Sneaky Pie's Cookbook for Mystery Lovers (2 page)

A mile and a half down our road lived a simpleminded neighbor two years older than God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human that old before or since. No one called him by his last name because his uncle had been governor of Virginia back in the forties and a governor couldn’t have a simpleminded nephew. As he was a short, energetic man, everyone just called him Banty.

Banty lived alone since his family had long been dead. He adored my mother because she spoke to him as though he was just like everyone else. Now, why he wanted to be just like anyone else mystifies me because the truth about Virginians is that one out of four is mentally ill. Think of your three best friends. If they’re all right, then it’s you! Mother’s mother told her that and it’s the God’s honest truth—not that anyone from Virginia will admit it.

Anyway, Banty desperately wanted to be like everyone else. He’d visit and bring us fresh-grown catnip. What money his family had put aside for him had been exhausted decades ago—no one had ever expected him to live to such an advanced age. He cut his own wood for his wood-burning stove and his cookstove. He raised chickens and sold eggs. He also had goats for milk and he’d learned to make goat’s milk soap, and a fine soap it was.

This particular New Year’s Eve the evening temperature skidded into the teens. The day had been warmer, the low forties, and the snow melted a bit, which meant on top of the snow rested a treacherous layer of ice.

Mom had parked her new truck by the front door so she could look at it constantly. Before sunset she hopped into her old truck one last time, a worn 1972 Ford, and drove it down to the dealer. He would carry her home.

Banty, with a goat on a leash, a gift for Mom, walked up to the front door and knocked, but Mom wasn’t home. We meowed. He opened the door a crack, thought better of it, and closed the door. The night was so bitter, he didn’t want to leave the nanny goat tied to a fence. And if he turned the goat out in a pasture it would follow him home. So he opened the door of the brand-new truck and the goat jumped right in. Perfect. He slipped and slid down the driveway, walking the mile and a half back to his little house in the hollow.

Mom showed up in the driveway about an hour after that. She hopped out of the passenger seat and waved goodbye to the Ford dealer.

We watched from the picture window as she admired
her truck. She took a step closer. Stopped. Then moved as fast as we’d ever seen Mom move. Remarkable, really, given the ice. She opened the door to behold her present from Banty, and the fact that her truck now had no interior. The nanny goat even ate hunks out of the dash.

Mom lifted the goat out of the truck, sat down on the front steps, and cried. Finally she pulled herself together, walking the goat down to the garden shed. She couldn’t put the nanny in with the horses because the scent of a goat will drive them crazy until they become accustomed to it. If you live in the city you might not know it but goats stink to high heaven.

She emptied out the garden shed, brought hay and straw up from the barn, falling down a couple of times in the process. It was getting colder and colder—so cold that the inside of your nose hurt when you breathed. Still, she was out there for over an hour.

When she reached the house her lips were blue. We loved on her and warmed her up as much as we could. She was distraught. How do you explain a situation like this to your insurance agent?

She called him at home. He said, “Happy New Year and don’t worry.”

Well, she felt somewhat better. She made Pewter and me some New Year’s Tuna. Then she cooked herself black-eyed peas for luck. And you know, that turned out to be one of the best years we ever had, although I never have learned to tolerate the nanny goat, Princess Vandal.

1. Chop the salmon into small pieces.
   

2. Mix in well with the dry cat food.
   

3. Cut the cream cheese into 4 squares and roll them into balls.
   

4. Roll the cream cheese balls in the mix until thoroughly covered. (Omit the cream cheese for a fat cat.)
   

5. Serve immediately or refrigerate in a tightly sealed container.
   

H
UMANS ARE PACK
animals. Cats are not. What makes living with humans often difficult is they refuse to admit they are pack animals—each human believes, deep down, that he or she is a rugged individualist. This illusion is particularly rampant in America.

I can prove this, should you doubt it, with a few examples:

I rest my case.

