Food for Love

By Erin Evans

If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach then it’s no wonder that Cordelia McKellen is still single.

The McKellen family is known for their culinary artistry with one exception: Cordelia is a disaster in the kitchen. Burnt, undercooked, inedible—she’s ruined recipes in more ways than she can count and has decided that she vastly prefers banging away at the piano to banging pot and pans in the kitchen, much to the annoyance of her hot new neighbor. But when the terms of her great aunt’s will are read, Cordelia must put aside her music to become a successful chef or forfeit her inheritance.

With the help of her best friend, Cordelia sets out to conquer the catering world, relying heavily on a secret gift from her great aunt: a mysterious chafing dish that brings new meaning to the term “creative cooking.” Magical or not, catering is harder than Cordelia dreamed and her scrumptious neighbor is becoming increasingly distracting. Can this fast-food loving pianist win her inheritance and find true love or will she wind up with egg on her face?

A delicious romance, stuffed with Cordelia’s unique and hilarious recipes, Food for Love is a tasty treat for foodies and non-foodies alike!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Evans
• Release date: Dec 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301454457

Erin Evans

Erin Evans is a stay-at-home mom of eight (!), wonderful, little children. When she's not chasing after children, changing diapers, teaching school, cooking, chauffeuring, or potty training, she is writing, playing drums at her church or crashed out dead asleep. In urban fantasy, she loves Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, and Kim Harrison. All time favorite authors would be Robin Hobb and Jasper Fforde. Jim Butcher's Codex Alera has become one of her favorite series. BOOKS: - In her first series, "The Rhine Maiden", Erin based her character Piper Cavanaugh on her own life, but decided to have pity on Piper and only gave her two kids to start off with. - Erin's latest work, the "Pernicious Princess Trilogy" is a take on twisted fairy tales. - Her other works include "Food For Love", a foodie romantic comedy with a twist.

Book preview

Chapter One:

Food.

We all need it. We all eat it.

For some, it is the pinnacle of existence: the breath of creation and the highest form of enjoyment in life. For some, it is temptation: the forbidden fruit that hangs tantalizing within easy reach, promising instant gratification and instant pounds. For others, it is survival: the fuel that keeps the body going; each and every calorie is studied and dissected to create maximum balanced nutrition with usually minimum taste.

And then there are people like me. We like to eat, but we really don’t care that much about what we put in our mouth. A double cheeseburger off the Dollar Menu is just as appetizing as filet mignon from Ruth’s Chris, not to mention a whole lot cheaper.

I truly believe that most people are like me. They have to be. Otherwise I couldn’t call myself normal. It’s those passionate people, the foodies, or the health nuts, who are weird. I mean, come on, people! It’s just food, right? Who cares if the cow was fed organic wheat, and massaged every day while listening to Beethoven, before it was whacked over the head and chopped up into steaks? I don’t. I just want to eat it.

I might sound a little defensive on the subject, and for good reason. I grew up in a family of food fanatics. Our food-worshipping mother served everything from andouillette to zabaglione, somehow totally leaving out childhood staples like pizza, or chicken nuggets and french fries. I still clearly remember the first time I had peanut butter. A new babysitter had been hired to watch us children while my parents drove over to Orlando for a fancy dress dinner. She apparently had been warned by a previous babysitter that there was nothing normal to eat in the house and had brought her own dinner. My older siblings turned up their well-trained noses at such plebian fare, but I was entranced.

Perhaps I do have more of my family’s genes than I care to admit. At the young age of eight I became a peanut butter gourmand. A friend at school supplied me with my illegal substance and for a solid month I ate the heavenly ambrosia straight out of the jar at night, hidden beneath my bed, enjoying each and every sticky spoonful.

Of course, my older sister ratted me out, and my horrified mother quickly rid the house of my addiction, giving me multiple lectures on the dangers of saturated fats, and trying to tempt my palate with more refined tastes.

