Macy

Part 1

I'm not the kind of girl who runs away from home. Oh sure, I did it when I was five. I packed my wheelie Princess suitcase with my blankie, a box of homemade chocolate cookies, several pairs of clean underwear and socks, the compass that I had just gotten in Daisy Girl Scouts and my Cinderella water bottle and headed up the hill one afternoon to my best friend Darby Douglas's house. Mom Serena stood on the porch and watched me go. And then, after Mrs. Douglas had made me dinner, my moms came and got me before sunset. I don't even remember what pissed me off in the first place.

This is different. It's less than a week away from the start of my senior year in high school. I've had a really good paying job all summer, with basically no commute and doing what I love. I love my house, my garden, my moms when they aren't annoying the shit out of me, my best friend, my life as it is... Right now. But my moms have a plan for me for next year that just doesn't work for me. And I'm going to use tonight, one night, this beautiful Friday night in early September, to prove that my plan is better.

PART ONE

First Course: The Perfect Salad for Leaving Home

     Fresh from the garden greens,

     Goat cheese,

     Pea, corn, and radish shoots,

     Whole ground cherries (Physalis) with a slightest drizzle of honey (just a little so it's

     not sweet)

     Balsamic vinaigrette:

     Macy's personal dressing of balsamic vinegar mixed with sweet potato yoghurt, orange

     and cardamom and a Mystery Ingredient.

     Serve with a small piece of honeycomb.

"Hey, Macy – have you picked the garlic scapes for dinner? And ... I've got the kitchen list here somewhere. Oh, turnips, carrots, the salad greens? Annnd, uh, and it's not on the list but if you go into the orchard–"

"Can't tonight, Creek," I yelled back to our head farmer. "I'm cooking for some friends tonight, heading into the city."

"Riiiight, day off. Sorry, kid. I'll find Jen." Creek strode off toward our stone barn to find his second, and probably third and fourth, in command to do the job I usually do.

Stone Gate Farm may be my private home in the Hudson Valley, but it's anything but private. It's almost always occupied by a huge staff. My moms are both chefs who own and run the Stone Gate Inn Restaurant and market. We're a farm-to-table eatery, written up in the New York Times and Zagats. We're famous. Or rather, moms are. I prefer to be an off-the-radar type. I've been in the kitchen since I could carry a plate without dropping it, and cooking on one of the big gas stoves while standing on my own special stool since kindergarten.

I moved into the kitchen garden past heirloom veggies to pick salad greens, riffling my fingers through the pretty radish, corn and pea shoots before expertly cutting myself a bunch of each with the blade fished out of my garden trug, a special shallow gardening basket, that I planned to fill with all sorts of amazing things to eat. Yitka, our Chef De Cuisine, was pulling baby carrots a few rows away.

"Sure you can't help out tonight, Mace? We're gonna be a little light-handed in the kitchen."

"Sorry, Yitka. Darby and I have had plans for weeks," I told her.

"Then why are you in the garden, keed? You cooking for a hot date tonight?" She grinned at me, knowing full well I don't, and won't, date. She and I talk a lot. She's only a few years older than I am but a very talented cook.