Queen of the Cookbooks

by Ashton Lee

  Then Maura Beth looked thoughtful for a moment, figuring out how to phrase things. “Believe me, Peri and Mr. Place were working hard behind the scenes. The Twinkle is their baby. They were married just a few months ago in a very sweet, simple ceremony in the Cherico African Methodist Episcopal Church. They had it there out of respect to his dear sweet mother, who died unexpectedly last year, unfortunately. That threw everyone in Cherico for a loop.”

  Ana looked properly sympathetic, took a deep breath, and continued reading. “Mamie Crumpton—the town’s wealthiest spinster. Best to steer clear.” Ana cocked her head. “A warning?”

  “Just between the two of us, she’s . . . well, let’s just say that she’s anything but shy and retiring,” Maura Beth explained, lowering her voice. “Very opinionated. But she and her sister, Marydell, who works for me at the front desk, does a great job, and is nothing like Mamie, did contribute a substantial amount of their trust fund to enable us to build the new library. I’m indebted to them for that.”

  “Ah, then all’s well that ends well.”

  “In this case, yes.”

  Ana scanned the rest of the list quickly. “Well, perhaps I ought to look over the last part of this at my leisure.” Then she rose from her chair and extended her hand. “And if I have any questions, I can call you?”

  “Of course. And do think seriously about coming to our next Cherry Cola Book Club meeting. Don’t even worry about bringing a novel to talk about at this late date. If you want, all you have to do is listen and eat some good food your first time out. It’s right here at six-thirty on Wednesday the last week in June, and it’s the last one we’ll be having in this old tin shack of a building. It goes without saying that we can’t wait to move into our new home out at the lake where we can finally do things up right in a real meeting room instead of forever hauling folding chairs out of the closets and into the lobby. Of course, all our meetings have substance, but there’s nothing wrong with adding a little style.”

  After Ana had left, Maura Beth couldn’t help but trot out her last-minute worries about the new library’s completion. The computer terminals had still not arrived, and neither had the furniture. To be sure, the shelving was in place, but there was an enormous opening day collection half in and out of boxes to be processed. The new staff hires—a third front desk clerk, Helen Porter, technical processing librarian, Agnes Braud, and the library’s first-ever children’s librarian, Miriam Goodcastle—had not yet been introduced to the public but were working diligently behind the scenes moving what was salvageable from the old collection into the new building.

  Would it all come together in time?

  * * *

  The next newcomer to approach Maura Beth could not have been more different from Ana Estrella, both in style and physical appearance. Where Ana had been polished, diminutive, and relaxed, Mrs. Bit Sessions practically roared into Maura Beth’s office after Renette Posey’s quick introduction in the doorframe. Without having to be told to take a seat, this bosomy matron with snow-white hair piled high atop her head in imitation of Dairy Queen soft-serve vanilla ice cream plopped herself down across from Maura Beth and cut right to the chase.

  “What I want to know is this—I’m from over in Corinth. Am I allowed to participate in this Queen of the Cookbooks thingamajig? Or is it just limited to you people here in Cherico? Or as you people like to call it—Greater Cherico. Honestly, what nonsense I’ve always thought that was. You don’t have more than five thousand people here, and I hear by the grapevine that a couple of your businesses are moving to Corinth. Now I’d like to know just what’s so great about that? Who wants to publicize that a town is dying on the vine?”

  Maura Beth’s brain was spinning. Where to start with this maelstrom of a woman? So she took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face. “The . . . uh, contest is open to everyone who’s interested. There are no mileage and distance limits, if you will. I guess theoretically you could enter if you lived in Chicago or in New York City, that is, if you found out about it in time. Wouldn’t that be a hoot if we had entrants from places like Detroit and Kansas City?”

  Bit drew back, her blue eyes widening farther and the hint of a smile creeping into her face. “So you’re the clever, humorous type, I see. Well, I’m glad you don’t take yourself so seriously. Because I certainly do. I intend to win that Queen of the Cookbooks grand prize of five thousand dollars, or my name is not Elladee Martha Simpson Sessions.” She paused with an expectant look on her face, waiting for a reaction. As Maura Beth offered none, however, she moved on.