It was no use. I simply did not care about food the way the rest of my family seemed to. I think now that my mother was always trying to live up to the family name. My father’s aunt, my Great Aunt Eleanor, was a famous chef and author of numerous cookbooks. Oddly enough, even with my older sister, who graduated from college with a culinary degree, and my older brother, who could name and date wine like Lord Peter Wimsey, I was the favorite great-niece.

Great Aunt Eleanor and I had a bond that went beyond food. As a child, I could have cared less about the sales numbers on her latest cookbook or the glowing (or crushing) reviews on her latest restaurant. I enjoyed playing on her kitchen floor with delicious smells wafting from the oven, but I preferred Toll House cookies to coq au vin.

Surprisingly enough, it was Great Aunt Eleanor who supported my choice to not follow the rest of the family, to branch out on my own and get a degree in … gasp! Horror! Music.

"But, darling, my mother pleaded, what will you do with a music degree?"

There’s no work in the music field, my brother said, looking condescendingly over the edge of his wine glass.

How will you meet an eligible husband? my sister wailed, having gotten her degree and an M.R.S. at the same time.

Did you get a scholarship? my practical father wanted to know.

I argued until I was blue in the face. There were plenty of jobs in the music industry. (I couldn’t really name any, other than concert pianist, at the time, but I was sure there were tons.) A determined person like myself would have no problem getting a job. (Again, a belief based more on hope than anything else.) I wasn’t interested in finding a husband and since our family was extremely wealthy, I didn’t see why I should have to get a scholarship while my siblings had their degrees covered by Bank of Dad.

Dad pointed out that he had money because he didn’t waste it on frivolous things. I snapped back that my sister’s culinary degree wasn’t doing anyone any good except for her husband. Mom broke down into tears at the thought of a child not studying the goddess Food, and it was Great Aunt Eleanor who saved the day by staunchly backing my musical desires and even offering to pay for my schooling. The last was a clever piece of reverse psychology on her part as Dad would sooner die than have people think that he couldn’t provide for his own children.

I got my Bachelor’s in Piano and was the first McKellen to eat every meal in the college cafeteria and actually enjoy it. I also discovered that a love of music, a determined attitude, and hours of practice were still not enough to get one hired as a concert pianist. Since that had been my only goal, I was a little at a loss after graduation. I didn’t want to move back home. My sister, Kristyn, was on to cooking up baby number three. My brother, Tom, was deep in marriage planning with his fiancé, and the thought of being seen as poor Cordelia, slinking home with her tail between her legs to mooch off of Mom and Dad was not happening.

I did move back to my home town. I was proud, but I wasn’t stupid. Living in the same town as my parents meant that I would never starve and I could count on new articles of clothing appearing in my closet, courtesy of my mother.

I rented a small two bedroom apartment in the cheapest area of town and breathed a financial sigh of relief when a college friend agreed to come and share the rent with me. Charlene was a pharmaceutical rep, which, as far as I could tell, meant that she dressed in nice, if slightly skanky, clothing, drove around to doctors’ offices with a black leather, rolling suitcase, and got taken out to lunch by every young, single doctor in the area (and quite a few that were neither).

I also got a job. It was even a job in my field, as I proudly pointed out to my mother, hoping that she would never decide to drop by and see where I worked. It was hard to sell the words Music World as a classy educational training facility, but I glossed over the long hours, the crappy pay, and the snotty young students, and instead focused on how glorious it was to train up the younger generation in the love and appreciation of the piano.

I tried to remind myself of those glories as I trudged up the two flights of stairs to my apartment after a long day of teaching. Why had I ever thought I would enjoy teaching piano? I had started the job with visions of molding young minds and expanding horizons, of getting to spend every day at the keyboard, my favorite place on earth. The truth was a rude wake-up call.

My day had started with siblings Colin and Alyssa, who had not touched their piano all week long. My gentle suggestions to their mother that they spend at least 15 minutes a day in practice had fallen on deaf ears. We spent the entire hour lesson going over the exact same material that we had covered the week before, and the week previous to that, and the week previous to that.

