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“Potatoes,” she said without looking up. “There.” She gestured toward a sack of potatoes leaning against the counter. “Scrub, peel, grate.”
    MG blinked. “With what?”
    Cunningham gave her a dark look over her shoulder. “Brush, peeler, processor.”
    She stared at the immaculate counter space. “Where are they?”
    This time Cunningham turned all the way around. She pointed at a rack over the sink. “Scrubber is there. Brush on the end. That’s the produce sink. Use cold water only. Let me know when you’re done. I’ll show you where to peel.”
    MG glanced at the bag. “All of them?”
    Cunningham was already back at work slicing mushrooms. Apparently, the answer was so obvious she didn’t even bother to turn around. Sighing inwardly, MG headed for the sink.
    Scrubbing fifteen pounds of potatoes was nothing compared to peeling fifteen pounds of potatoes and then feeding those fifteen peeled pounds into the huge food processor to shred them down to what looked like a mass of white worms. Cunningham studied the heap critically, then tossed her a towel. “Wring them dry.”
    MG blinked again. She felt like she’d been blinking for most of the morning. “What?”
    Cunningham rested her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. MG had learned to hate that particular look over the past hour. “Wring out the potatoes. What do I have to do, write it out for you?”
    “But I’ve never… I mean…”
    Cunningham jerked the towel out of her hand and piled it high with shredded potatoes, then turned to the sink, twisting the towel tightly until water dripped out. She flipped the now-dry potato shreds into another bowl. “When this towel’s too wet to work, grab another one.” She turned back to her cutting board without pausing.
    MG grabbed the towel and piled in potatoes, wondering how it was possible to simultaneously feel like an idiot and feel annoyed that Cunningham agreed with her. Fifteen minutes later her biceps were screaming and the potatoes were wrung dry.
    Cunningham stared at the bowl, her hands on her hips. “Jesus, it took you long enough. Get these over to Leo. He needs them now.” She pointed to the chef at the stove, flipping perfect potato pancakes onto a plate.
    MG carried the bowl to the stove, placing it on the counter beside the chef.
    “Other side,” he snapped, without looking at her.
    Such a friendly, caring place. She moved the bowl to the other side. The chef gave no indication that he knew she was standing next to him.
    Cunningham glanced at her when she returned. “Now you can do onions. What we don’t use for breakfast, we’ll use at lunch.” She nodded toward a bin at the side. “They’re in there.”
    “What about a knife?”
    Cunningham turned slowly to stare at her. “You don’t have your own knives?”
    MG shook her head. Was this a trick question?
    “Do you even own a knife?” Cunningham’s mouth was pursed in a grimace.
    “I have some at home.” MG gritted her teeth. “What exactly are you looking for?”
    “A professional knife. One you can use in a kitchen without cutting your finger off by accident.” She brandished an eight-inch chef knife. “A knife , dammit. You need your own knife—hell, you need your own knife set.”
    “I can go out and buy something, I guess.” MG blew out a breath. Please God don’t let them be too expensive.
    “Groovy,” Cunningham snapped. “Go to K-Mart or someplace. You burn through knives in a kitchen. Here.” She reached across her counter and then turned back with a smaller chef’s knife, maybe six inches. “Use this. And don’t mess it up. Quarter-inch dice. You know how to chop an onion?”
    MG gritted her teeth again, nodding. You need the money, damn it.
    Cunningham folded her arms across her chest. “Show me.”
    MG turned back to the counter where a single yellow onion reposed majestically on the cutting board. She sliced it in two through the stem end, then pulled off the first onion layer along