Queen of the Cookbooks

by Ashton Lee

  “Well, whaddaya know? There’s two less competitors for us in this thing,” Maribelle said out of the side of her mouth. “Just increases our chances of winnin,’ don’tcha think?”

  Ana was just shaking her head, somewhat at a loss for words. “Uh . . . maybe, maybe not.”

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “It’s just that I would never act like those women did in public just now. Imagine hitting someone over the head with a sausage like that, no less. Assault and battery with a hot dog—now that’s a new one.”

  “Not to mention slingin’ hot soup around. I wonder if somebody got scalded. Seems like people file lawsuits these days at the drop of a hat.”

  “Well, those two may be gone, but that doesn’t mean there still aren’t some good cooks out there today,” Ana said, regaining her perspective. “I’ve been keeping an eye on that woman all dressed up so fancy with the Chicken on the Sofa tent, myself. I tell you, they’ve been flocking to her, although I have no idea what chicken on the sofa is. Sounds like something a child spilled on the furniture to me.”

  “And how about that tiny little woman roamin’ all around the place with samples of her cheese balls on toothpicks? Seems to me like she’s givin’ away the store, if ya ask me.”

  “There may be a method to her madness, though. Did you gather your courage and try one?”

  Maribelle drew back at the question as if an unpleasant odor had just assaulted her nostrils. “No, I most certainly did not. It’s my opinion that we should all stay on our own turf. I believe in lettin’ the crowd come to me, although once they get within shoutin’ distance, I’m liable to reach out with one a’ those old-fashioned vaudeville hooks and snag ’em.”

  Ana had a good laugh over the image. “I actually took one of her cheese balls when she offered me. I guess I was more than a little curious. I have to tell you, it was pretty tasty. Good thing I’m not up against her in the appetizer category. Good thing neither of us is.”

  Maribelle snickered as she started walking. “Well, I don’t think we should be gone from our tents any longer than necessary. So how ’bout we go back, smile real pretty for everyone, and sell some of our great desserts to them that’s got a sweet tooth? We’ll stand out all the more actin’ like adults after this knockdown drag-out with soup and sausage.”

  Ana followed, frowning as she thought about the spectacle of people wasting food that way. She had been brought up required to eat everything on her plate before finally being excused from the table. After saying grace over food, the Estrella family considered it impious not to finish it, and throwing food at one of her many siblings would have gotten her grounded for at least a week.

  Ah, well—back to the task at hand and selling her delicious pigeon peas cake to all comers!

  * * *

  Ana and Maribelle had not been the only ones watching the food fight and Maura Beth’s disqualification of the Corinth women out on the perimeter of the crowd, however. Hardy and Lula Posey had reluctantly ventured out to the lake to assess everything, particularly since their daughter was intimately involved in the Grand Opening. Although Renette had invited—no, practically begged—them to tour the new library, they had told her they would not do so under any circumstances, knowing that it was full of material they found objectionable and still wanted off the shelves. But Hardy had relented at the last minute.

  “Elder Warren called me up and told me that he’s just talked to God, and I think we need to document things for him and the church in case we go through with our picketing plans,” he had told Lula. “Renette dudd’n even have to know we’re there. If she spied us even for a second, she’d be full of questions and all that, since we’ve quarreled about this before. Our little girl is too headstrong for her own good. I don’t know where that came from, since you’ve always been an obedient wife.”

  Once the two ladies had started assaulting each other with food and Maura Beth McShay had rushed out to stop them, the Poseys had had to move quickly to the back of the gathering to avoid being spotted in the midst of their espionage.

  “We are on a mission,” Hardy had reminded his wife. “We will have a nice little surprise for that bossy Miz McShay down the road, no matter what. We’ll have our say in this.”