Their mother, a flakey blond who spent the lesson time on her iPhone, had the gall to suggest at the end that her little darlings were not progressing as quickly as she expected and perhaps she should switch to another teacher in the studio.

I gritted my teeth and smiled. I would love to pass the little horrors off to another teacher, but Colin and Alyssa had already been through all the piano teachers on staff and had been passed off to me as the new girl, who still needed to build up a student base.

I couldn’t really complain. We made minimum wage per hour plus 50% of lesson fees. I needed Colin and Alyssa if I was going to make my half of the rent each month, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. I fully planned to continue the tradition of camaraderie at Music World and give my problem students to the next new piano teacher who came along. Given the turnover rate, that shouldn’t be too far in the future.

My next student for the day was a four year-old boy with a mother who was positive that she had birthed a musical prodigy. She held this belief although he showed no interest whatsoever in the piano and I spent the entire half hour lesson chasing him around the room and sitting him firmly back on the bench. Three months of this had taught him that there were white keys and black keys and that when you hit them, they made sound.

Students four, five, and six were nondescript. They at least knew the difference between a quarter-note and a half-note and sometimes could even be persuaded to play them in the correct rhythm.

I got a fifteen minute lunch break, which I usually enjoyed in the privacy of my car, playing Mozart over the stereo system and enjoying a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Today had been one of my favorite days of the week, since I had three Korean students in the early afternoon. Their parents forced them to practice an hour a day and they always came totally prepared and ready for the lesson. I had to be very careful in my correction since the slightest rebuke would send them spiraling down into despair, while praise rolled off their backs as meaningless hyperbole of which they were not worthy.

Their mothers insisted on sitting in the lesson room and each took copious notes, the better to reprimand their children with later. The atmosphere was always tense, but at least we were actually making music.

I had rounded out the day with a collection of bored teenagers, distracted kids unable to sit still, and even an adult man whom I was afraid was more there to spend time with me than to actually learn the piano.

All in all, I was beat. The air conditioner at the studio had been on the fritz and I was hot and sweaty with nerves worn to the quick. I wished, as I did every day, that I had been able to afford an apartment with an elevator, or at least one on the ground floor. I’d promised myself that all the stair climbing would make my legs supermodel firm and sexy. Since that had yet to happen, I was feeling cheated.

I fumbled with the keys and entered my home with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Paid for by me. Mom and Dad had wanted to set me up in a townhouse as a graduation present, but I had refused. I wanted to make it on my own. Silly, maybe, but it was still the way I felt.

Charlene was gone and had a left a note on the fridge. Out to dinner with a client. Money for rent and food on the counter. Didn’t have time to go to the grocery store. Sorry!

I sighed. Part of our roommate deal was alternating weeks to the grocery store. Neither one of us wanted to do the shopping and took every opportunity to wiggle out of our week. Charlene was always on some crazy fad diet, her latest being protein shakes and energy drinks which she had purchased in bulk, so she was in no real rush to go shopping.

I opened the fridge and looked around. There was a half gallon of skim milk that was stamped with yesterday’s date. I sniffed it and couldn’t tell if it had soured or not. There was a half a head of wilted romaine in the vegetable drawer that was starting to go brown and gooey, and the jar of strawberry jelly that I had made my PB&J with that morning. I had used up the last of the sandwich bread, so while I had more peanut butter, there was nothing to put it on.

I opened the freezer and hit the jackpot. A package of Toll House cookie dough. The kind already stamped into squares for easy cookie baking. I opened the package and tested one square for quality.

My cell phone rang. It was my mother. She knew down to the minute what time I got off work and how long it would take me to get home and kick off my shoes. I had to answer or she would assume that I was dead in a ditch somewhere.

Hello, darling! she sang cheerfully. How was your day today?

I thought back over the frustrations and said, Great!

