Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (2 page)

Aunt
Muriel, on the other hand, invested in diamonds: specifically engagement
rings.  Aunt Muriel married well and divorced better, more than once.  This
last time she has remained single, much to Uncle Max’s chagrin, considering
their prenuptial agreement.

What
this all means is that I’m the guarded offspring while Ma lives in Jersey and Aunt Muriel paves my way in the land of the Amish, where she moved with poor old
Uncle Max.  Here’s to lucky seven.

Anyway,
I’m glad to help with the Brethren Breakfasts, especially since this also keeps
my catering disorder at bay.  Although I don’t usually attend church services,
unless Aunt Mu makes me.  I usually attend Sunday brunches, with a preference
toward New York Times denominations.

Unfortunately,
last Easter combined both church and brunch.  Since it was my first new
homeowner holiday with Ma visiting, I got excited about making brunch for Ma
and Mu after Easter services.  So I got a little nervous – which was probably
why I made enough Chicken Divan crepes to feed a small army, accompanied by
mandarin orange and bamboo shoot salad.  And Waldorf salad.  And a fruit tart. 
And chocolate mousse in phyllo flowers.   And a seven-layer Peach Melba torte. 
With some Easter egg truffles, Jordan almonds and gourmet jellybeans on the
side.  By the time Ma and Mu got to the jellybeans, they formed a newly united
front designed to make my walls tasteful and dial down my catering disorder. 
They signed me up for the monthly Brethren Breakfasts:  my menu mania would be
used for the common good.  I also got enrolled in an alternating
swatch-of-the-week club.

“I
did forget,” I admitted to Vito, looking at the little pieces of fluff and seed
hulls in my eggs, “but I’ll be there.”

“7:00,
you know.” He stared at me. 

“I
know, I know.” Happy hour tonight wouldn’t be very happy knowing I’d have to
get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning.  But culinary curiosity always
gets the better of me, and I go.

There’s
a fierce competition between First Meth and St. Bart’s.  First Methodist
sponsors the first Saturday of the month for the breakfast, St. Bartholomew
does the third.  The breakfasts are held at the neutral zone of the downtown Unitarian Church.

The
Brethren Breakfast (or Breakfast Wars, as I call them) began innocently enough
with some friendly competition about protein-packed breakfasts for the needy. 
Since then it’s escalated into a full blown rivalry that comes loaded with lots
of pork and dairy by-products.  If it escalates any further, the winning church
will be the one responsible for creating the most new Heavenly memberships
caused by arterial blockages.

Those
who volunteer for either camp quickly learn you are not simply called upon to
serve: you are enlisted in an all-out cholestoric war.  I let myself get
assigned as principal egg slinger, in the hope that the volume of eggs I cook
for others will eventually displace what I cook alone.  I read somewhere that
people who are on serious diets allow themselves a favorite dessert once in
awhile as a reward.  So, once a month I scramble eggs for 225 people or so.   I
also limit my grocery trips to last just 18 minutes.  I figure I can’t cook
what I don’t have.

I
told Vito I’d be there, and offered to drive him.  “Thanks anyway, Cookie,” he
said.  “But I gotta do some errands before I do the breakfast.”    Errands? 
What kind of errands does anyone besides Farmer Brown run before 7:00 a.m. on
Saturday morning?

I
gave Marie some of my seed-encrusted eggs, poked around the burnt kielbasa and
onions and swigged some ginger ale.  Then the doorbell rang.  Marie shrieked
and threw her seed cup upside down.  Vinnie stuck both paws out from under the
basement door and rattled the door — BANG-BANG-BANG.  Marie sent up more
hysterical fluff.  I walked down the hall shaking my head, opened the front
door and gasped to see Evelyn DeSantos.

Evelyn
DeSantos heads the Breakfast Wars.  Evelyn whips up the troops to maintain the 
frenzied rivalry between both denominations.  Some call her Evil-yn, but only
if they’re sure she’s visiting her grandkids out of state.

“Come
on in,” I said carefully.

She
stepped in with all the due caution one should muster toward my Disney-puked
walls.  “Just for a minute,” she said, with an askance glance at my electric
blue hallway with silver and pink wallpaper borders.   Then again, it might not
have been the walls: most of her glances usually seem kind of askance because
she draws her eyebrows on herself.  On good days, she looks like a demented
French child ran amuck with a marker. But at least they match her black helmet
hair. Today Evelyn’s eyebrows sported a cynically bemused look: her right
eyebrow arched up, and her left eyebrow sloped down.

