Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (42 page)

“Oh,”
I said.

“I
can bring some mixer over for you Saturday, on my way into work, if you want to
try it,” she offered.  I explained about getting roped into the NYC supper club
dinner thingy.   “Well, the massage is a good thing anyway, right?  And your
auntie’s paying for it, right?” Trixie reminded me.  Which was when I reminded
Trixie I’d have to be seeing Ma and Aunt Mu en Toga in front of the hot massage
dude.  “Oh,” she said.  I heard her light a cigarette and exhale. “I see what
you mean.  But the dinner should be fun?”

I
explained about being dubbed the chauffer.

“Well,
maybe you can bake a cake or something quick tonight, to take the edge off?  At
least you might not show up all hunched over tomorrow,” Trixie said.

I
told her about the impromptu brunch casserole, and discussed accompanying side
dishes. Trixie yawned.

“Sorry.
Not the company; just the hour.  Although I should be feeling awake now,” she
said.

“Yeah,
how come you’re calling me from home at night time?” I asked.

Trixie
yawned again.  “Split shifts.  Short on nurses; so they asked me to split my shift
Instead of working from three this afternoon until eleven tonight, I worked
seven until eleven tonight.  Then I go back in tomorrow morning to work seven
to three.”

“Ugh,”
I replied.

“Double
ugh,” she agreed.  “They also put me on call from three p.m. tomorrow until
seven.”

“Well,
at least you get to be in your own home before dawn for once.”

“Yeah.
Maybe I should get a pet…”

I
coughed and gently reminded her about her stint with the several hundred house
plants she’d installed last summer to create a faux-Solarium per instructions
published in Lancaster Life magazine.  All perished under her care within two
weeks, per K.‘s prediction.  “You have to pass the houseplant test first,” I
said.

“Damn,”
she said, “you’re right.  I forgot about those plants.”

“How
could you forget about palm trees?”

Trixie
exhaled another of what I imagined was a menthol flavored plume of
carcinogens.  “Which is exactly the point,” she said.  “I mean, you can’t ever
forget about a Fluffy or a Fido without some really major consequences,
right?”  I agreed. “Anyway, I don’t think your brunch delivery is a bad idea. 
Especially since your auntie’s paying for the massage party.  It’s the least
you can do, right?”

I
brightened a little.  My catering disorder might actually come in handy!

“Yeah,”
I echoed.

I
began rethinking my unplanned planned menu.  Suddenly the breakfast baked
casserole with one side dish seemed paltry.  I had to whip up something
memorable – like breakfast shish kabobs, or a fruit boat.  And maybe some
homemade biscuits and barbeque sautéed shrimp, wrapped in thinly sliced
something-fancy-I-had-to-figure-out-what-fast-because-I-had-no-proscuitto-on-hand.

I
said a hasty goodbye to Trixie.  She yawned.  “S’okay.” And she yawned again. 
“I gotta go sleep for a couple hours so I can wake up in a couple hours.”

“Call
me later,” I said.

She
said “‘kay,” over another yawn and hung up.

I
opened my cupboards and took out essential and non-essential ingredients. 
Which basically means that I panicked and sprawled everything out on every
available flat surface.

Within
a couple of hours, I’d whipped up breakfast crepes, a lovely  marinated seafood
salad, some Artisanal bread and a show-off of unexpected fresh local fare –
fresh peaches.  In short:

l
Spinach and
feta crepes with Parsleyed Newberg sauce

l
Shrimp, bay
scallop and mussel salad

l
Fast
Artisanal bread

l
Fresh
Lancaster-county peach and shortbread custard torte

l
Breakfast
casserole

l
Steak-fried
hashbrowns

I
pulled out my coolers and pre-loaded the ice packs and the food.  All I had to
do was get up in the morning.  I could heat everything at Auntie’s.  I loaded
the dishwasher with as many platters, mixing bowls, and anything else I’d
gunked up.  It began to hum happily.  I sighed in contentment.

I
made my rounds and turned the lights off.  The crickets chirped happily again
as I wandered upstairs in the dark.