How wonderful, she breezed on, I was calling to see if you would like to come over for dinner tonight? I’m trying out a new recipe that I think is going to be divine!

I broke off another square of cookie dough and thoughtfully chewed it. On the one hand, I was hungry, and there was clearly not a lot to eat at the apartment. On the other, it was a half hour drive over the causeway to get to my parents’ beachside house. Add in the half hour drive back home and it would be a late night. I sighed.

No thanks, Mom, I said regretfully. I just got in and I’m beat. Maybe some other time.

I just worry that you’re not eating well, my mother wheedled. Her idea of eating well was four star restaurants. If she knew that I had splurged and eaten at Taco Bell the other day she would have a heart attack. You’re looking so thin. Are you sure you’re getting balanced meals?

I wedged the cell phone between ear and shoulder and opened up the jar of peanut butter. Yeah, Mom, I assured her. I’m cooking dinner right now. I spread some peanut butter on another square of cookie dough and popped it in my mouth.

What are you making? She sounded thrilled. She still firmly believed that my inner chef was merely hiding, waiting to make a grand entrance one day and surprise the world. The fact that I couldn’t consistently boil pasta without it being too hard or too mushy was totally lost on her.

Umm, I tried to talk around a gooey mouthful. I hadn’t totally decided, but I’m preheating the oven as we speak. I reached over and clicked the oven on so that I would be telling the truth.

I found a wonderful recipe the other day, she started to say before pausing. Oh, dear. I’ve got a call from your father on the other line. I’ll have to talk to you later! Love you!

Love you too, Mom, I said before she hung up.

I viewed the cookie dough and decided that since I had eaten half the package without cooking it that there was not really any point in dirtying a dish to cook the rest. I turned the oven back off and settled down at the counter to finish off the rest of the cookie dough and peanut butter. I’d just have to make Char go to the grocery store tomorrow.

I’d made a serious dent in the package when my phone rang again. It was my mother. She sounded in shock.

Are you okay, Mom?

Your Great Aunt Eleanor! she gasped.

I felt a stab of fear. What about Aunt Eleanor?

She’s dead!

Cordelia’s Cookie Recipe

1 package - Nestle Toll House Cookie Dough Bar

1 jar of peanut butter, crunchy or smooth

Preheat oven to 325°

Open package and break off pre-scored square. Spread liberally with peanut butter. Enjoy. Repeat as desired. Remember to turn off oven when finished.

Chapter Two:

Dead! I cried. She can’t be dead! I talked to her just the other day! She was touring France doing a photo shoot for her latest cookbook!

Mother started to cry. I know, darling. They said she’s been sick for a while.

But she never said anything!

I know, Cordelia. She didn’t want anyone to fuss, but the doctors had given her six months. She knew it was coming.

I started to choke up. I’ve got to go, Mom, I said.

Oh, sweetheart, I should have told you better. I know how close the two of you were.

Yeah, my throat was closing up and my nose was prickling. I’ll get the details from you later, ok?

Do you want me to come over?

That’s ok, Mom. Love you. I hung up and stared at the wall.

How could she be dead? She had been so full of life. Some of my best childhood memories were of time spent with her. And we’d been planning a trip to Italy this summer. She was going to sample the cuisine and create brilliant new recipes that would win her more fame and fortune and I was going to visit the museums and attend classical concerts.

I started to cry. I was going to miss her so much. She’d been the only one to understand that I truly had no interest in learning to cook. I’d never felt pressured around her or like a family failure. I just couldn’t believe that she was gone.

In moments of stress or high emotion there is one place that I can reliably go. I sat down at my piano.

When I’d left home I had also left behind my Boesendorfer Grand. There was just no way to carry a six foot piano up two flights of steps. Not to mention, no room in the apartment once it got there. Plus, while I was the only one in the family who played, it was still technically my parents’ piano.

