Port in a Storm by Rhys Ford

Author:Rhys Ford [Ford, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-64405-847-3
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2023-11-13T00:00:00+00:00

“ARE YOU sure you know what you’re doing?” Tate’s skepticism was as thick as the block of cheddar cheese Connor was grating into a glass bowl. “Forest always uses white cheese.”

“We don’t have any. It’ll be fine,” he reassured the despotic sous chef he’d asked to help him. So far, Tate had only offered opinions about what Connor was doing wrong, but if he were honest with himself, he remembered having a lot of his own thoughts about his mother’s cooking certain things. “Sometimes Mexican lasagna can have different things in it. This time it’s going to be cheddar cheese instead of cotija. Trust me, we’re not going to die from it.”

“Marcy says Mexican lasagna isn’t a real thing.” Reaching over toward the bowl, Tate grabbed a quick pinch of cheese, then stuffed it in his mouth.

“Well, considering some of her family comes from Mexico, I would say we could trust her judgment on that.” Tapping the grater free of any cheese shreds clinging to its insides, Connor mentally measured if he had enough for the casserole. “It’s something my mum made us when we were kids, and it isn’t even some of the crazier stuff she fed us. I think it’s kind of like Hawaiian pizza. Nothing about that is Hawaiian, but that’s how it was sold to people so that’s the name that stuck. Pretty sure a real Hawaiian pizza would have kalua pig and cooked taro leaves on it. You know, nothing says we can’t change the name.”

For an almost eight-year-old little boy, Tate seemed to have cornered the market on giving dubious looks. “It’s written that way in the recipe book. We can’t change it.”

“If something is wrong and we know that, we should always push to change it,” Connor replied.

It was strange to hear his father’s words fall out of his own mouth. It felt surreal to relive a moment as the other side of the discussion but Connor also knew what thought-gerbils Tate had running around in his brain. Having your world shoved open by possibilities always took a moment or two to process, and from the scowl on his son’s face, Connor imagined those gerbils were working overtime.

“We can always put white-out tape over the title and write in a better one on top of it.” After wiping his hands on a dish towel, Connor leaned on the island. “What would you call it?”

“We shouldn’t call it Mexican, right?”

“I would agree that it’s not very authentic. It has those kinds of flavors in it, but I wouldn’t call it Mexican.”

The spiral-bound book was something his mother gave them after their wedding—a thick volume of cut-out recipes and old favorites copied and pasted into a software program then printed out. There were notes in the columns of practically every recipe Brigid included in the book, her swooping cursive sharing a story about the food or which family member considered it a favorite. Connor couldn’t find a date for the casserole they were making, but

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