Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (49 page)

We
peered in at the leaves and twigs floating toward the top. Just our luck. 
Krumpthf’s.  It had come to this.  Krumpthf’s.

However,
Armand, with his waitering disorder, was determined to serve someone, even if
it was only us. We sipped leerily, pulling out the occasional bit of debris. 
After awhile, the Flintstone cheese and phallic sausage wasn’t so awfulish.  We
all ordered more pitchers of Krumpthf’s, much to Perpetua’s economic dismay.

“Tell
you what,” growled Karen, the punk granddaughter, “I’d rather the Amish dudes
made money serving up food rather than puppies for profit,” she said, hacking a
piece of sausage and eating it from the knife.  “We won’t have a good night if
I find out they’re even related to a puppy mill farmer,” she said pointedly at
the kitchen door, embedding the knife firmly in the table for punctuation.

“Well
I thought that they were all related, somehow,” said newlywed Nancy from Nebraska.

The
conversation flew around puppy mill breeders and how no form of punishment or
torture would be too severe for them, they ought to be put in their own
kennels, forced to breed, starve, freeze, be scalded, etc. All Amish Affair
attendees were apparently responsible pet owners and happily in one accord
against puppy mill owners, Amish or otherwise.

Amos
was summoned again by Perpetua to replace the emptied vats of brew.  We fell
silent upon his entrance, each one of us glaring silent puppy mill accusations
at him.

As
soon as he’d departed, our chatter resumed.

“Being
from the Amish area,” began one half of the gay couple, Ken, “what do you know
about them?” he queried Ida.

“The
Amish?” Ida asked. “Well, they’re like people… but they dress like Johnny
Cash.”

Next
came hot bowls of steaming cream of cabbage soup.  Now, unless your personal
habits are in need of becoming regular quick, cream of cabbage soup is to be
avoided. The five of us looked at each other, with the exception of Walter who
happily had begun to lap his soup.  We stared at Walter.  He continued to eat. 
We sighed.  This could only be the harbinger of a long and fragrant ride home.

Next
came some huge portions of pot roast and gravy, spooned over extra wide
noodles.  These were buddied with a tray of what appeared to be fried potato
patties.  The evening was eerily rekindling visions of church suppers gone bad.

After
a bit, we took apologetic and surreptitious trips to the restroom.  This was,
in fact, a former broom closet that had been made to resemble a single use
powder room.  I locked the door after I sat down so that my knees wouldn’t
knock it open, since they literally touched the door.  I returned and watched
Perpetua’s panic peak, as she mentally tallied up the tankards and trips to the
loo.  Clearly her profits were going down the drain.

However,
the featured course of the evening finally arrived: a ground beef casserole
partnered with mixed frozen vegetables and covered in a cheese sauce.  All
arrived in more vat-like containers with a single serving utensil plunked
inside each casserole.  Amos and Angie moved into the shadows, and waited.  We
all looked at each other, not quite sure of our hostess’ serving intentions.

Armand
commanded Amos, “You vill serve, yes?”

Amos
stepped out of the darkness and stared at Perpetua. 

“Actually,”
Perpetua piped, “we serve ourselves family style – Amish style!”

She
beamed.  Amos moved away.  Armand glowered.

The
rest of us shrugged our cumulative shoulders, the Amish beer having washed away
any pretense toward any gourmet dining we had entertained earlier.  We all sat
with our steaming plates full of ground beef and cheese sauce and mason jars
full of Krumpthf’s.  We toasted Perpetua and Groggin, and even included Amos
and Angie.

“You
know, I sometimes edit cookbooks for a living,” Walter glubbed amiably.  “This
casserole is certainly interesting. What do you all call this?”

Angie
stepped up from the shadows and barked, “YUMMUCK!” Mrs. Klink style.

“My,”
Walter said nicely, “I sure would like the recipe.”

Angie
looked through her pockets.   “Here it iz,” she answered, Mrs. Klink style
again.

