The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

And finally, she laid out more than five different kinds of knives on the cutting board. The words that she said next would stay with Frida for the rest of her life.

“Frida, what is the most widely-spoken language in the world?” her mom asked her, cool as a cucumber. She reached into the cupboard and removed a big sack of plain flour, and began tipping some into a mixing bowl.

Frida had been quite taken aback. Whatever she’d expected, it certainly hadn’t been that.

“Uh,” she’d spluttered. “Is it-?”

Whatever Frida had been about to say never actually left her lips because that had been when her mother had interrupted her. She was still bustling about the kitchen but looked completely in her element.

She unwrapped a big block of butter, chopped off a huge knob, and flicked it into the bowl. “Let me stop you right there, Frida. I guarantee it’s not whatever you were thinking. It’s not English. It’s also not Spanish, or Arabic, or Portuguese, or Russian, or Mandarin. It’s none of those. I will admit, Mandarin Chinese is spoken worldwide by about one-point-two billion people, which is a huge amount, but the most widely-spoken language in the world is spoken on every continent, in every country, in every city and borough and county. Every village, every town, every street, every home. It’s spoken in the sun-bleached deserts of the Sahara, the creepy crawly-infested jungles of the Amazon, and the frozen white mountain range of the Himalayas. Everywhere. Can you guess what I’m referring to?”

Frida’s mom was now tipping a jug of thick white cream into the mixing bowl, and suddenly it clicked.

“Food,” Frida had almost whispered. The idea of food being a language shocked Frida, but as the words left her mouth she knew them to be true. No matter where people could be they could always come together over a decent meal.

“That’s exactly right.” Her mom nodded. “Food is the one language that unites all six billion people on this planet. It’s more than a means of sustenance, Frida.”

“Sussatense? What?” Frida blinked.

“Sustenance,” her mom corrected. “It means food or drink that gives you strength, or nourishment. Food is much more than just a way of staying alive. It’s a science, as much as physics is. When you freeze water, you get ice, that’s a physical change. It’s a science as much as chemistry is. When you cook an egg, it changes from yolky and runny to white and hard-boiled. That’s a chemical change.

“It’s as much an art as painting or drawing. I love food, Frida. And there’s never any shame in loving food. We should all love it more because it’s not just about the flavors. It’s about taking pride in anything that you do, anything that you care about.”

“But, Mom,” Frida had whined. “At school, they were calling me-”

“I don’t care what they were calling you!” Frida’s mom had said sternly. “There’s nothing wrong with your size. You’re a big girl, and someday you’re going to be a big, beautiful woman, and don’t you ever forget that. You can never trust a skinny chef, it means they don’t taste their dishes. And if they don’t taste their dishes, that means they don’t cook because they love it. Now. Crack this egg.”

She’d handed Frida an egg and looked at her expectantly. Frida had never cracked an egg personally, but she’d seen her mom do it plenty of times. Frida smashed the egg on the countertop and dropped the yolk right into her sock. She’d screwed up her face in frustration, but her mom had just laughed.

“Rule one of the kitchen,” she’d said imperiously. “Make a mess. The best scientists always blow up their laboratories, and that’s what this is. A lab.”

Frida’s mom picked up two more large eggs from the carton and cracked both of them, simultaneously, landing them perfectly in the mixing bowl. She began to whisk some fine, Caster sugar into the mix, then she added vanilla essence and cinnamon.

“Here,” she’d said finally, offering Frida a taste on her wooden spoon. “Rule two of the kitchen? Always taste your creations.”

Frida had tentatively tasted the creamy mixture and found it to be sweet, and fragrant, and quite delicious. She’d smacked her palette in delight, and grinned. “It’s good! What is it?!”

“And that’s rule three of the kitchen,” Frida’s mom said, snapping her fingers. “Under no circumstances should you ever, ever, ever know what you are doing.”

That day had been a turning point in little Frida Carter’s life. The day when she’d stopped seeing herself as frumpy, fat little Feeder, and Frida Carter, chef extraordinaire. But as she would find out later in life, cooking in the kitchen, and cooking out there in the real world are two very different worlds.

*****

And so Frida had applied for a job at L’Ultima Cena, at her earliest convenience. The sous chef there had said that they didn’t have any particular vacancies, but she could leave her resume with the Head Chef, and he’d get back to her.

Frida had been full of confidence that day on her way home. Once he read about her exquisite, cuisine-based background, of course, he would hire her! There could be no question, she was perfect for the role. Frida’s head was full of glorious anticipations about what kind of position she’d be offered first. She didn’t expect to get Head Chef straight away, of course, but her chances at being brought in as a commis, or a chef de partie, a line cook, were more than good. At least they were in her mind.

Forget counting chickens before they’d hatched, Frida was counting her chickens before she’d even brought the eggs home!

And so it was a blow to her hope and a pang of disappointment when she woke the next morning to find no calls, texts, or emails from L’Ultima Cena.

Maybe it’s in the mail! she suddenly thought. Of course! That was it! It made perfect sense, it was on its way. She breathed a sigh of relief and went about her day.

But over the next few days, still no news. As much as she hated to admit it, Frida was beginning to lose hope. And then, finally, it happened. She got a letter from the restaurant. Frida had recognized it immediately because it stood out in her stack of mail like a sore thumb. All her other letters were in white envelopes, with printed addresses, but the special letter looked several hundred years out of place!

The envelope was much closer to manila in color, almost the color of a typical pirate’s treasure map, and it had been sealed with hot wax, just like they did in the Olden Days. Frida personally thought it was a nice touch, it added to the homely feel that she got from the restaurant. When she cracked the seal open, unfolded the slip of paper and read what was written there, her face split into an ear-to-ear grin.