Both
Evelyn and her eyebrows took in the hallway and smiled at me.  I smiled back
and wished I had a pot of something to stir.

“Hey,
Evie,” Vito said, sauntering into the foyer, holding a spatula in one hand and
his beloved Swiffer pad in the other.  “How’s tricks, kid?” Vito sparkled his
senior vintage savoir-ick. I shuddered. But Evelyn was made of stronger stuff.

“I
came by for my package, Vito, but I didn’t find you at home,” Evelyn said.  “I
recalled Wilhelmina was your neighbor.  When I saw her door open I thought I’d
ask her to remind you.  I do need it before the breakfast tomorrow.” She smiled
and raised her eyebrows, but they waved in opposite directions and scared even
Vito.  I cringed.  Vito was clearly out of his depth.

“Sure,
Evie, sure; I was plannin’ on gettin’ it to yous tomorrow morning.  I was just
tellin’ Mina here I had some errands to run before the breakfast tomorrow, and
yous is one of them.” Vito smiled enthusiastically, showing off spaces where
his molars ought to be.

“I
will be seeing you both for the Brethren Breakfast in the morning,” Evelyn
commanded.

Vito
and I exchanged glances and gulped.  I was really glad Vito had reminded me.
I’d have been a goner otherwise.

“No
worries, Evie,” Vito said.  I smiled and nodded.  Evelyn nodded and left.  I
didn’t hear a car start up or drive away, so I figured she re-mounted her broom
and left. Vito and I exhaled.

“Ya
know, I never mind helping a body out,” Vito said.  “But this breakfast thing
Evelyn has with First Meth is going a little over the top.”

“Ditto. 
Even for me.”

“She’s
already got me buying her six hams.  And now it ends up I also gotta cook three
of them, because there’s not enough room in the church ovens, with the sausages
and bacon and casseroles and all.” Vito looked at me nervously.    “Ya don’t
think Evie’s got somethin’ special up her sleeve for this week, do yous?”

“Fastnacht
French toast?” I ventured.

Vito
looked at me.  “Fastnacht?”

“You
know,” I said, “the fatty donuts they sell right before Lent.”

“Oh,”
Vito said thoughtfully.

I
pondered, then mused aloud, “Actually, if Evelyn wants to be super authentic,
she’ll make sure they’re homemade Fastnachts, made from potato dough with lard,
fat and butter and cut into squares.” I paused, then added:  “And, of course,
dusted with confectioner’s sugar.”

“Huh,”
Vito replied. “We better be on our toes next Spring,” he said.

Just
then the basement door rattled with the force of what I guessed was Vinnie’s
head or a lion-sized battering ram.  Marie shrieked. “Guess Vinnie wants out of
the basement,” Vito said.  “Ya can’t blame the fella.  It’s all sunny and
bright outside and he’s stuck down there.”

Normally,
Vinnie hangs out in the basement until I put Marie upstairs at lunchtime.  Then
he trots upstairs and hangs out, until eventually he falls asleep on his side
of my bed.  Some nights I end up sleeping too, when he’s not snoring or talking
in his sleep.

Vito
was right.  Even though the lights were on for Vinnie, I’d felt guilty about
this for a while.  I checked the time and was my usual late.  “C’mon, Marie,” I
said, lugging her cage upstairs.

I
got Marie tucked in ‘her’ bedroom, and the phone rang.  Again.

“I
can get it for you,” Vito yelled.

“Thanks,”
I yelled back, closing the door to Marie’s room and heading downstairs.

“Well
of course, Muriel, I remember yous too,” Vito said. He smiled with his
bridge-free grin into the kitchen phone, receiver to his ear, Swiffer hand
resting on his hundred pound hip.  He was the vision of domesticity.  “Yes,
ma’am, Mina’s right here.”  He handed the phone to me.

“Mina? 
It’s Aunt Muriel,” the godmother said.

Aunt
Muriel usually calls on Fridays, to help steer my weekend social life.  As a
result, I’ve rubbed shoulders with many of Lancaster’s elite – mostly
retired.   “I wanted to remind you about the breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Were
they really this short-handed?  “Yes, I know; Vito and Evelyn reminded me,” I
said.

“Oh,
good.” Aunt Muriel sounded pleased.  “And I have some new paint swatches for
you, dear, so I’ll bring them with me.  Remember, Sunday we’re having brunch
after church. And then we’re off to polo,” Aunt Muriel sang off.

