“Oh, Lilah—you’re a bit late, aren’t you?” asked Esther, her white hair disheveled and her face red from the ovens. She was toiling over a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops; we were doing a home wedding reception that evening. Her husband, Jim, gray bearded and blue jeaned, worked beside her, his expression serene as he split figs with an expert hand, then began filling them with ricotta and drizzling honey on top. The more tense Esther got when under pressure, the more Jim seemed to grow calm. He was a good influence on us all when the schedule grew hectic. Around the corner on the same big work space were Gabby and Nicole, two culinary students who worked for Esther part-time as interns. Their dark heads were bent over what Esther called mushroom fantasies—crisp little toast wedges covered in a mushroom-celery mix that the girls had sautéed in butter and sherry. The room smelled wonderful. Before I could say anything to Esther, Parker raised a hand.
