“You have got to write down what you did to that chicken and send me the recipe,” Fisher said. “That looked amazing.”
It had tasted pretty good, too, if I did say so myself. Though Fisher had easily won—my attempts to make a black licorice and raspberry dressing for my ratatouille had scorched one of Mom’s pans, and Fisher had made a damn chocolate cake with caramelized bacon as his dessert—I’d managed to use his ingredients to elevate the stuffed chicken thighs Mom did for Christmas Eve dinner to a brand new level. It was so good, I hadn’t even bothered to eat more than a bite of my dessert—an apple crumble with all the mystery ingredients as the topping—before going back to the second portion of chicken I’d prepared.
Now I was stuffed, which was why I was sprawled on my bed, talking to