  “I know my name’s a mouthful, but when I was just a little bit of a thing, everyone started calling me Bit. I was small for what seemed like forever, but as you can see, I’ve made up for that now. Yes, I eat way too much and it shows on my hips and everywhere else, but it’s because I’m the best darned cook in the Western Hemisphere, and I’ll prove it by winning this contest. If my fourth and last husband, Talbot, were still around, he’d walk up to you and swear by me and demand that you give me that prize without even tasting a forkful. My Tally Boy—that was my nickname for him and maybe you can guess why—was a retired Army Ranger, you see, and he took no nonsense off of anyone. But, boy, did he ever have an appetite. You should have seen our grocery bills back in the day. Believe me, his army pension came in handy whenever I went shopping for us.”

  Maura Beth was trying her best to warm to the woman and finally seized upon something resembling a compliment. “Your . . . uh, Tally Boy sounds like a fascinating man, and I admire your spunk. I’ve always been pretty spunky myself. So tell me, what exactly is your specialty?”

  “Down-home is what I expect people would call it. It’s nothin’ fancy. But it’s all so good you can’t possibly pull away from the table. My spicy lasagna is to die for, and so is my squash casserole. It’s a little on the sweet side, but it’s not a dessert, you understand. Have you ever had butterbean soup with ham? Now that’s on the savory side, of course. And then there’s my sweet corn kernel cornbread. Doesn’t that all sound just scrumptious?”

  Maura Beth nodded with a pleasant smile on her face, struggling to keep up with the culinary onslaught. She was, in fact, salivating just a bit.

  “Believe me, you don’t know what you’re missin’. That’s what anybody who’s ever tasted my food has said. I tell you, the others won’t have a chance. There’ll be a line a mile long for my tasting booth. But I’ve been thinkin’ that maybe I’ll just concentrate on one of my dishes—like my ham and butterbean soup. I could enter it in the appetizer category.”

  Thinking on her feet, Maura Beth continued to smile and said, “Enthusiasm like yours is just what we need. It’s sure to make for a heated competition. Ha! There’s a little cooking humor for you.”

  Surprisingly, Bit’s demeanor went all dark and sullen, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Now, about that . . . I know we’ve just met, but may I speak to you frankly about something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there any way you could tell me if a particular person has signed up for the contest? Maybe she’s even entered already. Do you happen to keep track of that sorta thing?”

  Maura Beth was frowning now, unable to see where the woman was going but sensing that Bit had “hidden agenda” written all over her. She had run across more than a few patrons like that, and they had turned out to be the bane of her existence. “I . . . uh, suppose she could have. Everyone who enters has to register here at the front desk. Why do you ask?”

  Suddenly, Bit launched into a diatribe complete with sweeping hand gestures and constant eye rolling. No televangelist could have done it with more conviction and panache. “It’s that nauseating, whining Gwen Beetles. She’s always been my rival at everything. She and I grew up together over in Corinth, and I just know she’s gonna want to hog the spotlight and beat me out of winning that top prize. Why, she just thinks she invented the kitchen and every utensil in it. To hear her tell it, she was born with a spatula in h
er mouth. Heh. I’d like to shove one up her . . . well, you get the picture. She’s such a know-it-all, especially when it comes to secret ingredients. You would think God himself gave them to her, like Moses delivering the Commandments. She presses the church metaphors ad nauseam. Her sauces are a revelation, she’s always saying. Her icings are angelic and heavenly, she insists. One time, I’d just about had enough, so I told her she ought to have all her recipes published in a cookbook and call it The Hubris Collection. For all I know, she may already have done that. So, I’d appreciate it if you could let me know the moment she enters the competition, if you don’t mind. Forewarned is forearmed, you know.”

  Once again, Maura Beth was speechless, struggling desperately to formulate a sensible reply. Such was always the objective of the public servant. “Well, I don’t think anyone by that name has signed up yet, but you are certainly welcome to come in and check the sign-up sheet at the front desk whenever you want,” she managed finally. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to monitor it for you with all I have to do around here. I mean, I have the new library opening soon on the Fourth of July, and we’ve already begun moving the collection out there. I’m sure you can appreciate all the work we have ahead of us. It’s been overwhelming.”

