Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (7 page)

At
last, I grimaced. “Okay, Vito, here’s the deal.”

“Yeah!”
he said, patting my shoulder in thanks.

“Okay,
I’m not really in a position to drive right now, what with my foot hurting and 
drinking wine and Tylenol,” I said, emptying my glass into the planter next to
me.

Vito’s
brow furrowed. “Okay.” Clearly he was worried about the sobriety of my zinnias.

“So
I’ll pick up your laundry, but I can’t drive there.  You’d have to drive me
there.  And by the way, since you’d already be there, wouldn’t it make more
sense for you to just be polite to Mrs. Phang and pick up your own dry cleaning?” 
Ha.

“No!
No! No! Mrs. Phang hates me! She’ll put scorch marks in my best shirts!” Vito
whined.  I could totally empathize with his fear of Mrs. Phang. And ironing.  I
hadn’t ironed a piece of clothing since 1982.

“Okay,
look, I’ll do it but you gotta get me there.  And back,” I added.

“Sure,
sure, sure, Toots,” he said.

I
limped inside while Vito retreated.   I turned off Tom Waits, put my raincoat
on over my jammies and gimped out of the house and into Vito’s Towncar.  On the
ride into town I readied myself to be dropped off in front of Lickety-Split
Laundry.  But Vito drove right past it, and parked in the lot near Central
Market.

“Vito,
don’t you want to drop me off in front of the cleaners, and not a block away?”
I asked.

“Ummm.
No. I can’t.  On account of Mrs. Phang knows what my car looks like and I’m
afraid she’ll close up early once she sees it. She’s done it before,” Vito
mumbled.

I
wasn’t buying it.  “Vito, let me get this straight.  You’re so afraid of Mrs.
Phang that it’s okay for me to limp around the block with a sore foot and your
dry cleaning because you’re afraid she’ll hurt your laundry?”

Vito
gulped. “Yep.”

“Here’s
a little clue: MAYBE IT’S TIME TO USE A DIFFERENT DRY CLEANER!” I glared at
him.

Vito
gulped and looked down and started the car.  “Uh, maybe you’re right, Toots…
sorry… didn’t realize your foot hurt you so bad,” he mumbled apologetically.

Hrumph,
I thought.  Vito pulled up in front of the cleaners, gave me the cleaning
ticket and I gimped inside.  Mrs. Phang was waiting for me, adorned with one of
her best sneers.  “Why he park here? What he want?” she snapped.

I
was in no mood.  “This!” I answered, equally as snappy, slapping the cleaning
ticket on the counter.  Mrs. Phang jumped back a bit.

“No
need shout,” Mrs. Phang sulked, and she disappeared into the back room.  I
heard her rummaging for Vito’s shirt amidst a lot of Vietnamese expletives. 
Then she returned with the usual shirt box and handed it to me.  I took it and
stared at her.  “I know, I know, he regular customer, he pay by check.” 
Yeeshkabiddle.

Mrs.
Phang nodded brusquely, folded her arms and stared at me.  “You go home, you
put on cream!  Get rid of rash!” she advised with a shout.

I
stepped out of the building and walked over to the curb where Vito’s car had
been idling.  Except neither Vito nor the Towncar were anywhere in sight.   I
rolled my eyes and wanted to do a Mexican hat dance on his shirt box.  But I
figured that would hurt my sore foot more, so I calmly slammed the box against
a nearby lamppost.  Something rattled from inside it.  Great.  It sounded like
I’d knocked all the buttons off his shirts.  I stood on the corner in my
raincoat and jammies, leaning on the lamppost, watching all the tourists pass
by.

Just
then Vito pulled up to the corner and waved at me to hurry into the car.

“Where’d
you go?” I asked, sliding into the car as Vito sped away from the curb.  “What
are you in such a hurry for?”

“Sorry,
Toots. I was afraid I got spotted by a traffic cop and didn’t want to risk a
ticket.  I just drove around the block,” Vito said.   I held on to the box and
closed my eyes.  When I opened them again we were parked in Vito’s driveway. 
“Thanks again, Mina,” Vito said.

“No
problem,” I lied, handing him the box and getting out of the car.

Vito
put the car back into gear and waved goodbye to me.  Boy, he must be in a
hurry.  He didn’t even bother to change into the shirt he made me pick up for
him.  Huh.