1. Put the chicken in a large pot of cold water to draw the blood out. Depending on the size of the chicken, the time will vary, but leave the chicken in a covered pot for at least an hour. If you really want to be perfect, change the cold water every 15 minutes.
   

2. When the blood is out of the chicken, again fill the pot with 1 gallon of cold water, drop in the butter, and cook over medium to medium-high heat until the meat literally falls off the bones; about hours. Set the chicken and stock aside to cool naturally.
   

3. Remove the chicken from the pot, cut into small pieces, and serve at room temperature. One small chicken will be enough for several meals.
   

4. Divide the stock in half. Refrigerate half and use later to lightly sprinkle over dry cat food—chicken flavor, of course.
   

5. Use the other half of the stock to make chicken soup for humans. Our favorite is Chicken Corn Soup (recipe follows).
   

Serves 4 to 6

1. In a large pot over high heat, bring the chicken stock to a boil. Stir in the rice, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer for 10 minutes.
   

2. Add the hard-boiled eggs, corn, and parsley. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and continue cooking until the rice is tender, 10 to 15 minutes longer.
   

C
ATS CAN EAT
the soup, too, but humans like it best. Like all country recipes, you can fiddle with it to suit yourself, but it’s real simple. Some people might prefer noodles to rice.

I like fish best of all but Pewter and Tucker like chicken. A Rhode Island Red led to Pewter’s public disgrace.

Pewter visits the chicken coop daily, dreaming of
snatching a Silky or even one of the larger Rhode Island Reds. Knowing of Pewter’s murderous intent, Mom covered the top of the chicken coop with small-gauge wire mesh. Keeps the hawks out, too. They’ll swoop down and carry off a chicken so fast it will freeze your heart, especially if, like me, you’re smaller than the hawk.

Last summer Mother hosted a picnic. Wooden trestle tables were set in parallel rows. Pretty red checkered tablecloths added to the color. Forty people came. The fun of the party was that each person had to bring a covered dish. Mom supplied the barbecue and the drinks. I don’t know why parties are more fun when everyone pitches in, but they are.

The human ages ranged from two to ninety-one years old. The children played, watched the horses, and got into the chicken coop. Before I knew it, chickens were running everywhere, squawking, flapping their wings. All those insects flying in the air and crawling around on the ground were a picnic for them.

Mom knew there was no point in putting the chickens back until after the picnic because the children would let them out again by accident. So the chickens, under the guise of eating bugs, slowly began to work their way toward the picnic. They heard Mom’s voice, which they associate with food. Personally, I think chickens are dumb as a post but Mom believes her chickens are intelligent. There’s no point arguing.

Anyway, Pewter crouched low in the grass, cackling with delight. Why she thought her butt would be hidden from view by lying low is beyond me. That cat is fat. Of course, the chickens saw her and they recognized their tormentor. They paid her no mind.

One medium-sized red hen strayed away from the rest. As she pecked away, seizing white grubs and other delicacies, Pewter inched forward, then leapt up.

The hen cocked her head, fluffed her feathers, and emitted an earsplitting shriek. Scared Pewter. She landed in front of the chicken, who darted around behind her, grabbing her gray tail.

Now Pewter let out an earsplitting shriek. The huge Australorp rooster ran over and flapped his wings, kicking at Pewter with his spurs. Those things can cut you.

By now Pewter never wanted to see another chicken, but the red hen wouldn’t let go. The humans were laughing so hard they were useless.

Finally, Mother pulled herself together and shooed the chicken from Pewter. The rooster flew up in her face, too. That offended Tucker, who growled, scaring the rooster, who flew onto one of the picnic tables, leaving a few well-aimed deposits.

The tip of Pewter’s tail was blunted. Unfortunate, as her tail is short to begin with. (The artist for the Sneaky Pie mysteries, knowing of Pewter’s vanity, makes her tail longer than it really is.)

Pewter vows to kill that hen, but she’ll never do it.

The humans agreed it was the best picnic they’d ever attended.