Chapter 7
As we walked down the department’s echoing metal steps, dizziness assaulted me. I grabbed the metal railing, which was shockingly cold. Or was it really hot? Hard to tell.
I told myself that grabbing something hot should remind me of … a delectable dish, something hot from the oven, its crumbly crust steaming, its fruit filling sizzling.… I stopped and closed my eyes.
The last time I’d burned my fingers had been when a pot holder had slipped, and I’d inadvertently grabbed the copper side of a hot tarte tatin mold. Straight from the oven, the tarte’s luscious, bronzed apple slices had bubbled and popped around the edges of a circle of buttery, impossibly flaky pastry. To compound the injury to my burned finger, a few drops of scalding caramelized juice had oozed out of the pan