  Bit shot to her feet, slightly off balance, almost as if something had stung her ample rear end. “I suppose I can. So, now, where did you say these sign-up sheets are again that your flyer talked about?”

  Maura Beth rose more slowly and pointed helpfully to her office door. “Right through there at the front desk. Renette Posey, the young lady who showed you in, will take care of you. And welcome aboard.”

  With a quick nod and a mumbled, “Thanks,” the anything-but-a-wallflower Bit Sessions was off and running.

  A few seconds later, Maura Beth realized she had not invited the woman to join The Cherry Cola Book Club as she had done with Ana Estrella. She started to call out after her. Then some sort of alarm went off in her brain and kept on clanging away. Maybe later, if ever. Bit had “first-class disruption” written all over her, and there was no lack of members already in the club capable of providing that and more. No need to add more fuel to the fire.

  * * *

  At least Maura Beth was somewhat prepared when Gwen Beetles showed up at the library about thirty minutes after Bit Sessions had left. What was the adjective Bit had used to describe her nemesis? Oh, yes—whining! And that turned out to be quite the understatement. In addition to the whining, anyone would have found the droning on and on somewhat difficult to bear. It was as if the woman were in a trance of some kind—her eyes half-lidded while she fingered her stringy gray hair absentmindedly.

  “. . . and so I followed her over here all the way from Corinth, you see,” Gwen was saying in Maura Beth’s office. “I tailed her in my car just like in one of those detective movies, and I was quite clever about it, if you ask me. She’s not about to pull the wool over my eyes, even though she’d been hinting around. Well, actually, I overheard her at a party talking about entering the contest, and she didn’t know I was listening. She’s always up to something, you know—she’s in on the town gossip without fail. That and cooking are the only reasons she’s living.”

  Maura Beth steeled herself with a smile, as she always did when she encountered difficult patrons. In such instances her objective was always to conceal what she was really thinking. “Well, we certainly want people to register who have a knack for making good food, don’t we? I think we can concentrate on that and let everything else go.”

  Gwen’s face dropped considerably. “Well, maybe you could. Too much has happened between me and Bit for me to forget, though. But no matter. I intend to win that money because everyone in Corinth thinks I’m the best Southern cook around as God is my witness. Except Bit, of course, who’s always thought the whole world revolved around her, you know.”

  Then she leaned in, widening her eyes and showing some intensity for the first time since she had shuffled into Maura Beth’s office almost as if she were sleepwalking. “You heard it here first. Bit will do anything to win this contest, and I do mean anything. She will cheat if she has to, and believe me, I know what I’m talking about. You can ask anyone in Corinth who knows her—they even say she cheats on her income taxes. She has more money than she knows what to do with. Why, she buried four husbands, and it’s my considered opinion there might even have been some foul play afoot here and there. She’s an evil one, if you ask me.”

  Maura Beth didn’t really want to dignify all the heinous charges coming her way but felt she had to say something. Silence might be interpreted as agreement. “I don’t think we need to start accusing people of dastardly deeds, Mrs. Beetles. Besides, I don’t see how anyone could cheat and get away with it. The people who taste the food will determine the winners. They’ll fill out their ballots and drop them in a bowl. And I’ll make sure that bowl is under the strict supervision of my assistants, Helen Porter and Marydell Crumpton. This won’t be anything like a county fair where you have a handful of judges who could be bribed or where nepotism could even enter the picture. Whoever gets the most votes in the appetizer, entrée, and dessert categories will win those prizes. And then Overall Best Dish will win the Queen of the Cookbooks top prize. I believe everything will be aboveboard.”

  But Gwen was shaking her head emphatically. “Doesn’t matter how tight a ship you think you’re running. She’ll find herself a way around the rules. She’ll pay people if she has to, and I really think you should have someone keep an eye on her the whole time. I’d volunteer to do it myself, but I’ll have my hands full at my own booth with my heavenly dishes. Just you wait and see if I don’t win out.”

