Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction!

by Lizz Lund

  Ernie started cracking eggs while I melted butter and oil in the frying pans. I reached into my back pocket and dug out an orange bandana, folded it and tied it around my forehead. I’d figured out long ago that sweat dripping from my forehead into frying pans wasn’t too hygienic.

  “Sunburn?” Ernie asked me.

  “Hot sauce,” I replied, lowering Aunt Muriel’s shades.

  “Really?” Ernie arched his eyebrows. But something was wrong. I stared at Ernie and his rumpled forehead trying to figure out what was missing. He saw my stare, and started chuckling. “Oh yeah, heh. Got a little too close to the grill yesterday and WHOOMPF! My eyebrows fell out cinders.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad. But they’ll grow back in,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. Hey, maybe they’ll grow back in red, like they were when I was 20. You think?” Ernie winked at me. “Hey, better yet,” he whispered, “maybe I could color them in with a marker like Evelyn, huh?” Ernie nudged me in the ribs and we both grinned. “See, when you smile you look almost human!” he beamed.

  I got the first batch of eggs scrambled but I didn’t know who was ferrying them to the warmer. Ernie’s lined up bowls were there, but he had been going back and forth with Vito carrying in the hams. I looked around and couldn’t see him. I shut the heat off the pans and looked around for some transportation help. Then I heard Vito come back down the stairs with the last ham, getting cornered by Evelyn. Eeek. Since I had to save the eggs, I figured I might as well save Vito, too.

  “Hey, Vito,” I interrupted Evelyn’s interrogation. Vito’s face flipped the volume on the hopeful factor.

  “Yeah, Cookie? Yous need a hand?” he asked.

  “Or two,” I said. Vito grinned back. Evelyn scowled. At least it looked like she was scowling. But it was kind of hard to tell if it was really a scowl or not. She might have been happy, but her eyebrows looked mad.

  Vito lumbered across the kitchen and through the maze of food, supplies, volunteers and serving paraphernalia. Once he got within hearing range he whispered, “I owe you, Toots.”

  “What’s with her this morning?” I asked.

  “Aw, she’s a little sore with me on account of I couldn’t do my errand early this morning like I planned, and she was my first stop,” Vito explained. “Anyways, so I gotta do a little favor now for Evelyn and stop over her house in a little bit.”

  Vito ferried the scrambled eggs over to the warmers, which were immediately confiscated by Aunt Muriel, Norma and Ray. Norma and Ray are a couple in their late 60s. The three of them are usually assigned to serve up the breakfast items. Which is a good thing since they’re the most presentable looking among us. Norma and Ray always looked clean and pressed. I think they sleep standing up, like horses.

  Once I got done with scrambling all the eggs, I felt like I’d sweated off ten pounds. And Ed, who held the line next to me at the stove, still pumping out pancakes, was just as sweaty but a little scarier looking – mostly because both his eyes unfortunately face in opposite directions. It makes conversations and wise cracks a little tricky; you aren’t really sure whether he’s talking to you or the persons on either side of you.

  “I gotta go now, Toots, but I’ll be back,” Vito said, holding his beloved dry cleaning box next to him.

  “Thank you, Vito,” Evelyn waggled at him. “I’m sure Ernie can help Mina,” she said.

  “Oh sure, Evelyn; no problems here,” poor Ernie said, snapping a salute at his peeled egg forehead. I had a funny feeling it was gonna take a long, long time for Ernie’s eyebrows to grow back. Fingers crossed he wouldn’t be tempted to borrow Evelyn’s marker.

  Off Vito went with his box o’ shirts while Ernie and I kept scrambling.

  A feeling suddenly struck me, and I peered about the kitchen. All at once I was sure we were missing more than Ernie’s eyebrows.

  “Hey, Ernie,” I wondered out loud, “Where’s Henry?”

  Ernie’s face kind of blanched. “Umm… I think he had some kind of an accident yesterday so he couldn’t be here,” he fluffed. Hmmm, I thought. Weird.

  My toe started to throb peacefully, so I tried not to think about missing volunteers. Instead I began to really miss my Extra Strength Tylenol. Youch. Now it felt like a cozy one thousand degrees in the kitchen. Everyone was passing around pitchers of ice water, which was good since I was probably the only person under 50 there. The thought of limping from person to person performing CPR was not particularly attractive. Not that I was at this point, either.

  We finally got the breakfast buffet ready and assembled cafeteria-style on the counter: scrambled eggs, pancakes, scrapple, sausages, sliced ham, bacon, French toast, hash browns, grits, fruit, milk, juice, biscuits, and pans of macaroni and cheese casserole. And there was more in the dining room for people to help themselves to: iced cinnamon rolls, turnovers, pies, layer cake, muffins, donuts, hot and cold cereals, coffee, tea and hot chocolate.

