday evening.
Mike was searching the refrigerator for something to eat.
Again.
"Where's the chicken?"
"In the container beside the vegetables."
"Is that for your catering thing?"
"Yes. Don't touch it."
He closed the refrigerator.
"There's nothing to eat."
"There's plenty of food. Just not the food you want."
He leaned against the counter.
"Dad says you're spending a lot of money on this business."
I continued measuring flour.
"I'm tracking every expense."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"Then I'll deal with that."
He frowned.
"Everybody knows food trucks are risky."
I glanced at him.
"Everybody?"
He shrugged.
"People online."
I smiled faintly.
"Well, I suppose that settles it."
He didn't appreciate the sarcasm.
"I'm serious, Mom. What if nobody wants your pasta?"
The words sounded suspiciously familiar.
I'd heard them from Pete.
From Brad.
From Linda.
And sometimes, during the loneliest hours of the night, from the frightened little voice inside my own head.
I put down my measuring cup.
"Mike, when you joined the basketball team, were you good at everything immediately?"
"No."
"Did I tell you to quit because you might lose?"
"No."
"Did I remind you every day that sports were risky and somebody else might be better?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"No."
"Then perhaps you could give me the same kindness."
He stared at the floor.
"I wasn't trying to be mean."
"I know."
But after he left, I sat down for several minutes.
Because knowing somebody didn't intend to hurt you didn't magically make the hurt disappear.
On the morning of the luncheon, I arrived at Evelyn's kitchen at five.
Everything was organized.
Ingredients prepared.
Equipment checked.
Packaging ready.
For the first hour, things went perfectly.
Then one delivery arrived late.
A container of fresh herbs was missing.
And the commercial mixer Evelyn had planned to use for the final dough preparation stopped working.
I looked at the clock.
Panic rose in my throat.
Evelyn appeared beside me.
"Problem?"
"The mixer."
"Can you work without it?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then start."
We divided the remaining work.
I kneaded smaller batches by hand.
Adjusted the schedule.
Used substitute herbs that worked with the planned flavor profile.
And kept moving.
At ten-thirty, the finished meals were arranged in labeled containers.
At eleven, the delivery vehicle arrived.
At eleven-fifteen, I watched seventy-five lunches leave the kitchen.
I stood absolutely still.
My feet ached.
My hair was escaping its clip.
There was flour on my sleeve.
Evelyn handed me a glass of water.
"Well done."
I took a sip.
"What if they hate it?"
"Then we'll learn from that."
At two-thirty, my phone rang.
It was the event coordinator.
"Mrs. Miller?"
"Speaking."
"This is Rebecca from the volunteer luncheon."
My heart nearly stopped.
"Oh, hello."
"I wanted to tell you that the lunch was wonderful."
I pressed a hand against my chest.
"Really?"
"People kept asking where we ordered it."
I laughed.
It came out sounding suspiciously like a sob.
Rebecca continued.
"We'd love to have your contact information for future events."
After the call ended, I leaned against the counter.
Then I cried.
Evelyn glanced at me.
"Now you may cry into the pasta."
That evening, I arrived home carrying a box of leftover lemon ricotta cake.
Justin ran toward me.
"Mom! Is that dessert?"
"Yes."
"Did they like your food?"
I nodded.
"They did."
"How many people?"
"Seventy-five."
He looked impressed.
"All of them?"
"I didn't interview every individual, sweetheart."
He grinned.
Mike appeared behind him.
"How much did you make?"
"Enough for me to be pleased with the first order."
Pete came into the kitchen.
"Wait. You actually got paid?"
I looked at him.
"Did you think the catering event was imaginary?"
He laughed awkwardly.
Brad was the last to arrive.
When I told him about the positive feedback, he smiled.
A real smile.
"That's great, Soph."
For a brief second, I saw the man who had once stood outside my culinary school and told me he couldn't wait to eat at my future restaurant.
I missed that man.
Perhaps he was still somewhere inside the husband who'd forgotten my birthday.
The following morning, Rebecca sent several photographs from the event.
In one, a group of volunteers stood around the buffet table.
In another, an elderly woman was holding a plate of my pasta salad.
Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling.
Rebecca included a short message.
One of our volunteers wanted me to tell you that your food reminded her of something very special. She's asked whether she can contact you directly.
I replied immediately.
Of course.
I assumed she wanted the recipe.
But when the woman called that afternoon, her first words nearly made me drop my phone.
"Mrs. Miller? My name is Helen Ellis."
Ellis.
I looked toward the old notebook sitting on my desk.
May you like
"Did you say Ellis?"
"Yes. I believe you're the woman who recently purchased my mother's old food truck."
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