I
opened the door and Vinnie greeted me by rolling on his back and demanding a
belly rub.  I threw my raincoat over the railing and picked off a mousie toy
that was stuck to his belly in more marshmallow gunk.  I padded into the
kitchen and peered into the fridge to see what might be playing for dinner.  It
looked like I was fully stocked with condiments but no food to wear them. 
Thinking pizza delivery sounded pretty good, I scrounged around for the phone
book.  Phone book in hand, I called PizzaNow! and ordered a medium white skinny
pizza with onions, green peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms and anchovies.  Things
were looking up.

The
pizza arrived, and I settled down to a pizza orgy for one and watched Stand Up
Comic-palooza with a fresh Mug O’Merlot, sans birdie doo-doo.  At a commercial
I went upstairs and gave Marie some pizza crust.  Then I settled back downstairs
on the sofa.  The last thing I remember was Vinnie curled up next to me on the
floor, snuggling my hand
.

CHAPTER 3

(Sunday)

I
woke up
on the
sofa to Vinnie snuffling inside the pizza box and a Family Cook-Along rerun.  
I scooped Vinnie’s head out of the box and petted him.  He felt lumpy.  I
looked closer.  A piece of pizza crust was stuck to him.  Vinnie scooted away
and ran into the basement.  I got up, washed the gunk from my fingers and made
some coffee.   I poured a cup, lifted it to my lips and glanced at the clock.
And then I gasped and spat the coffee back out again. It was 9:50 a.m.  I was
supposed to meet Aunt Muriel at church at 10:30.  And for brunch afterward. And
the polomathingy after that.  Ack. Ack. Ack.

I
grabbed some paper towels and swiped at the mess on the floor.  At least Vito
would have something different to Swiffer today.  I threw some Kitty Cookies in
Vinnie’s bowl, and started quickly upstairs when my foot complained.  I told it
to report to Customer Service.  I climbed the rest of the steps, fed Marie and
got in the shower.  A few nanoseconds later I was out again, wet, purple and
red. There was a dull throb in my foot.  My face glowed a shiny bright pink. 
And my eyes were still bloodshot.  I shrugged.  I figured I’d wear Auntie’s
sunglasses again.  I pulled on a light-blue sleeveless linen dress and cute
spikey white sandals, throb or no throb.  I pulled my wet hair up into a
quickie French braid, patted on some foundation, and finished with some
lip-gloss.  With any luck I might pass for sun-poisoned.

I
dashed downstairs, grabbed my purse and stepped into the oven otherwise known
as my van.  I started the engine, regretting the non-working AC.  I remoted the
garage door open and lead-footed it down the driveway.  I looked in my rearview
and realized I’d almost smooshed Mr. Perfect flat on the curb, along with his
Dinasouris Muttis.  There he was again, greeting me in another moment of my
time-challenged hysteria.  Sporting his usual tanned torso under a white t-shirt. 
His hair was freshly washed and he wore a new, somewhat pissed off look.  I
waved a little in the rearview mirror at him, to which he shook his head and
loped off with his hound.   I leaned my head on the steering wheel and sighed. 
When I looked up, I saw Vito ambling toward my car all gussied up in his Sunday
best: a powder blue leisure suit and white patent leather Pat Boone shoes. 
Good grief. We not only matched; we looked like we were going to the prom
together.

“Hiya,
Toots, you leaving for St. Bart’s? Can I hitch a ride?” he asked.

I’d
never seen Vito at a church service.  Then again, I’m not a regular.

“Sure,”
I shrugged.  “Hop in.”

“Boy,
I sure hate walking into a service all by myself.”

I
glanced at him and noticed he’d lost his bridge again.  But I was proven wrong:
we hit a red light.  While we waited for it to turn green, he reached into his
blazer pocket, withdrew his bridge and slipped it into his mouth.  Then the
light turned green.   I floored it.  I was determined not to stop at any more
red lights with Vito or his teeth.

I
parked the van on Mulberry and we walked toward church.  Or really Vito walked
and I limped behind, my foot barking at my cute spikey sandals.

Mulberry
Street was a picture perfect slice of Americana on a hazy Sunday morning.  Just
the quiet hum of cars passing, cicadas, and someone washing breakfast dishes.

“You
wanna sit together?” Vito bellowed shyly.

“Sure,”
I said, “but we have to look out for Aunt Muriel.  I’m supposed to meet her.”

“Oh,
hey, that’s great!” Vito smiled enthusiastically.  Somewhere in the dim
recesses of my ancient love-life, I vaguely recalled this was what attraction
smelt like.  Vito was oozing something very much like this at the mention of
Aunt Muriel’s name.  Huh.