  Maura Beth listened to the woman ramble on in that monotone of hers while concocting an interior monologue of her own to keep her wits about her. What had she wrought with this contest? Suddenly, they were crawling out of the woodwork with their rivalries and jealousies and outright spite. Would there be more of them coming down the pike like Bit Sessions and Gwen Beetles? Had she inadvertently opened Pandora’s Box of Recipes?

  In any case, this was not what she had envisioned. Women in starched white aprons wearing colorful oven mitts and sunny smiles, and men in tall chef ’s hats handling long wooden spoons had been her hopeful, charming fantasy. But so far, all of the disagreements and unpleasant behaviors that had broken out spontaneously during meetings of The Cherry Cola Book Club heretofore were beginning to pale in comparison to the worrisome possibilities looming ahead during the Queen of the Cookbooks competition.

  * * *

  The parade continued. Another entrant who wandered in later that afternoon fared better when it came to a more normal, even-handed personality in Maura Beth’s estimation. Perhaps the two women from Corinth had unduly influenced her judgment, and she needed to make an attitude adjustment. In any case everything about this third woman was restrained and elegant down to her tasteful, navy blue business suit, flawless bouffant hairdo, and ramrod-straight posture. The ensemble gave her an ageless appearance—she might have been thirty-five, or she might have been fifty, or possibly even older than that.

  “I’m Aleitha Larken,” the woman said in an even, cultured tone, shaking hands before seating herself in Maura Beth’s office. “I live in the North Crossroads Community, which is about halfway between Corinth and here. I know it’s way out in the country, but the family home is there, and I wouldn’t think of moving. We have quite a tract with pecan orchards and beaucoup herds of cattle. As we’re so fond of saying among ourselves—we deal in nuts and beef in no particular order.”

  Maura Beth laughed brightly. “I like that. And I’m glad we have another out-of-towner coming to us on the Fourth. We’re flattered so many of you have chosen to participate in our contest. We’d hoped to attract more than just our fellow Chericoans, and it looks like we’re doing just that.”

  Aleitha adopted a more confidential demeanor. “Actually, I’m doing this on a dare. My husband, Phillip
, says I’ve always underestimated my cooking, but I’ve always thought that was something he had to say because he was married to me. ‘Go see if I’m not telling you the truth,’ he told me the other day. ‘Sign up for that Queen of the Cookbooks competition over in Cherico. I bet you’ll win it.’ ” She paused to shake her head thoughtfully.

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but here I am giving it the old college try. I’m offering only one dish, which everyone in my family swears by. It started out as Chicken Divan Parisienne—and don’t ask me where that came from—but my kids couldn’t handle something so fancy and complicated. My eldest, Julia Rachel, was in middle school and had just won her sixth-grade spelling bee when I first trotted out the recipe. She was up on all the words in the English language, just a little wizard.” Aleitha drew back smartly with a chuckle.

  “Then, one day at the dinner table, Julia Rachel pointed out to all of us quite obviously that divan was just a fancy word for a sofa. ‘Why don’t we start calling it Chicken on the Sofa instead of that other thing?’ And, of course, everyone at the table laughed and that just stuck. I know, it’s probably the corniest thing you’ve ever heard. But not a week passed by when the kids didn’t ask for it, all giggly and conspiratorial about it. So serving Chicken on the Sofa has become a cherished Larken family tradition, and I’ve decided to share it with the world for the first time. Well, maybe not the whole world. Maybe just everyone who lives within a fifty-mile radius of Greater Cherico. Isn’t that what you folks down this way like to call it?”

  Maura Beth’s grin was wide and genuine. She was feeling as comfortable with Aleitha Larken as she had felt awkward with both Bit Sessions and Gwen Beetles. There was nothing to fear here. “I’m afraid Chericoans have a somewhat inflated opinion of themselves. The truth is, we’re just a little town by a big lake, and it’s our own fault that we’ve let ourselves be overlooked as time has marched on. But some of us are bound and determined to correct that.”