Lost and Fondue (38 page)

Pre-soak dried cherries in ½ cup hot water for 10 minutes. Drain and discard the water.

Meanwhile, preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Mix butter, milk, juice, sugar, and egg. Add in flour and baking powder. Beat until all flour incorporated. Add in cherries. Mix well.

Drop large dollops onto a cookie sheet. Bake for 15–17 minutes until golden brown.

Dust with powdered sugar. Serve with whipped butter.

SERVES 4

Warm the heavy cream in a pot until hot but not burning. Use low heat, about 3–4 minutes. Add the goat cheese in chunks.

Stir with a whisk to prevent clotting. Add the pepper, green onion tips, wine, and flour OR tapioca flour. Stir approximately 5–7 minutes until the mixture is as smooth as it can be.

Prepare your plates with vegetables and bread cubes OR gluten-free crackers. Eat family-style.

 

Note: The thickness of the fondue might vary. If it’s too thick, add a little cream. Too thin, add a little more cheese.

 

Second note: I like to snip the green tips of onions with scissors for even cuts.

Third note: To steam broccoli perfectly every time: Bring to boil 1 cup water in a 6 quart pot with ½ teaspoon salt. Cut up 1–2 heads of broccoli into bite-sized pieces. Add to boiling water. Cook 4 minutes. Pour off boiling water. Cover again. Let sit for 4 minutes. Remove lid and rinse broccoli in cold water to stop the cooking process.

Cut garlic cloves in half. Rub garlic around the inside of a fondue pot. Heat fondue pot to medium heat. Add the half-and-half. Add cheese and stir until it is all melted. Add tapioca flour and stir again so there are no lumps. This all takes about 5–7 minutes.

Serve warm in a small crockpot with cut vegetables like broccoli florets, celery sticks, carrot sticks, and asparagus. It may also be served with crackers and/or bread cubes.

 

Note: This tastes delicious as a warm dressing on a green salad.

SERVES 6

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Bake or sauté bacon until crisp. Remove from heat and cool on a paper towel. Break pieces into thirds.

Slice the green onions and Vidalia onions.

Sauté the green onions and Vidalia onions in olive oil at medium heat until they turn limp and slightly brown/caramelized. Remove from heat and drain on a paper towel.

Sprinkle white pepper and 2 ounces of the shredded cheese in the unbaked pie crust.

Lay onions on top of the cheese. Lay bacon on top of the onions.

Mix milk and eggs and seasonings together.

Pour milk mixture into the pie crust.

Sprinkle with the remaining cheese.

Bake 35–40 minutes until the quiche is firm and lightly brown on top.

 

 

“I thought I’d seen a ghost,” Matthew said.

“It wasn’t Chip.” I popped off the lid of another Tupperware box of decorations we’d lugged from The Cheese Shop. “Chip lives in France, not Providence.”

“He was blond, broad-shouldered, and fast. The guy could run. What if it was him?”

I blew a stray hair off my face. “My ex-fiancé is not loping through the Winter Wonderland Faire in the middle of February. Last I heard, he hated winter.” And hated me, but that was water over the falls.

“I worry that he’ll hurt—”

“It wasn’t him. We have tourists. Lots and lots of tourists. One looked like him, that’s all.” A fog of breath wisped out of my mouth. I buttoned my sweater and tightened the gold filigree scarf around my neck to ward off the morning chill.

Every year, in celebration of Providence’s Founder’s Day, the Village Green transformed itself into a three-day Winter Wonderland Faire. Farmers, vintners, and crafters from all over Holmes County and beyond joined in the weekend fun. It was a tourist draw in a season when tourists should have been scarce. Overnight, small white tents with picture windows, peaked roofs, swinging doors, and fake green grass floors appeared. Twinkling white lights outlined each tent.

I stood in the middle of ours and removed glittery wedge-shaped ornaments from the decoration box. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay, Miss Touchy.” A grin inched up the right side of my cousin’s face. He could be such a tease. He plucked another taste of what I called ambrosia—he’d already eaten three—off a small platter of cheeses I’d brought to sample while we worked. “Hungry?” He waved it under my nose. “Mmm-mmmm. This is a delicious cheese. What is it?”

“Zamorano. A sheep’s cheese from Zamora, Spain. Sort of like Manchego. The milk comes from Churra sheep.” I’d eaten my fair share as an early morning snack.

“It’s nutty and sort of buttery.”

“Your new favorite,” I teased.

“How’d you guess?” He slipped the cheese into his mouth and hummed his appreciation.

