Shoulda' Had the S'mores

SHOULDA HAD THE S’MORES

"Summer gig of a lifetime, my ass," was the first thought that scooted through my mind.

It was utter bullshit from the start. Chopping onions in a kitchen where the air conditioning went out daily was one of the many problems.

My ex, Carter, got me this so-called summer job. He said it would pay well and give me the experience I was seeking as a new culinary school graduate. I was at the top of the class, but I had my sights set even higher than this.

Yes, my ex got me here, but as it turned out, he wasn't ex enough. As a fresh culinary school graduate, I looked for challenges to pad my experience and resume.

Now, here I am chopping onions in a ninety-degree-plus kitchen while my ex was out lollygagging about with his new flame, that north shore bitch, Morgan Kirkwood. Did I say she was a bitch?

He did mention summer camp, and when he said that, I thought of grilling burgers, hot dogs, scrambled eggs with French toast, or pancakes. I thought I would be left alone to prepare those simple meals, relax, and research some recipes to add to my weaponry in the kitchen.

I didn't know I would be under the constant scrutiny of that north shore bitch, Morgan Kirkwood of the Lake Forest Kirkwoods. I forgot; did I mention she was a bitch? A major bitch?

Where the hell was he? Every time the diva changed something, he disappeared. When he hired me, he described it as being a cook at a summer camp. That's when I translated the menu into those burgers, dogs, and maybe some s'mores at bedtime -easy peasy, nice and easy. Carter giggled at my simplification.

Now, I realize why. Summer camp? Not quite the camp I had pictured. It was a camp for adults, six adults to be exact. As mentioned above, three couples, including Carter and his new flavor-of-the-month, Morgan Kirkwood of the Lake Forest Kirkwoods. Have I mentioned what a bitch she was? The other two couples are North Shore elites.

Not only was Morgan a bitch, but here she was the heat-bitch-in-charge. Her main focus made my life hell like the ninety-degree weather wasn't hell enough.

Dogs, burgers, I wish. This bitch expected a James Beard menu for a line cook's wages. Demanding wasn't a strong enough word; she was always in the kitchen changing menus she initially created.

Every time I complained, there was an air-conditioning snafu. An inferno outside made it twice as unbearable in the kitchen, even with the air on.

I got that hint early in the game and went with the flow.

During one of these 'menu change' moments, I stepped out to cool off. It is hard to believe that ninety-plus and triple-digit humidity were actually cooling compared to inside.

Today, the 'kids' were on a nature walk, whatever the hell that meant. It was also the last day of the 'magical mystery camp.' I couldn't have been happier.

Chopping onions and arugula for today's entrée, I fumed.

Burger and dogs were so off her thought process you would need a Sherpa to get back.

Morgan wanted everything done like a five-star Michelin, with me, Kerry Ijams, head chef, but not head chef-in-charge, just head chef in the one-person kitchen. Even after graduating from culinary school at the top of my class, I still had to research her menus. I think she was making shit up just to piss me off or embarrass me in front of my ex, soon to be the worse ex-boyfriend in history.

Back in the kitchen, sweat re-started its journey down my face when Morgan and Carter waltzed in again with a basket full of vegetation and canary-swallowed grins plastered on their faces.

"Oh, dear," said Morgan, "it's stifling here."

"Air conditioning is out. Again."

"Carter, dear, be an angel and look into it, please. We don't want our chef suffering before the last meal of our little adventure, now do we?"

With that, they both shared a smirk. Morgan handed over the basket, smiling even more.

"Here, dear, we got permission to harvest fresh veggies from our neighbor's garden. Fresh produce; scrumptious, don't you think?"

"But, the menu's prepped and ready to go."

"Fresh veggies, though, what could be better?"

When they left the kitchen, smiling and laughing, I waited before screaming, "FUCK!"

As I began sorting through the basket of 'scrumptiousness,' I noticed some mushrooms. Taking them out, I discovered the gills and flesh were brittle and had an unusual tint. Russula.

Poisonous. Jesus Christ, morons, I thought.

Without hesitation, I tossed them in the garbage.

But, before I started her newest menu renovation, I stepped outside to cool off with a walk and a smoke.

Approaching the lake, voices scrambled through the undergrowth. When I got close enough, I listened to the three couples talking and laughing and caught snatches of 'her cooking is mediocre at best' and 'maybe she has a future supersizing whatever.'

A ripple of laughter emerged from the group, even Carter. I pulled the bushes aside. What I saw shocked even me. The six were naked and paired off with someone other than the one they came with. So, Carter gets this job for me, not only to humiliate me but to cater an orgy, his orgy with North Shore Barbie.

Back in the kitchen, I was pissed and still seething, not at them, for the most part, but at myself for letting my guard down. Looking at the menu, a plan blossomed. The man course was lamb chops with a balsamic reduction. I kept the salad as it was. After fishing the Russula out of the garbage, I put two pots in the oven for the reduction. I combined dried rosemary, basil, thyme, mixed shallots, chicken broth, and balsamic vinegar in both pots, but in one pot, I finely chopped up the Russula and added it over one of the simmering pots. Afterward, I grilled the chops.

Each plate had a nicely grilled lamb chop, grill marks and all. I liberally added the reduction sauce to four plates from pot number one, and from pot Russula, I added the remaining two plates again.

But before I brought out the meal, I emptied the Russula pot, thoroughly cleaned it, and hid it away. Morgan insisted on chilled glasses of wine with each course; this afternoon, it was the Cabernet Sauvignon, at three hundred dollars a bottle, a fine last meal for Morgan and Carter.

James Beard? Maybe one day, but now Lucretia Borgia was a definite yes.