I had searched Craigslist and haunted the music stores until I found an old upright that at least sounded like a piano, even if the keys were a trifle cracked and the wood stain was chipped and peeling. It was also in my budget.

I started the Bach prelude I’d been working on but quickly switched to Chopin. It was the dreamy complicated style that kept my fingers moving quickly and my brain fully engaged, unable to spiral into depression. I’d been playing for about forty-five minutes when there was a knock at the door. More like a hammering.

I wiped away some tears that had slipped unnoticed down my cheeks and went to look through the peephole. These were the times that I wish I owned a large, well-trained, attack dog. There’s something scary about opening your door to a complete stranger, yet something horribly rude in yelling through the door. It was obvious I was home, so there was no hiding in my bedroom, the way I usually did.

There was a young man standing on the mat. He was tall, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, and dressed nicely in jeans and a striped polo shirt. He had the kind of thick, wavy hair that most women would kill for and it curled attractively around his ears in a haircut that was clearly two weeks past needing to be repeated. He had dark brown eyes and a face that managed to balance perfectly between good looks and ruggedness.

I opened the door. Hey! What can I say? How often are serial killers incredibly handsome?

As soon as I opened the door I regretted my choice. He might be nice to look at, if he wasn’t scowling in rage. If I had spent a little less time assessing his muscular physique and a little more time assessing his mood, I would have known that this was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

Yes? I asked timidly.

Could you please stop making that infernal racket? he half yelled, clearly having worked himself up a bit before ascending the stairs.

I glanced over my shoulder at the corner of the piano I could see peeking around the entrance half-wall. Usually I am the most accommodating of people. I never cut others off in traffic. I never get upset with sales-people. I take all the criticism the parents of my students dish out without ever losing my cool. But today was different.

I wished briefly for the high-heeled shoes I had kicked off as soon as I entered the apartment. My attacker was at least a looming six-foot tall and I needed every inch of authority the heels would give my petite five-foot-three frame.

I managed to look down my nose at him while craning my neck upward, a move my mother had perfected over the years. I even borrowed her superior tone of voice. I was not making a racket, I informed him icily.

His anger came to a stuttering halt as the sudden fear that he might have knocked on the wrong apartment door embarrassed him into silence. Then he also noticed the piano, visible from the doorway. His anger returned in force.

Is that your piano? he demanded.

Yes, I sneered back.

Then kindly stop torturing the rest of the building with your banging away! He turned on his heel to leave.

My blood pressure peaked and I felt steam leaking out my ears. How dare he? Banging away? I was the closest thing to a concert pianist that this Philistine would ever have the pleasure of hearing! People had paid to come to my performances! He should be thanking me for the free music!

If I had stopped a moment to think, I would have realized that the news of Great Aunt Eleanor’s death was making me a trifle unhinged. I was upset and my subconscious was soothing itself by taking my emotions out on the nearest human being.

I’ll be finished in another hour, I called after him caustically.

He froze, one foot on the stair and slowly turned to glare at me. What did you say? he growled.

I almost took a step backwards as the wave of his masculinity washed over me, but I held my ground and even managed to lean nonchalantly against the door frame. I said, I smiled tightly, that I would be finished practicing in an hour.

He took a threatening step towards me. I’m going to inform the building manager, he snarled, looking a little wild-eyed.

You do that, I said coolly, and while you’re there would you mind telling him that my mother will have to miss their weekly bridge game with the mayor? There’s been a death in the family.

Okay. So when I chose this building it wasn’t only because of the cheap rent. It was also because the owner/manager was old school chums with my dad. And his wife and my mom were close. There’s pride and then there’s just foolishness. I wasn’t above taking a slight advantage of family connections. There had been complaints before about my piano playing, but my mother was able to smooth everything over with a single dinner invitation.

The young man obviously knew when he was beat. He snarled something incomprehensible under his breath and stomped back down the stairs. I sighed. I should have been more diplomatic, and not only because he was incredibly good looking. Char was always saying