I
hung up and sighed.  Apparently I would be attending at least one church
service before Christmas.  Well, my weekend plans were made.

I
looked up at the clock and counted.  If I drove at 45 mph through the 25 mph
streets back to work, and got all green lights, I’d at least make it into the
parking garage sort-of-maybe on time.

I
opened the door to the basement and Vinnie sprang out and stretched his 48-inch
long torso.  I put his bowl and a box of Kitty Cookies on the counter while he
stood up on his back legs, placed his front paws on top of the counter, and
peered into his empty bowl.  “Maw-wuphf!” he said.

“I
know you want more.  It’s coming, it’s coming,” I muttered.  Yeeshkabiddle.

“Man,
he sure is a big cat,” Vito said.  He always says this when he sees Vinnie. 
Which is a lot.  “Ya sure he’s not some kind of special cat, like Maine Coon or
somethin’?”

“Mainly
mountain lion,” I replied.  I emptied a handful of treats on top of Vinnie’s
Kitty Cookies and presented his normal lunch to him.  Vinnie replied with his
usual, “Oh-kahyyye!”  I put the bowl down on the floor, hollered my farewells
and hurried out.

I
was just getting into the van when Vito came running down the driveway after
me.  “Hey, you almost forgot!” he said, holding his gym bag full of dirty
dry-cleaning.  He was right.  I had forgot.  No wonder people were always
calling to remind me about stuff.

He
tossed the bag on the front seat next to me.  “Sorry, Vito,” I said.  He gave
me a ‘fugheddaboudit’ wave and I started to take off.  I hoped that old ladies,
strollers and excitable squirrels stayed off the streets until I got back to my
desk.

I
drive a dull brown Dodge Caravan, a vehicular hand-me-down from my sister Ethel
and her husband Ike.  Before the van, which I dubbed The Doo-doo, my ’90 Ford
Escort gasped its last fumes as it entered the slow lane, just past the
entrance ramp near Nutley Street on Route 66, during a visit to Ethel and Ike
in Northern Virginia.  That night I had my 15 seconds of fame on the 10 o’clock
news.  Apparently I had single-handedly backed traffic up into downtown DC as
well as Route 29 until 8 o’clock that night.  At the time, I was more than
happy to accept the offer of a used, reliable vehicle.  The price – free – was
right and the timing was perfect.  Even if it was a poop brown van.

My
driveway has the approximate pitch and slope of Mt. Everest, so it’s a matter
of habit while undoing the emergency brake to double-check my rearview for
neighbors’ cars and smartass kids.  But what to my wandering eyes should appear
but a galumphing Great Dane and Mr. Perfect, in his baseball cap reading, ‘John
Deere’?

Okay,
he was wearing more than a cap.  But not much more.  Tanned torso, cut-off jean
shorts and the dopey John Deere baseball cap.  A minus 4 for the baseball cap
but a definite plus-plus-plus for the abs and the rest.  I’d seen him before,
of course, in one of my more memorable feminine moments hauling my new
second-hand club chair out of the back of the Doo-doo.  The chair is not a
heavy piece of furniture, but it probably made me look like Amazon Woman
picking it up all by myself.  And of course at the time I was sporting a
sweat-drenched T-shirt, soggy pony-tail and no makeup.  I also bonked my noggin
getting out of the van. (Luckily, I didn’t pass out or get concussed.)

By
the way, I’m a forty-something and sometimes pass for a
less-than-forty-something on my happy days or in dark piano bars.  I have
shoulder-length mousy brown hair that is thick and straight and without any
noticeable amount of grey.  I’m also considered to be exceedingly tall by
vertically challenged boyfriends: I’m 5‘10” in my stocking feet.  In the spirit
of boyfriends past,  please do not insert basketball player jokes here.  I’m
also slightly accident prone which, combined with my kitchen addiction, is
generally not a good mix.

Mr.
Perfect saw me staring at him in the rearview mirror. I wiggled a ‘hello’ with
my fingers, and he and Marmaduke loped off.  Why, oh why, does any female
stumble across her Mr. Perfect at the wrong time?  Like when we’re not perfect?
I sighed.  And then I burped.  Vito’s lunch hadn’t done much for me except
sabotage my insides.  The botched opportunity to chat up Mr. Perfect was also
not very settling.  Urrrp.