Recipes for Disaster (16 page)

I still remember the sweetness of his lips.

And the shame in his eyes.

“I was with him at the most a half-hour. When I got home, CeeCee was there, sitting with mother, as if nothing had happened! I was surprised—shocked, really. But when CeeCee rose to leave, Mother called her by my name. I was heartbroken. I felt it was yet another of CeeCee’s cruel jokes, and I told her to get out of our house and leave us alone. She told me I was overreacting and laughed at me. It only made me angrier. It felt great to open the door and tell her to get the hell out.” I tremble at the memory. “When I got back into my mother’s room, she asked me if I’d ‘made the pie.’ I didn’t know what she was talking about! With her medications, she sometimes said things that didn’t make sense. But later, when I went into the kitchen, I saw that her recipe tin was open. Her special apple pie recipe was missing.”

“CeeCee had taken it?”

I nod. “Yes! Can you believe it?”

“She’s a politician. I’d believe anything.” He laughs as he pulls me out of the swing and into his arms. “I love your apple pie.”

“You should. It’s my mother’s recipe. Thank goodness I’d memorized it.” I shrug. “I guess it’s CeeCee’s now, too. I’ve no doubt it’s the one she used as her entry in the county fair—and as her ‘hobby’ for the Tip Top Teen USA contest.” I shrug. “I’m glad to see she’s too busy to use it anymore. And on that note—”

I reach for my cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Jack asks.

I grin. “My old friend, Congresswoman Catherine Martin. She owes me a favor. Payback is an interview with Mary.”

He laughs. “She’s getting off easy.”

“You can say that again! She’s lucky it’s not with Brenda Stark, in Dominic’s torture grotto.”

The dogs leap as we kiss, but we don’t care. 

Fate played me one winning card. I ended up with my dream man after all.

Chapter 11

Fishing Expedition

An investigation with no pre-determined purpose, often by one political party seeking damaging information about another. Such inquiries are likened to fishing because they pull up whatever they happen to catch.  

You’re probably adept at fishing expeditions, and never realized it. For example, when you ask your husband supposedly innocent questions about his business trips or his nights out with his pals, any and all information (or for that matter, fibs) can be used against him at a later date—either in the bedroom, or in a court of law.

Speaking of a great catch, here’s a wonderful way to serve salmon! Try it with this unique topping combination:

Black Bean Salmon

(Compliments of SamTheCookingGuy.com)

Ingredients

1/2 cup apricot preserves (which is pretty much the same as jam)

1/4 cup black bean & garlic sauce

1 whole salmon filet, about 1.5 pounds, skin off might be easier

3 green onions, finely chopped

Sesame seeds

Directions

Heat broiler to high.

Put salmon on a baking sheet covered lightly with oil.

Combine apricot jam and black bean sauce in a small bowl - mix well and spread on top of salmon to cover.

Broil 4-5 inches from heat, approximately 7 minutes for each inch of thickness.

Remove to a platter or serving plates and sprinkle with green onions and sesame seeds – serve.

It’s been one hell of a morning.

Besides the usual throngs of awed and adoring voters, Congresswoman Catherine Martin was met with tomatoes thrown by protestors who take issue with her vote to cut farm subsidies.

She ducked, and I leaped, taking them in her stead.

Then there was the bowl of borscht tossed at her, from someone upset over the speech poo-pooing UN sanctions against Russia for its human rights violations. I pushed her out of the way just in the nick of time, only to get soaked.

Dominic nodded approvingly. “You look great in red. Thank goodness it’s a cold soup. Otherwise, you’d have been scalded—especially around the Bristol region, since that took the brunt … Oh my! Perhaps you’d like to borrow my coat.”

I look down to see what he’s staring at.

Hmmm. Cold tomato soup on a sheer blouse equals nipples standing at attention. In other words, not a great look.

I leave my Acme team to go home and change clothes. Mary is out of school now, so she rides back with me. We catch up with Catherine’s entourage just as she’s wrapping up a speech with the local chapter of the League of Women Voters.

Mary listens, enraptured, as Catherine regales the crowd with her vision of America at its best. In it, employment is at its peak, and our nation of producers is rewarded with high wages and real benefits. Higher education is for everyone who wishes to take advantage of it. Teachers are paid handsomely for educating our nation’s best and brightest. Which of us doesn’t fit that description? 

If only we saw ourselves as others see us.

In Catherine’s new world order, the safety and security of our citizens will always be a top priority. “We’ve already paid too high a price, forfeited too many lives, to go back on this promise,” she vows.