I
checked in on Marie; she was snoozing to a blank TV screen.  I turned
everything off; told her nighty-night and quietly closed the door.  I looked
into my room.  Vinnie lay diagonally stretched across my bed with his paw over
his nose, snuffling peacefully.  I sighed, set the alarm and lay down on top of
the coverlet next to him.  There was no point in changing into jammies and
trying to crawl into bed.  I would have woken him up.  Besides, there was no
room.

The
alarm went off about at 7:00 a.m.  Which would have been fine, if I had gotten
up when it went off.  Unfortunately, repeatedly hitting the snooze button for
additional zzzs doesn’t make waking up on time a predictable activity.  I think
I hit the sleep button the first two times.  I recall Vinnie hitting it once or
twice, too.  But I’m not sure.  I was asleep.  Fast, fast, asleep.

CHAPTER 14

(Friday)

The
phone rang
.  It
was K.

“RISE
AND SHINE, MISS SCARLET!”  I held the receiver from my face like a day old
trout.  “TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY!”

“Huh?”
I replied intelligently.

“I’ve
rung GILL-I-ANNN!!”

“Gillian?”
I ventured, dipping a virtual big toe into K.’s frenzy.

“GILL-I-AN! 
Of the HUSH-HUSH New York supper club!!!”

My
mind rummaged feebly through the rank and file of stock excuses.  Nothing fit.

“Remember?
TOMORROW we will have our EXPERIENCE!!” K. squawked proudly. Crap. I thought
about travelling three hours in each direction in the Doo-doo.  Crap was a pretty
good description.

“Who
is ‘us all’?” I asked.

“Well
first, before I rang you – I know how grumpy you are first thing in the A.M.,
dearie,” K. teased, “Armand is coming.”

“You
mean they still haven’t put him back on weekends?” I asked.

“No,
the bat rastards.  But he feels the Supper Club is necessary professional
research,” K. replied matter-of-factly.  “And of course I thought to include
Ida and Walter, since Gillian’s invitation is for five.”

I
sat up.  “WALTER? YOU INVITED WALTER?” I asked hysterically.

Walter
is a very, very nice guy (he’s from Lancaster) and he’s also very, very large.
Walter is about 6’3” and weighs four thousand pounds.  So, unsurprisingly,
traveling with Walter can be … problematic.

“Well,
he rang me up and I was so excited about our news… I was just so eager to
tell someone… and he does appreciate a decent meal…”

K.
has a good heart.  I sometimes wonder what happened to his brains.

“K.
– if it’s not an ‘all you can eat’ you better make sure Walter’s well advised. 
You know, fed, beforehand.”

“Done.”

“The
Doo-doo doesn’t have A.C.”

“We’ll
open the windows.”

I
sighed thinking about the broken car window of my stinky van.  K. dove into the
silence of my non-response.  “Saturday, 2pm-ish; you pick me up.  Then we’ll
pick up Ida, then Walter.  We should get into the city about five-ish; perhaps
have a beverage?  Our reservations are for six-thirty!”

I
yawned.  “What time is it?” I asked lazily.

“Oh,
it’s not too early.  It’s just after nine.”

I
felt my scalp catch fire.  “Gotta go! Call ya later!”

I
slammed the phone down and launched myself off the bed.  Vinnie flew off beside
me and raced me for the stairs.  I checked the coolers – I was in luck, and
very glad I invested in the brand name coolers that everyone told me I didn’t
need.  I took care of Vinnie and Marie and threw myself into the bathroom for a
light speed shower.  Luckily, I landed softly.  After that I dressed and
quickly pushed my hair back into another wet pony tail.

I
ran across my front lawn and banged on Vito’s door to make sure hijacking his
car was okay.   He answered, wearing a fluorescent peach Hawaiian shirt,
electric blue shorts and holding a newspaper.

“Hey,
Toots,” he beamed, bridge fully in place.

“Hey,
Vito, mind if I borrow your car this morning?”  I asked.

Vito
sweated.  “Hold on, Toots,” he said, entering back into his secret lair and
leaving me out on the front porch.  I surveyed the damage
post-flaming-doo-doo.  The porch still had a freshly charred look to it.  And
smelled a bit like burnt doo-doo.  Pew.

I
stepped off Vito’s front porch and waited on his walkway.

Vito
finally stepped back out.  “Sorry for keeping you, Toots.” He beamed again.
This time his bridge was gone.  “I had to arrange for alternative
arrangements,” he explained.