  After Maura Beth’s dismissal of Bit Sessions and Gwen Beetles, the Poseys had walked back to their car with a self-righteous vengeance. “Now, you see, Lula, that woman acts like a virtual dictator. She picks out our library books with no accounting and picks the winners and losers in a contest like that. She hadn’t oughta’ve kicked those women out like that. That was just way too harsh to my way of thinkin’. I’d just like to know who made her judge and jury of all creation. Everyone seems to be afraid to stand up to her these days—even Councilman Sparks—and the worst part is, she’s got our little Renette in her tentacles and won’t let her go. Seems to me she needs to be brought down a notch or two, and we’d be doin’ the town of Cherico a service if we were the ones who did the deed.”

  Lula said nothing, nodding vigorously.

  “We will bide our time and wait for the right moment. We’ll get our point across one way or another.”

  This time, Lula spoke up with conviction. “We must save our sweet little girl, that’s all I know. Since when do librarians have more rights than parents? Sometimes I think the world’s been turned on its head.”

  Hardy made a strange little noise as if something had caught in his throat, halfway between a grunt and a gurgle. “After all, we only want what’s best for her. What in the world could be wrong with that?”

  7

  Coronation of a Queen

  It was now nearly one o’clock, and a long line had been forming for the last two hours just inside the front door of the library, extending all the way down to the computer terminals for Becca Brachle’s long-awaited book signing. At the moment, there were nearly two dozen people waiting to snap up a copy of the Best of the Becca Broccoli Show Cookbook, and Becca sat at her table beaming as she wielded her pen masterfully and with great patience.

  “And how do you want this signed?” she was saying to a very tall woman wearing pink capri pants and flats. It was a question she was happy to repeat, since it meant her sales were going well. In fact, they were exceeding all of her expectations, and she was going to run out of stock at this rate.

  “Oh,” the woman began, “could you write, ‘To my best girlfriend forever, Shellie Raye Compton’? That’s me, of course. Now, I know we’re not even close to being that, but when my grandchildren see it someday, they won’t know the difference, will they? So maybe you could fudge just a little?”

  Becca remained pleasant and pliable. The customer was always right. “Good point.” She quickly signed the title page and handed over the copy with a smile and a nod. “Mission accomplished.”

  Next in line was Douglas McShay, who had been partially hidden from view by the Compton woman’s height, and Becca stood up, leaned across the table, and gave him a big hug. “You snuck up on me, you rascal, but I’m happy to see you as usual. Where’s Connie?”

  “She’s out sampling all the food. She says she wants to cast an informed vote for best in show. Funny the way she puts things sometimes. So I’ve been assigned the task of getting a copy of your cookbook for us. But she still thinks you should have had a tent out there today, and I agree with her. We both swear by your okra and tomato gumbo stock, just to mention one recipe we love. Connie says she never would have thought of cutting the okra on the bias to soak up more of the seasonings. So simple, but also genius.”

  Becca put down her pen, wrinkled her nose, and shook her head. “Thank you both for the compliment, but I just don’t think it would be fair to have a professional in the contest. I ran The Becca Broccoli Show on the radio for years for profit. Besides, all you have to do is look at this line to know I’m already a winner today. I don’t say it to brag, but I do think I would have had a definite advantage with my expertise.”

  Douglas
leaned in and whispered, “No matter what, you’ll still be our Queen of the Cookbooks.” Then he forked over his money, and while Becca signed his copy, added, “Where’s my little godson today?”

  Becca handed over his cookbook and eyed him with amused skepticism. “You think I’d bring him along with me for this? No, Justin’s watching Markie at home. You should see the two of them together. I never thought my Stout Fella would actually look forward to something like diaper duty, but he does. Being a father has really changed him, Douglas. He’s finally slowing down for the first time since we were married. No more dashing off to the office to sell real estate at the crack of dawn until he has a heart attack like he did. He’s got some much-needed balance in his life, and Markie’s the reason. We should have become parents long before now, of course. For the longest time I thought we were never going to get there.”

