Kilt to Order by Susannah Nix

Author:Susannah Nix [Nix, Susannah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Haver Street Press

The kitchen at Crowder’s Fire Station 1 is designed for utility rather than aesthetics: plain white cupboards, stainless steel prep counters, a big gas range, and an easy-to-clean concrete floor. Next to it is our laminate-top dining table, and beyond that a grouping of black recliners are arranged around the common room TV.

Quincy and Jamal are in there watching an NCAA women’s basketball game while I throw together a peach cobbler to go with tonight’s dinner. I don’t usually bother with dessert, but on Sunday shifts I like to make dinner a little more special. My traditional Sunday pot roast is cooking in the Instant Pot, filling the common room with mouthwatering smells, which leaves me more than enough time to whip up a simple dessert.

Before I joined the firehouse, they used to rotate chow duty. But it didn’t take long for them to realize I was the best chef on B shift and ask if I’d mind taking over the job on a permanent basis. Fine by me. Cooking gets me out of some other chores that I’m more than happy to miss. Like cleaning. I fucking hate cleaning. I’ll cook all day as long as I don’t have to clean the bathroom or mop the apparatus floor.

McCafferty’s a decent hand in the kitchen, and sometimes he’ll still bring in his smoker and smoke us up some brisket or homemade sausages out back. But Jamal’s an indifferent cook at best, and Quincy’s fucking horrible. Her version of a tuna casserole should be prosecuted as a federal hate crime. She’s also currently banned from setting foot in my kitchen after I caught her trying to sneak cumin into my Bolognese last shift. Like, who the fuck puts cumin in Bolognese? The woman’s a goddamn menace.

Aside from Quincy’s barbarous attempts to sabotage my recipes, I find cooking a relaxing way to pass the downtime between calls. My dad used to be his firehouse cook too, and he taught me everything he knew. He’s been dead for thirteen years, but I always feel closer to him when I’m cooking. I can still hear his voice in my head, telling me how to chop an onion, how to take care of a cast iron pan, how to make food go further on a tight budget.

A lot of the recipes I make are his. He never wrote anything down, but I’ve got them all stored away in my head. Like the Sunday pot roast I adapted for the Instant Pot I donated to the firehouse last year. Dad would have fucking loved this Instant Pot. It’s a damn shame he didn’t live long enough to have one.

McCafferty wanders into the kitchen while I’m slicing peaches. “How long until dinner, G-Man?”

“Another half an hour.”

He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and polishes it on his CFD polo shirt as he leans his hip against the counter. “Hey, so how’s everything with you and Casey?”

I glance toward the common room to make sure Jamal and

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