YUMMUCK!
for 24 persons:

6
lb. ground beef

Dash
salt and pepper

2
cups brown sugar

1
medium onion

6
cans cream of tomato soup

6
cans cream of chicken soup

Gherkins

12
packages flat noodles

8
packages processed ‘American’ cheese

Stale
pretzels - smashed

Brown
the ground beef with the salt and pepper and onion.  Add the brown sugar at the
end.  Mix in the cream of tomato soup (undiluted).  In a separate pot, combine
the cooked noodles with the cream of chicken soup (undiluted).  Layer the
hamburger mixture into a greased casserole dish.  Place a layer of the slices
of cheese, top with sliced gherkins.  Then layer the noodle mixture.  Place
another layer of the slices of cheese, with another layer of sliced gherkins. 
Repeat. Sprinkle a layer of smashed stale pretzel crumbs on top.  Bake until
done.

I
read the recipe from over Walter’s shoulder.  I tasted some.  I ended the
recipe in my mind with a last instruction:  Throw the whole mess out the window
and order a pizza.

I
prodded the mess about my plate with my fork. I wasn’t sure I couldn’t eat it,
much less finish it.  I didn’t even like touching it.

Nancy
from Nebraska leaned toward me.
“My!  Is this what authentic Amish food is like?”

I
puzzled for a moment, looking to Ida for support and a politically correct
phrase.

“It
looks like food,” said Ida.

“Next
ve have ze dess-ssserrrt!”  commanded Amos.

“Oh
yes, oh yes!” applauded Perpetua.

The
remaining plates, platters and pitchers were removed noisily and hastily onto
the metal cart.  Then Walter sneezed several thousand times in a row.

“Gezundheit!
Gezundheit” shouted Amos and Angie.

“Dankeshune,”
sneezed Walter.

“Bitte!”
cried Amos and Angie.

“Vielen
danke,” retorted Walter amidst continued sneezes.

“I
think it’s just wonderful how you people can communicate with the Amish,” the
anesthesiologist said.

“Are
you all able to speak Amish?” asked Nancy from Nebraska naively amidst Walter’s
sneezing.

Ida
looked at K. sweetly and said, “Er hat bin be-phlegmled by schnooks.”

“Ja,
ja, mit de all-around-de-hausen ach-too-ee machen,” K. added, using the faux
Amish the three of us came up with eons ago while up way too late and way too
snookered.  Remarkably we’d remembered some of our made-up language.

“My,
what kind of dialect is that?”  Nancy asked.

We
replied in unison, “Phlegmish.”

We
waited while Amos and Angie removed the dirty cart and returned with the
dessert.  I watched sadly as Ida Rose bounced up and down in her seat with
anticipation.  Clearly, anything calling itself a dessert was alright with her.

The
cart squeaked its sad return, covered with what cheerfully looked like
raspberry pies.  I sighed in relief.  The pies were thunked on the table along
with very worn pie servers, tubs of Whip-Whip cream, carafes of coffee and
coffee mugs.

The
cart retreated hastily in the distance.  Armand jumped up to serve the pies.

“Pleeze,”
he growled at Perpetua.

“Well
of course,” she replied, sitting back down.

Armand
thrust a pie server into a pie, and bore down.  Then he bore down again. 
Finally, we heard a crack and realized he had made it through the crust.  This
was repeated several times, until pie and coffee had been passed around all of
us.

I
bit into my piece of pie and crunched and almost lost a molar.  The crust was
exceedingly hard and very salty.  And what I hoped was raspberry curd was in
reality some kind of Jell-O.  Even Walter raised his eyebrows.

“This
is very interesting, Perpetua.  I don’t think I’ve come across anything quite
like this.  What do you call it?” he asked politely.

“Pretzel
Pie! An Amish favorite!” Perpetua and Groggin cried together.

My,”
Walter replied. Though he didn’t ask for the recipe this time.

Didn’t
matter.  Angie appeared from the shadows.  “I have zees, too,” she said, and
laid another recipe card in front of Walter.