“Oh,
of course you can borrow Vito’s car ANY-TIME!  We’re happy to help!” Miriam
beamed as she exploded out the front door after Vito, clad in her previous
evening’s getup with her turban slightly askew.  “Here, dearie.” Miriam smiled,
handing Vito his MIA bridge.

“Thanks,
Vito,” I said, running toward the safety of my garage.  I thought I heard a
distant “Toots,” in the background, but it was muffled by sound of Miriam’s
giggles and the slam of Vito’s front door.

I
started loading Vito’s car with the breakfast bounty. The phone rang.  I looked
at the clock, saw it was 10:15 a.m. and ignored the phone.  It was probably
Auntie.  I shrugged.  It was a massage party, right? So Auntie and Ma could go
first, right?

I
finished loading Vito’s Towncar, cranked up the AC and I flew across town like
a maniacal meals-on-wheels.

I
got to Auntie’s with one of Vito’s floor mats slightly worse for the wear after
baptism by salad dressing.  The rest of the tubs and platters were a bit askew
from the hairpin turns I inflicted, but otherwise they survived.  I hefted out
the first cooler, exceedingly proud of myself, and headed inside Auntie’s
house.

I
found Auntie, Ma and the massage guy sitting at Auntie’s kitchen table sipping
coffee and perusing various editions of Meals and Deals magazines.

“Uh,
hi,” I said brightly.

They
looked at me like as if I had Jell-O spouting out my nose.

“Picnic?”
the cute massage guy smiled at me.

Aunt
Muriel clapped her hand to her forehead.  “Mina, you didn’t!” she said, shaking
her head.

“She
can and she did,” Ma answered for me.  “What’s for brunch?” she asked.

“Brunch?
Hey, that’s great,” Massage Man beamed.

I
stared at him.  Pieces of the usual equation began to float toward the front of
my mind and summed together:  Gourmet cooking magazines + VERY good looking +
very, very nice must = gay.

I
shrugged and plunked the first cooler down.  “Thanks. I’ll be right back; I’ve
just got a couple more coolers in the car,” I said, retreating.

Massage
Man leapt up and was at my side in a culinary flash.  “Let me, please,” he
said, walking past me and opening the door to Vito’s car.

“Ah,
sure…” I said.

Before
I knew it, he had the two other coolers out, and was hefting them together
inside the house ahead of me.  Wow.  He could carry two coolers at one time. 
It was impressive.  And useful.  I looked down.  A half dozen prescription
sample boxes lay scattered at my feet, yelping for attention.  I scooped them
up, patted them, and put them back under the floor mats, locking the doors.

Massage
Man set the two coolers down on the kitchen floor, right next to where Ma was
unpacking the first cooler and spreading the contents out on the counters. 
Conversely, Aunt Muriel sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands.

“You
were just supposed to show up for a massage empty-handed,” she said.  “This was
supposed to relax you.”

 “I
know, Auntie, thanks,” I said, “but getting ready to get relaxed made me
really, really nervous, so I just made a little something to calm me down.”

Massage
Man coughed, put a hand to his mouth, and turned away. He turned back around,
shaking his head and smiling at me.  Again.  I stared at him.  He stared back
at me.  In the distant background I heard the theme from ‘Fistful of Dollars’
playing, accompanied by Ma shuffling plates and slamming things into the
microwave.

“Are
you making fun of me?” I demanded, hand on hip.

“Yes.”

I
huffed, and thought about high-tailing it out of there.  I didn’t want some
sarcastic massage mope putting his paws on me, congratulating himself that he
was relaxing me when all he’d accomplished so far was making me uptight.  And
losing another night’s sleep.

I
huffed again.  Aunt Muriel flew up and over the kitchen table and assumed
referee position.  “Mina, dear,” she began cordially, “this is James.  He’s
your masseuse this morning, dear.”

“I
remember,” I said, trying not to pout at him.  He smiled back brilliantly.

The
microwave binged.  Ma shuffled another plate inside and re-set it.

“James;
Mina. Mina; James,” Auntie continued.

“Not
Jim? Or Jimmy?” I asked, accepting his outstretched hand – and then only
because Auntie’s glare made me.