Mary’s iPhone captures it all on video. I’m sure it also picks up Mary’s declaration, “I want to be just like her.”

For once, I hope my daughter does not get her wish.

“I’m so happy your daughter was interested in accompanying us this afternoon,” Catherine says sweetly. “My goodness, what a pretty little thing she is! She reminds me of you at that age.”

“Do you really think so? I can’t imagine you’d remember me at fourteen. You dumped me as a friend before I was twelve.” I’m trying to keep the edge out of my voice, but my guess is that I’m failing miserably. 

I know this to be the case when Catherine, responds, “Yes, I think you’re right! I’m sure it was your colorful reputation I remember. My God, who could forget it? I didn’t—not for years.”

Before I can say another word, she glides away, greeting 
Mommy Dearest
’s publisher, Allison O’Connor, with air kisses.

I am left standing with a mob of fawning acolytes.

After what I divulged to Jack last night, I’m glad he’s not here to see her imperious diss. 

Unfortunately, Mary does, and it embarrasses her enough that she turns her head in order to hide her mortification.  

I can’t say that I blame her. From what she’s seen and heard thus far, Catherine is not only the dream candidate, but a great wife, mother, and issues-oriented candidate. In fact, on the limo ride here, Catherine graciously answered Mary’s long list of carefully thought-out questions, piercing my daughter with the gaze she reserves for the likes of Katie Couric, Anderson Cooper and Oprah. The staff adviser to Hilldale High School’s newspaper, the
Signal
, will run the interview on the front page, which thrills Mary to no end.

Now, if only her mother doesn’t ruin it for her.

Okay, I’ll be on my best behavior, from now on out.

I’ve allowed my mind to wander while the interview hits its stride. On the other hand, Mary sits quietly in a corner of the studio, scribbling away on her pad. I presume she’s comparing the magazine publisher’s questions to the ones she asked in the limo, and is taking special note of Catherine’s seemingly thoughtful answers.

She doesn’t realize that Catherine has spent a lifetime answering these very same questions, and that she's had years to hone her answers to them. Every tilt of the head, every pause, and every inflection is well practiced. 

Robert and Evan, who sit quietly on either side of Catherine, wear the placid smiles that go hand in hand with a life spent reluctantly in the spotlight. I do notice, however, that Evan’s adoring gaze will sometimes drift from his mother to Mary. 

Just as Robert’s eyes shift my way.

It’s a good thing that Jack is with Dominic, covering the studio doors. Otherwise he would have picked up on it, and gotten the wrong idea.

Me? I know better.

Suddenly something the publisher says catches my attention: “—your renowned apple pie recipe! If you don’t mind, we’ll duplicate it here, right now.” Allison’s hand sweeps out over the room, where a state-of-the-art kitchen awaits them.

Huh? 
Her
 recipe?

Catherine blinks twice. This is her 
gotcha
 moment. My mother’s recipe isn’t something she ever knew by heart.

Unlike me.

“Ah, what a wonderful—and totally unexpected surprise,” Catherine purrs. “But I wouldn’t want to muss my suit.”

“No problem! We’ve got a full apron, right here.” From behind her chair, Allison pulls out two of them, emblazoned with the magazine’s curvy script logo.

Catherine’s lips curl into a smile. “How thoughtful.” She snaps her fingers for her press secretary Lydia.

While Lydia rushes to her side, I grab my cell phone and call Arnie.

He answers with a “Yo, boss lady, what’s up?”

“Quick—you have the code to Congresswoman Martin’s iCloud account, right?”

“Yep. I’m still assessing the threats that came to her. Why do you ask?”

“I need to access something in there.”

“I’ll send it to you now.”

A second later I get the code—and I’m in the cloud, searching for the term 
Apple Pie
.

Ah, here it is …

My fingers work fast. I delete a cup of sugar. Instead the recipe now calls for sorghum. Forget the pinch of salt. Add three-quarters of a cup. Use crabapples, not Fiji. And the crust will be cornmeal, not flour.

Done.

And so is any future reliance on this recipe by CeeCee Connelly Martin.

Should I warn Mary not to take a bite? Nah. It’ll be a great life lesson:

No one is perfect.

It’s obvious that neither of these women have cooked a day in their lives. They glare at the editor who dares to question the type of apple or flour or sweetener the recipe calls for, let alone the generous use of salt. 

The photo op is priceless. At each step of the process, they stop to wrap their arms around each other and smile wide. 

They coo when they pull the baked pie out of the oven and pause for the camera, with forks poised at their mouths.