  “That’s all great news,” Douglas said, glancing back over his shoulder. “When Connie and I had Lindy, it really changed our lives for the better. I’ve heard some people say that becoming parents tied them down and their lives were never their own again, but Connie and I always felt that it liberated us. It brought out the best in us. Maybe you have to go through it to understand what I mean.”

  “I already understand,” Becca told him. “I can’t imagine our lives without Markie. That says it all.”

  “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Douglas said, briefly looking over his shoulder. “These folks behind me are probably getting impatient, so I’ll mosey on out to the tents and try to track our dear Connie down before she samples everybody out of business.”

  Becca laughed. “Good idea. I want to get out there myself with my taste buds and give everybody a fair shake.”

  * * *

  It was a good thing that Voncille and Locke Linwood appeared near the end of the autograph line, since they took up more than their share of Becca’s time getting their copy of her cookbook signed. The bond among all members of The Cherry Cola Book Club had only grown stronger with the passage of time, and they supported one another whenever and wherever they could.

  “We meant to get out here much earlier,” Locke was explaining at the table while pointing to his watch. “But Voncille held us up. She just couldn’t seem to decide what she wanted to wear. She tried on about six different outfits, but she kept saying none of them would do. I thought she looked great in everything she tried on, as usual, but nothing I said seemed to make any difference to her. Used to be, she’d take my compliments as gospel, but not so much anymore. Are we turning into an old married couple?”

  Voncille gave him a little shove and pretended to be annoyed. “We started out an old married couple! But you just don’t seem to get it, Locke. I was just trying to be patriotic.” She focused on Becca. “I was rummaging through the closet trying to find something that had a touch of red, white, and blue in it—all three. Well, it turns out I had something red, something blue, and something white, but they weren’t all in the same dress. Now how I could’ve gotten by all these years without such a thing, I just don’t know.”

  Locke managed a conspiratorial wink and a little nod as he rapped his knuckles on Becca’s table. “And the Earth stopped spinning on its axis.”

  “You men have it so easy,” Voncille said, tugging at his sleeve as if she were getting the attention of a disobedient child. “There you stand in your pressed seersucker suit without a care in the world. You didn’t have to give your outfit a moment’s thought. Same thing with your hair. You just brush it once or twice every morning, and you’re good to greet the world. Show me a woman who gets away with that sort of thing, and I’ll show you a scene from a horror movie.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Voncille, I think the blue dress you have on is just fine,” he told her, trying to calm her down. “I’ve always liked it. Don’t you think it fits the bill, Becca?”

  “I certainly do,” Becca said, winking at Locke. “And I love your little American flag lapel pin. That’s about as patriotic as you can get.”

  “Well, we do have bunting draped all across our front porch on Perry Street,” Voncille continued, somewhat placated. “I saw to that. Seems like all our neighbors do, too. And we all fly the flag proudly on our porches, too. Perry Street always gets spruced up like that, and I always want to do my part on the Fourth of July. It helps me honor my Frank’s memory, and Locke has always been a perfect angel in understanding how I feel about his MIA status.” She blew him a little kiss. “There’s not a jealous bone in his body.”

  “Anyhow, we’re here,” Locke added, catching her kiss and then taking a deep breath after the crisis had passed. “We saw you talking to Douglas at the head of the line a little earlier. Has all the book club gang made it out here yet?”

  Becca handed over their signed copy with a smile. “Just about. I’m holding out one copy for Nora Duddney and another for Audra Neely, though. I’m getting close to being sold out. Looks like I should have had a larger print run, but then you don’t want to be stuck with a garage full of books, either.”

  Locke looked suddenly thoughtful. “You underestimated your popularity, Becca. As a matter of fact, Maura Beth ought to consider having all of us bring nothing but recipes from your cookbook at one of our future Cherry Cola Book Club meetings. I bet that’d be a smash hit, since everything we’d have to choose from would be one of your specialties.”

  Becca was beaming. “Well, as you know, I’m always in charge of assigning who brings what to the buffet table. I’ll mention it to Maura Beth next time we talk. Meanwhile, you two should get out there and sample some of the great food everyone’s raving about before it’s all gone.”