“No. 
James,” he replied, holding my hand in his cool, strong, smooth hand.

“Oh,”
I said, all noncommittal.

I
looked down.  He was still holding my hand.  Aunt Muriel looked flustered.  Ma
banged several more plates into the microwave.  We were still holding hands. 
That was about when I started blushing.

“So
very nice to meet you, uh, James,” I said, pumping his hand up and down.

“Brunch
is ready!” Ma shouted.

The
three of us looked over at the kitchen table.  Ma had the table set with four
places, and was working at fixing Bloody Marys at the counter.

“Muriel?”
Ma asked, pouring multiple shots of Vodka into glasses.

Aunt
Muriel surveyed the repast.  “Really, Lou, all I usually have for breakfast are
a few berries,” she said.

Ma
stared at her.  “Right then, this one’s yours,” she answered, pouring more
Vodka into Aunt Muriel’s glass.  “James?” Ma asked.

“Just
tomato juice, thanks.  I’m on the clock,” he said, smiling at me.

I
stared at him. I couldn’t stand it.  Way deep down, in his soft brown eyes, I
wondered if he was laughing at me, or did I have spinach in my hair?

I
heard Ma pouring out more shots and clinking ice cubes into glasses.  “All
ready,” she said, placing the various beverages on the table.

“Hey,
you didn’t ask me,” I said.

“That
one’s yours.” She pointed a finger at my place.  “Sit.”

“Woof,”
I answered and sat down and sipped.  And coughed.  My Bloody Mary looked a bit
anemic compared to the rest of them.  Apparently Ma had just waved the tomato
juice over my glass as a blessing.

We
ended our brunch on a much more congenial note than it began.  Mostly because
of the Bloody Marys, I suppose.  But maybe because I finally relaxed a bit.

“Well,
I suppose we better get started,” James said, politely wiping his mouth.

I
looked at him.  “Huh?” I asked.

“With
your massage, Mina,” Auntie answered for me, rubbing her temples with both
hands.

Rats. 
I thought I had obfuscated my way out of this one.

“The
table is in there.” Ma pointed toward Auntie’s living room.  “Take the sheet,
get down to your skivvies in Muriel’s bedroom, drape the sheet around you, lie
down on the damn table and proceed to be relaxed,” she ordered.

I
stalled. “Someone’s got to clean up.”

Ma
and Auntie were up in a flash, plates in hand and water running in the sink.

“We’ve
got it; just go!” Ma yelled.

I
looked at James.  He smiled, took my plate and his and walked over to the sink.

I
got up and peered around the corner.  There, directly in front of me, stood the
dreaded massage table.  Waiting.  On top of it laid a folded, clean, white
sheet.

“Go!”
Ma shouted again.

I
trudged into the living room, grabbed the sheet and toddled off into Auntie’s
bedroom, none too eager to strip down to my skivvies.

I
quickly realized I hadn’t been too particular about my skivvy selection that
morning, since I began my day shot from guns.  I gazed at myself in the mirror,
sans everything except for a dreary pair of faded flower print Gramma panties
with a slight hole starting at the band.  I suspected that there were nuns who
wore panties more alluring than mine.  And without holes.  But if they had
holes, maybe they’d be Holy panties?

Clearly
the Bloody Mary was taking effect.  Which was probably a good thing, since I
couldn’t imagine myself in a sober moment agreeing to scamper out into Auntie’s
living room wearing only tattered panties and a sheet.

I
stepped out into the living room with the sheet wrapped around me, trying to
pretend it was the most normal thing in the world.  I sat on the sofa and
draped an arm across the back of the couch.  The sheet slipped off.  I grabbed
it and held on tight with my armpits like a junior high girl in her first
strapless dress.  Outside the living room windows, I watched Ma and Auntie sit
at the umbrella table, looking at more magazines and catalogues together.   The
smell of crepes and casserole hung heavy in the air.  Maybe they were still
hungry?

I
started to walk toward the kitchen and was met by James, water glass in hand.

“Here;
this is for you,” he said quietly.

“Oh,”
I said, taking the glass and holding it.

“You
need to drink a lot of water after a massage,” he explained.  “It releases a
lot of toxins in your body.”