We
headed into church and scoped out Aunt Muriel.  I walked down the aisle and
tapped her on her shoulder.  She slid over, while I offered Vito first dibs to
sit next to Auntie.  Aunt Muriel’s eyebrows flew to the ceiling and she pursed
her lips together into an asterisk.  Vito responded by flashing his
game-show-host-with-bridge-in grin at her.   I sat at the end of the pew and
pretended to memorize the hymnal.  But maybe things were looking up.  My foot
hurt a bit less, and my eyes felt adjusted.  I took Auntie’s sunglasses off. 
Maybe I didn’t look like I had eyeball aneurysms anymore.  Vito tapped me on my
arm.  I looked over, and saw Auntie waving at me to put her sunglasses back
on.  I put them on.

We
went through the service with some confusion, which is typical for Episcopalians
and visitors alike.  We quickly realized poor Vito was a visitor.  I tried to
explain the Prayer Book vs. Hymnal vs. Contemporary Hymnal vs. Weekly Insert,
nudging him when to pick up his hymnal, put his knees down, put his right foot
in, put his right foot out, that’s what Salvation’s all about.  The Eucharist
began, and eventually it was our turn to walk up to the altar.  I stood up and
let Vito and Auntie out of the pew.  Vito got ahead of us, but I figured we’d
catch up.  I shrugged at Aunt Muriel and she smiled her thin-lip look back at
me.  We shuffled up the aisle and took our turn to kneel – Vito, me, and Aunt
Muriel.

The
first pass with the Host went okay, with Vito starting the lineup. Then the
chalice with the Blood of Our Lord was offered to Vito.  Instead of gently
guiding it to his lips, Vito grabbed hold and gulped it all down.  Aunt
Muriel’s jaw dropped. I stared in amazement.  I’d never seen anyone like tawny
port that much.

Once
the chalice was wrested back from Vito’s fervent grasp, there were a lot of
blank looks.  While we were one of the last pews up to bat, there was still a
line of people waiting to partake of the Eucharistic feast, which meant sharing
the One Cup.  Except that Vito had chugged it.

Suddenly
the organist whipped up a Toccata, and vamped for sacramental wine time.  This
allowed for some new wine to get blessed asap.  Tawny port might be getting a
new claim to fame in the Episcopalian church.  “We bless no wine before its
time.”  Yup.  It was eleven-thirty.

We
kneeled for a while and waited for the sacramental backup to appear.  Vito was
polite enough to hang around kneeling with those of us who remained dry.  New
wine appeared, got poured into the chalice and was offered to the start of the
line, beginning with Vito.  Which was probably why Aunt Muriel reached across
me and snapped it out from underneath his nose, and took a big swig.  Just to
be polite and not have Auntie look a little alcoholic, I took a big gulp too. 
What the heck – the worst anyone could accuse us of was being thirsty.

We
ambled back down and through the chapel.  Vito pulled me aside.  “What are
these little candles for?” he asked.  I explained.  “Oh.  Well, then I’m gonna
light a candle here, for my sainted wife, Marie,” he explained, a little misty-eyed. 
Poor guy.  He really missed his wife.  Either that or all that tawny port had
mellowed him out.

“Okay,”
I said, “you just put your offering in here, then light a candle.  And I’ll
hang around in case you get… lost.”  I wasn’t sure what other liturgical faux
pax Vito might commit, but I hoped he’d used up his quota for the morning.

“Right,
thanks, kiddo,” he said.

He
pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket.  I stood bug-eyed: the roll of dough
was big enough to choke an elephant.  Vito put a crisp, new one-hundred dollar
bill into the donation box.  Well, at least St. Bart’s could replace the port
he’d guzzled with that, and then some.  He lit a candle and bowed his head
while I hovered around him, just to be sure he didn’t set anything on fire.  I
stood, smiling limply as people tried to weave their way around Vito’s girth
and return to the sanctuary.

Once
Vito’s mumblings to the Almighty were done, he turned around and winked at me. 
I led Vito back down the aisle toward Aunt Muriel, who was on her knees,
muttering and shaking her head.  I hedged in ahead of Vito to kneel next to
Auntie this time, in case she forgot where we were and hit Vito in the pew.

The
service over and our handshaking with the vicar complete, we stood
uncomfortably between the church and the Fellowship Hall.  “Beauteous day!”
Vito beamed at Aunt Muriel.

“Yes,”
Aunt Muriel replied.

“Anyone
want coffee?  We can grab a cup in Fellowship Hall,” I asked and then felt Aunt
Muriel’s stilettoed heel stomp my hurt foot.  “OWWW!!!” I yelled.

“Really,
Mina!” she gasped. 

“You
pierced my foot!”  I said.

“Oh,”
she said.  “Beg pardon.”