  * * *

  “I am the ultimate equal opportunity food sampler,” Becca was saying to Mrs. Olla Bowman after taking a bite of the woman’s orange and lemon meringue dessert.

  A few moments earlier, Olla had pursued Becca aggressively with her carnival barker’s pitch: “Come git yer meringue, light as a feather, sunny as a Florida afternoon, come and git it! What about you there with the blond hair and that cute figure? What’s yer name?”

  After Becca had identified herself, she thought Olla was going to faint as she fanned her face. “You mean you’re the real Becca Broccoli—the one who was on the radio show all those years?”

  “One and the same, last time I looked.”

  “Why, you look even prettier than I imagined while I was listening to you. I just got this picture of you in my head as a mite bigger than you really are. I mean, you’re so petite. Wish I could be like that. Well, I was a decent size back in my twenties, but somehow, when you get over fifty, the calories just don’t behave the way they used to. Know what I mean?”

  They were now both standing in front of Olla’s tent beneath a sign that read OLLA’S HEAVENLY MERINGUE, and Becca had not been able to resist the compliments. “Well, you got to me where I live. I do like to watch my figure, and I’m right proud it didn’t get blown out of the water by my pregnancy. I’ve got a six-month-old baby boy to show for it all, and that’s the most important thing—win or lose the pounds.”

  “Well, congratulations. You look wonderful. How’d you manage it?”

  Becca leaned in and pursed her lips dramatically. “Turns out all my cravings weren’t sweets or carbs. I was a sourpuss, if you catch my drift. Pickles, sauerkraut, lemon juice on everything—oh, I guess I did develop a thing for sour cream. But I didn’t put it on baked potatoes. I just had a spoonful or two out of the carton every now and then. Minimal damage, I guess you could say.”

  “You were lucky then. My husband practically had to put in a year’s supply of doughnuts and cinnamon rolls. That was my thing—sugar and cinnamon.”

  Becca pointed to her paper plate. “Well, after everything else I’ve eaten so far, your meringue is just the light touch I need. This is delicious—especially the sauce. It’s so citrus-y.”

  “Why, thank you. There’s a lot of orange and lemon in it, of course,” Olla said. �
��That’s a right high compliment, comin’ from you, Miz Brachle. I used to listen to The Becca Broccoli Show every single morning it was on. Set my alarm by it. You can ask my husband, Marty. He used to complain all the time about me wakin’ him up that early.”

  Olla pointed to her ample waist and gave her prominent right thigh a playful pat. “Speakin’ of figures, I don’t keep mine anymore. I gave it permission to run away and hide long ago.”

  Becca laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one if it ever happens to me. Very diplomatic way of putting it.” Then she finished off the small piece of meringue she had bought, running her tongue quickly across her lips. “You know, all of you out here today are making it very difficult when it comes to casting my vote. Every time I think I’ve made up my mind, something else I eat changes it. I haven’t found anything I don’t like so far.”

  Indeed, since her book signing had ended—and earlier than expected since she had sold out completely and had to apologize profusely to the few who were still standing in line—Becca had mingled among the other Chericoans crowding the venue and made stops at the following other tents with their big signs:

  MRS. FRIEZE’S CHEEZE BALLZ GOURMET SANDWICHES TO GO HOLA, AMIGOS! GET YOUR NO-SUGAR-ADDED DESSERT HERE JUST WATERMELON ALL-AMERICAN APPLE PIE PAULA’S PEACH ICE CREAM THE SPAGHETTI IS READY APPETIZING APPETIZERS

  She felt just like a little kid at the circus, trying to cram as much food as possible into a compressed amount of time and practically daring her stomach not to cooperate.

  “Please tell all your friends to try me,” Olla said, as Becca dropped her paper plate and fork into the nearby trash can.

  “Will do, and I’ll give your dessert strong consideration, believe me. Who knows? You might be the winner.”