Next World Series , Ewing, K. [classic books for 12 year olds txt] 📗

heavy artillery right up our paved road from either direction.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “They will come, but we can pick their path if we’re lucky.”

“Exactly,” replied Mac. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page here.”

* * * *

That afternoon Joy and I picked the first tour, hoping to get some rest in the afternoon and visit with my parents and brother, knowing it would be a long time before we had another afternoon off.

Most main areas and structures looked nearly the same as when I was a kid, with a facelift here and there. I remembered something my grandfather would say, probably they all said it: “They just don’t make things like they used to.” I vowed to show my boys the campsite I made up on Green Mountain more than thirty years ago, with a rock fireplace I built with my own hands that had taken 30 harsh winters and still looked like it was built yesterday.

Everything here was like that—every building, from the Pavilion to the Chapel to the homes. It’s why this Valley hadn’t seemed to change for decades, always maintaining its rugged beauty.

It was a good place to call home growing up, and it was a good place now to raise our children. I wondered about the rest of our family as we walked the property. What of my father and siblings in Louisiana, or Joy’s mom on her ranch? The families of everyone traveling with us—what of them? Would they survive? Have they done so?

I snapped back into focus, with the canal being the last stop, warning the kids to stay far away.

“A man not long ago fell in on the front side of the canal siphon,” said the guide dramatically, “and got sucked underground only to barely survive and be hospitalized for more than a day.”

I knew the man, and he looked fine to me today, although he was the only one I ever heard of to come out the other side alive. But the boys were scared to death of it, and it was one less thing I hoped not to worry about.

We didn’t eat dinner in the Pavilion this night. Like most of us weary travelers, Joy, the boys and I stayed in, heating up a can of this or that and taking turns with the stoves. I was asleep by 9 p.m., a rarity back in the day unless reserved for sick days or an early bedtime following a romantic dinner with my wife.

* * * *

The sunrise woke me early but feeling refreshed and as close to a hundred percent as you can get, not having bathed for several days. Thanks to Mac’s generator magic, I did get my first almost-hot shower since I could remember. I awoke on the first real day of our new life. The first day at a new job, the first day back at school, or joining a sports team. It was all the same, but this time, the prize for doing a good job wasn’t my own parking spot, a Christmas bonus, or an A on my report card. It was a life—mine and everyone else’s. Those I called family, those I cared about, and those residing in this Valley that I had not yet met. This job was to be the hardest and most rewarding, next to being a father, that I’ve ever known. I couldn’t wait to get started.

* * * *

“You eat like this every morning?” I asked again, after yesterday’s breakfast.

“Yep—eggs over easy, a biscuit, ham or bacon, and oatmeal,” replied Mac.

“I’m pretty sure I’m never missing breakfast!” I announced.

“We can always use another chef-in-training,” called Rico, overhearing the conversation from across the room.

“I’ll check with our group; there may be some interest. I’ll bet my wife Joy would love to learn how you feed all these people every day.”

“We have systems. That is the secret,” said Rico.

“How do you do it?” I asked, genuinely interested. “I mean, I’ve heard of you from before. You were a big deal in food, I remember.”

“Well, thank you,” Rico replied, pulling up a chair. “Chefs are like musicians, I think. They all make music but the specifics are different.”

“What does that mean?” asked Lonnie, joining the conversation.

“The words, they are different. So are the instruments, the rhythm, the tone, vocals, and presentation, but at the end of the day they all make music. Everyone assumes I would go into a kitchen like Dirty Harry, just shooting a meal together with a random pinch of this and a dollop of that, and I know many chefs who can do it masterfully. I am not one of those but was blessed with a photographic mind. It helps in school—kind of cheating, really, when you can literally see in your mind’s eye what you already read; but for my work, it makes all the difference. I simply see a recipe for, let’s say, Linguine Bolognese or Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. I make it exactly as written and I tweak the recipe each time, always marking the exact changes. After a few experiments, I have the perfect recipe that could win a contest most anywhere in the world.”

“Then what?” I asked, surprisingly interested now, having never thought of cooking that way.

“That’s the easy part,” he continued. “Then I go into the next recipe and the one after that. Unless some scientist discovers a new ingredient or spice, there is no need to change the recipe once perfected. I repeated this for ten years in dive kitchens, and finally in high-end restaurants, before becoming an overnight sensation.”

“Isn’t that how fast-food burger joints do it?” asked Lonnie.

“The same concept, yes, but on a whole other level. ‘Chefs in training!’” he called out. “We have a challenge for tonight’s supper. We will make our best hamburgers, myself included, and see if