Read Julia's Child (9781101559741) for Free Online Page B

wiped her hands dry on her apron and then pulled a colorful page from a Kinko’s envelope. “Julia’s Child Sold Here!” There was a pretty photo of our packaging. But I also saw a small inset photograph of me cuddling Wylie against the leafy backdrop of the playground.
    I blinked. “My picture? Where’d you get that?”
    â€œLuke,” she said breezily. “The colors work—don’t you think?” She admired her work. “Green words, green trees, green product. Green mommy. Save the world. Get it?” She pulled on a hairnet.
    â€œSubtle,” I said. I wasn’t sure about having my picture pasted up in store windows, but I had to admit that it was a punchy document.
    Marta cracked her gum at me. “Where’s your flyer, then?”
    â€œIt looks great, Marta. It’s perfect. Do you think any of the stores will object to putting our signs in their windows?”
    â€œI don’t plan to ask permission,” Marta answered, pulling on her latex gloves. “I’m going to tell them you’re sending a hundred new customers their way.”
    From across the room, we heard a shriek. “Ay! You no can put in there! You stink up my churros with your stinky pickles!” Lila, of Lila’s Churros, was hollering at Bob, of Bob’s Old-Fashioned Garlicky Dills.
    More than three hundred years into its history, the Brooklyn melting pot was still going strong. Most of the entrepreneurs who used the Cucina made ethnic specialty foods, selling the flavors of home to their countrymen. Aside from Lila and Bob, we’d worked alongside producers of Brazilian empanadas, Polish pierogi, and Indian chutneys.
    Marta and I were the only ones cooking for the toddler nation. We always got along well with the others. But tonight’s skirmish was repeated often enough—a familiar UN standoff over refrigerator space.
    Lila looked in our direction for support. “You see he do this? Put garlic pickles in with churros?”
    â€œI’ll move ’em!” Bob roared. “Just quit yer hollerin’.” He poked around in a neighboring refrigerator, rearranging things.
    â€œBut I have to make all over again! Churros taste like garlic now!” Lila looked ready to weep.
    I trotted to their end of the kitchen. “Let me taste one, Lila. I’ll bet they weren’t in there together long enough to cause a problem.” She handed me one of the delicate cinnamon-flavored donuts, and it melted in my mouth. “Fine,” I told her. “Not a whiff.”
    â€œI’d better taste it to be sure,” Marta said from the other end of the room.
    I broke off a piece of my churro and walked back toward Marta. “Lila,” I said. “Watch this.” I tossed the piece toward Marta, who caught it in her mouth like a trained seal, all without breaking her rhythm with the apple peeler.
    Lila’s eyebrows went up in surprise. She forgot her anger and smiled.
    â€œÂ¡Muy bien! Delicioso,” Marta declared. “Toss me another bite,” she demanded. I turned my back to her and tossed it over my head. I heard Lila gasp with surprise when Marta caught it. It was just one of my assistant’s strange skills. Once, I’d nearly choked to death on a grape while trying to imitate her.
    â€œNice light touch with the cinnamon,” Marta complimented the chef.
    â€œGracias,” said Lila happily.
    â€œSee, I ain’t such a bad guy,” hollered Bob from his corner of the kitchen. We ignored him.
    â€œSo all this cheese is for muffets?” Marta asked me, getting back to business.
    â€œDouble batch,” I explained. “Ms. Aranjo mentioned them specifically in my introduction at Park Slope Parenting. Her son loves them.”
    â€œLet’s hope he’s hungry,” Marta grumbled.
    â€œHa. After these, we’re going to make the Carrot and Black Bean Muffets, and if there’s time,