PRETZEL
PIE

(1)
large box of stale pretzels

Your
favorite Jell-O flavor

Lard

1
tub of Whip-Whip cream

Basically,
you smash the stale pretzels and blend with enough lard to form a pretzel crust
in a pie shell pan.  Then you top with Jell-O.  You serve this, chilled (which
explained why the crust was difficult to break through) and if you’re feeling
rakish, top with Whip-Whip cream.

We
all pushed our pretzel pies about our plates.  Except for Ida Rose, who
chiseled herself a second piece and took the recipe card from Walter.

After
many polite goodbyes and a skirmish at the door with Perpetua and the punk
grand-daughter about appropriating a mason jar, we bid adieu.  We made our way
out into the still warm humid streets.  I looked at Walter, now re-wilting in
the August haze.

“Tell
you what,” I offered, “how about K. and I get the car and return here for the
rest of you?”

After
many thank-yous K. and I walked on, leaving our little group in the
air-conditioned safety of the apartment building’s lobby.  K. put an arm across
my shoulders.

“Thank
you,” he said.

“For
what?” I asked.

“For
putting up with my delusions of grandeur.  You know, we would have been better
off having our own party and cooking for ourselves. At least we wouldn’t have
had to eat that awful food, or have a three hour drive back home,” he added.

“Well,
it won’t kill us,” I offered, “but my shoes will.  I think I have only two good
toes left, and those are broken,” I said, limping along the pavement. My
stockings were mangled; they’d come apart at the ankles earlier. Now I walked
the streets of New York City barefoot.

“I’ll
drive home, if you want… it’s the least I can do,” said K. as we got to
Vito’s car.

 “Okay,”
I agreed.  I was tired.

We
got into the Towncar, buckled up, miraculously got out of the parking garage
without more obstacles or passwords, and made our way back toward our little
tribe.  We pulled up into the no-parking zone just in front of the sidewalk to
the lobby doors.  K. beeped three times.  We looked; Ida and Armand sheparded
both sides of Walter.

K.
smiled wanly.  “So what do you think you’re going to do next weekend?”

“Guess
I’m going to finally get serious about painting the walls,” I replied, and
sighed.

After
we successfully ballasted Walter back into Vito’s Towncar, K. wove our way away
from Bank Street, back toward the Henry Hudson, G.W., and points Pee-Ay-ward as
we hit the Jersey turnpike.  The NJ Turnpike soon morphed into the PA Turnpike,
and I woke up while K. was yawning.

“Next
rest stop?” I asked.  K. nodded. 

Next
exit, K. pulled off, following a rest stop sign.   After several mis-negotiated
turns, choices of fast food and one-way lanes, we descended on our usual fast
food chain, Buddy Burgers.  K. pulled the Towncar into a parking space, shut it
off, and then we glanced at each other in mutual exhaustion.

I
looked behind us, at Walter and Armand and Ida snuffled softly in the backseat,
like two kittens with their over-sized mastiff.  Then they all jolted awake
with a start.  “Where are we?”, “Are we home?” and “We’re not still there are
we?”

We
tumbled out of the Towncar. “Right then, potty break,” I said.  Except for K.,
who snored like he could use a lot of beauty sleep.

Walter
and Armand strolled into the men’s room.  Ida and I stood behind the fifty or
so women lined up outside the entrance to the women’s restroom.  As usual, we crossed
our legs and commiserated with all the women in line about the usual diss’ing
of the fool architect who didn’t realize that women can’t share urinals, and we
wished him an excruciating period just once in his lifetime, etc.

After
feeling like we’d grown visibly older, Ida and I finally got our potty break
turns.

We
finished and found Walter and Armand waiting for us.  They had already consumed
two burgers and shakes apiece, while K. had woken up, taken his turn in the
men’s room and was happily munching on the various salad stuffs he’d ordered in
his Buddy Basket.  Ida and I shook our heads and shrugged.

 “You
want a soda?” I asked Ida.