“Hey,
yeah, some coffee would be great,” Vito said, and smiled.  “And maybe some ice
for your foot, huh, Toots?” he asked.  I nodded and Auntie and Vito ambled into
Fellowship Hall.  I limped behind.

Inside
there were some of the members of the Breakfast Wars, plus a few of the
enlisted kids.  Evelyn stood in the kitchen, supervising the coffee service
with her kinetic eyebrows.  Ernie loaded the dishwasher, minus his eyebrows. 
Norma and Ray put out some sweets, wearing their pressed best.  I looked and
realized the coffee hour snacks were mostly leftovers from yesterday’s
Breakfast Wars.  Lancaster folk must believe in the ‘waste not, want not’ thing
pretty intensely.  It was going to take me a long time to even think of serving
used food.

Ed
looked around in both directions at once, holding out a fresh pot of coffee and
waiting to pour.  But most people knew enough to wait until he set the pot down
and left.  You have to be kind of careful with Ed so you don’t get hot coffee
poured right next to you.  I spotted Henry holding a coffee mug with a
gauze-bandaged hand.   Huh. If I didn’t know better I’d say Henry’s hand was
pretty badly burned.  But maybe he had let Ed pour for him last week.

“Hey,
Henry,” I said.  “Missed you yesterday. Everything okay?” I asked.

Henry’s
face kind of paled.  “Oh sure, yes, thanks for asking,” he said, and then
smiled at someone across the hall and hurried away.

Someone
pinched my arm hard and I spun around and hurled my coffee smack into Aunt
Muriel’s chest.  “What the?” I asked too late, realizing Auntie had pinched me
to rescue her from Vito’s verbal clutches.  “Sorry, Aunt Muriel,” I said
lamely.

“Jeez,
Mina, you could have scalded your Aunt!” Vito puffed up in defense of his
afflicted object of affection. To Aunt Muriel’s mortification, he pawed at the
coffee stain in the middle of her chest with his handkerchief.

“Really,
really, I’m quite alright! Thank you all the same!” Aunt Muriel spluttered.  I
guess she wasn’t very happy about having her boobs blotted in public.

Aunt
Muriel grabbed Vito’s handkerchief and tucked it into her blouse like a
farmer’s wife settling down for a big Sunday dinner.  Except that Aunt Muriel
was definitely no farmer’s wife, and she looked pretty upset.   Even her
diamonds spluttered.  “Mina, I simply must go home and change.  I cannot go to
brunch like this.  And certainly not polo,” she finished.

“Pick
you up at your house?” I asked.

“Yes
please, dear,” she said, and whisked away, the edges of Vito’s handkerchief
fluttering past her like a veil.  I looked at Vito.  We shrugged and walked
back to my van.

We
began to sweat as soon as we were back in the Doo-doo.  As I started the van, I
re-wished I had working AC.   At the light on Walnut Street, I glanced at Vito
and saw orange sweat trickling down his neck, where it began to form a dark
brown line along his collar.  I looked closer.  Vito’s hair was melting. By the
time we pulled up my driveway, Vito’s liquid hair had started to dry, making
shoe polish lines around his jowls and neck.  I sighed inwardly.  I just didn’t
have the heart to tell Vito about his hair malfunction.  Or the time.  I had to
be on the other side of town at Aunt Muriel’s and then hightail it with her
back downtown for the brunch thingy.   But my foot ordered me to change shoes.

“I
guess you can’t come in for a minute, huh?” Vito asked.  I shook my head. “No
problem, Toots.  I just wanted a little female advice about decorating, that’s
all.”

Vito
smiled and got out of the van and waved bye-bye.  I sat still in amazement. 
Vito was asking the owner of Disney Puked Walls a la Hot Sauce stains for
decorating advice.  I wondered if his walls in his half of the duplex actually
looked worse than mine.

I
got out quick, walked inside and slipped in a puddle of kitty puke, falling
smack down on my keester.  Vinnie came trotting up from the basement and licked
my nose.  I shook my head, patted him and found a couple more marshmallows
stuck to him.  Then I saw some wet marshmallows in the puddle he’d left. 
Apparently Vinnie’s cleaning himself of marshmallow gunk wasn’t a good thing.

I
grabbed a few hundred paper towels and cleaned the floor.  I washed quick and
got rid of my dirty duds.  I stood in the bedroom in my underwear while Vinnie
rubbed against my shin and stuck.  There was still marshmallow glue on him. 
“Okay, buddy, that does it,” I said.  We trotted into the bathroom together. 
Vinnie stretched out on the bathroom floor belly up, and looked up at me. 
Apparently he didn’t want any more s’mores, either.