Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (32 page)

I know it was impolite of me, but I rolled my eyes.

However, Johnny’s visit started me thinking about cooking for some reason, and I decided to surprise my family with a creation of my own that evening. After all, during my last class at the Salvation Army, I had created, with my own two hands and the help of that cooking booklet published by the Fleischmann Yeast Company, a lovely egg-and-pea castle. So I set about to surprise my family with an egg-and-pea castle of their very own.

I ought to have known better.

When I carried my creation to the dinner table, flushed and embarrassed, only Pa spoke at first.

“
Um . . . what’s that, Daisy?”

I heaved an enormous sigh. “It’s called eggs and green peas,” I said sheepishly. “It’s a recipe out of that book Johnny gave me.”

“
Ah,” said Billy. Then he lifted his napkin to his lips. I knew he was trying not to laugh, curse him.

As luck would have it, Sam was dining with us that evening, too, so my humiliation wasn’t limited solely to the family, who were more or less accustomed to my cooking catastrophes.

Vi said, “Um . . . I think you might have fried the croute a little too long, Daisy.” She hurried to add, “Not that it doesn’t look delicious.”

It didn’t look delicious. And I’d burned the croute to something only slightly less crumbly than ashes. I stared at the disaster in my hands. “I don’t think I cooked the eggs long enough, either.” In truth, I
knew
I hadn’t cooked the eggs long enough, because the yolks were still runny when I sliced them. I let the drippy parts drain into the sink.

“
Well, it’s still lovely of you to do this for us, Daisy,” said Ma, who was cheerful under most conditions, even this one, bless her.

Sam shrugged. “Might as well give it a try.”

So I served him a tiny portion of my eggs and green peas, along with a slightly-less-burned-than-the-rest slice of croute. As I watched him, I saw his mouth pucker. He, too, lifted his napkin to his mouth, but I think it was because he aimed to spit my masterpiece into it.

I must have looked terribly worried, because Vi hastily took a tiny bite, too. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed, then reached for her water glass and swigged a large amount therefrom. Then she looked at me.

“
Daisy. . . .”

She didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I knew that expression well. I sighed. “What else did I do wrong?” I asked with a sense of defeated resignation that bowed my shoulders and brought tears to my eyes.

“
Well . . . are you sure you used flour in the cream sauce?”

That brought my head up in a flash. “Yes! Well . . . I think I did, anyway.”

Vi smiled kindly. “Daisy, you’re a wonderful girl, and we all love you dearly, but I honestly don’t think cooking is your strong suit.”

Heck, I’d known that for years.

“
I do believe you used baking soda rather than flour in your cream sauce, dear.”

I stared down at the plate full of burned croute, mushy peas, undercooked eggs and inedible cream sauce. Then I heaved one last sigh and picked the platter up again. “I’ll just go and toss this out.”

All I can say is that it was a darned good thing we had Aunt Vi to cook for us. If my family had relied upon me for nourishment, we’d all have starved.

About the Author

Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico. She’s not a UFO enthusiast; she’s in Roswell because her mother’s family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Since her two daughters live in California, where Alice was born, she’d like to return there, but can’t afford to. Alice would love to hear from you at
[email protected]
. And be sure to visit her Web site: http://www.aliceduncan.net.