While I decorated the tent with gold and burgundy ribbon looped through crystal wedge-shaped cheese ornaments, Matthew hoisted a box of wineglasses onto the antique buffet that I’d brought in to serve as our cheese counter and started to unpack them. We were setting up Fromagerie Bessette, or Le Petit Fromagerie as we were calling our little enterprise, as a cheese- and wine-tasting venue. For the first day we would offer Vacherin Fribourg, a yummy cheese, perfect for fondue, Haloume from Greece, which sort of tastes like a Mozzarella, and the Zamorano. Our wines would include a creamy Mount Eden chardonnay from Santa Cruz, a peppery Bordeaux, and the boisterous but not over-the-top Sin Zin zinfandel. Each customer would receive a burgundy souvenir plate embossed in gold with “Say Cheese.” For major purchases, we would direct eager customers back to Fromagerie Bessette.

In between boxes, Matthew filched another sliver of cheese. “The Zamorano would pair well with the zinfandel, don’t you think?”

I laughed. “It’s good with all reds and even sherry.”

“Hmph. Showing off?”

“You bet.”

Matthew, a former sommelier and now my business partner, was doing his best to learn about cheese. In exchange, he instructed me about the complexities of wine. Our arrangement was what you would call a fair and delicious swap.

“Well, it’s killer,” he repeated. “Truly killer.”

A chill shimmied through the tent. I twisted the knob on the standing heater beneath the buffet table and cozied up to it. At least my ankles would be warm. We’d have the heater on all the time once we opened the tent to customers.

The front door flew open. “Darling!” Matthew’s buxom ex-wife, Sylvie, bolted into the shop waving a handful of glossy flyers. A cool breeze swirled through the tent until the door swung shut.

“Speaking of exes,” I said dryly as I felt my eyebrows fly upward.

“What are you ... ?” Matthew sputtered. “Why ... ?” He gaped at Sylvie with outright shock.

I didn’t do much better. The lacy purple teddy Sylvie wore barely covered her ample chest and her you-know-what. I couldn’t imagine that the purple muffler and ankle-high Uggs she was wearing provided enough warmth to bear the nip in the air.

“Did you forget to put on clothes?” Matthew managed to blurt out.

“I’m advertising, love,” Sylvie announced in her clipped British accent as she waved the flyers.

Advertising what?
I pressed my lips together to keep the snarky comment from escaping my lips. Good business required tact, even with ex-in-laws.

Sylvie owned a women’s boutique called Under Wraps. Many of the items in the store’s window would make the sultriest vixen blush. A few years back, Sylvie abandoned Matthew and their twins to return to Mumsie and Dad in merry old England. A couple of months ago, she returned to Providence. Much to Matthew’s vexation, she’d wheedled her way back into their nine-year-old twins’ lives.

“I’ve rented the tent next to yours.” Sylvie ruffled her acid-white hair. “What better lure than the scent of cinnamon and hot spun sugar, right, love?”

During winter months to increase business, Igloo’s Ice Cream Parlor made all sorts of delectable treats. Igloo’s had rented a tent near ours and, though the faire wasn’t officially open, the shop was already selling their spicy winter version of cotton candy. Other scents like pine trees, cocoa, and brandy-laced crepes stirred the senses, as well.

“C’mon, Mattie-Matt, sales are down,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got to do something to make customers flock to my tent.” She sidled up to Matthew and ran a chocolate-colored fingernail down his sleeve. “You always liked how I could coax a cow to croon.”

Matthew’s eyes turned as dark as lava. “Stop it.” He batted her away.

Coming to his rescue, I gripped Sylvie by the elbow and steered her toward the exit. “Sylvie, give me some of those flyers. I’ll be glad to post these.”

Some place. Maybe in Timbuktu.

“Thanks, Charlotte. Oh, did you hear—?”

“No time to gossip.” I prodded her forward.

Sylvie frowned. She prided herself on being Providence’s gossipmonger extraordinaire. Gossip, according to her, flew rampant around a women’s boutique.

“But—”

“We’ve got to get back to decorating. Bye-bye!”

Before she could protest, I propelled her into the cold, not thinking twice about how she’d keep warm. She was an adult—or at least she liked to think so.

The door lingered before closing, and I caught the strains of Kenny G’s melodic clarinet playing a jazzy rendition of “My Funny Valentine.” Our mayor—my darling, eclectic grandmother—insisted that easy-listening music play nonstop during the Winter Wonderland celebration.