  Each Breakfast War I would mentally cross myself and pray that there would be no suicidal diabetics or arterial bypass patients partaking of the complimentary repast. It was an easy task, fortunately: we all held hands and said a prayer before serving. Jorge, the verger, was always at each breakfast and always led us. Today’s prayer ended with, “…and we’re extremely thankful for our continued blessings from Groceries Galore and especially thankful for the donation of the many hams from Friends of Vito.” Huh. I didn’t know Vito an organization of friends. Other than his Breakfast Wars buddies. At least, none that I had ever met.

  After the blessing, Norma, Ray and Aunt Muriel lined up in their latex hospital gloves to serve the masses. Although Aunt Muriel replaced her diamond cluster rings over her gloves. Is she a class act, or what?

  I spied the dirty pots and pans and sighed. Usually I stay and help with the cleanup, but I’d kind of had enough for one hot sauce/mangled foot morning. But Vito was MIA with the Evelyn errand. Then Vito’s head popped into the kitchen. “Pssssst, Toots,” he hissed. I looked at him and hope returned. “C’mon,” he waved and ducked back up the stairs. I hopped out and hoped I’d slide under the radar. I hopped right into Evelyn.

  “Hi-iiiii!” I beamed from under my sweat soaked orange bandana. Evelyn looked a little earnest, even though her eyebrows were scowling.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said. “I know how uncomfortable you must be. Please make sure you have yourself looked at. Oh, and by the way, Mina, Vito mentioned the, ummm… splatter on your floors from the accident. Be sure to use salt; it’s marvelous for removing stains.” Evelyn patted me on the arm and walked by me, cleaver and all. Wow. Lancaster folks sure have this nice stuff down to a tee. And they’re also very up to date on stain removal, too. Useful, yes?

  I limped back up toward the street and was relieved to feel the temperature drop instantly. Vito had the Towncar running and the AC blasting. Hurray for Vito! I got in the car and looked at the thermometer. Now, at about half past ten, it was only 102 degrees with 92 percent humidity. I didn’t even want to think how hot the kitchen must have been to make this weather feel cool.

  “Boy am I glad you got back when you did,” I said. “My dogs are barking. And so are their puppies.” I slid my toes up onto the dashboard.

  Vito shook his head. “You’re gonna get that looked at, right?” he asked.

  I looked at my toe. Then I saw the big gash on the top of my foot. “I’ll see how it goes Monday,” I said. Vito shook his head again.

  We drove home in amicable silence, sailing through green lights all the way through town. Typical. Maybe I had some kind of red light magnet attached to my van.

  Once we were home, Vito pulled into his driveway. We both got out of the car and I was just about to shut the door when I saw Mr. Perfect jogging around our cul-de-sac with Marmaduke. I stood there with my hand on the door handle, frozen.

  Mr. Perfect rounded the circle with his hound and stared right at me and grinned. “Hey,” he greeted with a wave and jogged on by
.

  Hey, he said. That’s friendly, right? So maybe I didn’t look so bad! I grinned at that thought – and then caught my reflection in Vito’s side view mirror. My face was slick, shiny and red, topped by the drenched orange bandana and lots of sweaty strands of hair poking up over top. I looked like a Muppet on acid.

  “Hey, he seems like kind of a nice guy,” Vito said. “Dunno about the dog, though,” he added thoughtfully, and ambled toward his front door. I stood in the driveway and hung my head.

  “Hey, Mina, you alright? Could I get ya something?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  I shuffled up to my front door and re-entered the Fright Night II set that was my home. Ugh. I did not feel like housecleaning, much less deep boiling hot sauce stains – or possible blood stains, judging by the gash in my foot – out of rugs. But since I was a mess already, I shook it off, munched some Tylenol, and went to work.

  I scrubbed the floors and Swiffered them. I felt guilty Swiffering behind Vito’s back, but I figured he’d have more turns later in the week. Once I was done, I treated myself to a hotdog, a couple more Extra Strength Tylenol and a beer.

  Of course, fridge-rustling sounds are a dinner gong for Vinnie. He sauntered up from the basement, stretching and yawning. Smart cat. He’d stayed completely out of the way while there was anything resembling work being done. I patted him on his head and gave him his leftover Aspic Yick from the night before. Then I took a piece of bread up to Marie. Finally it was my turn to get out of my sweat soaked clothes and into the shower.

  I gulped some beer and set the bottle down on the bathroom sink. I was about to get out of my clothes when I caught myself in the mirror. Yikes! Much, much worse than Muppets on Acid. More like Meth Muppets. Maybe I was having an allergic reaction to the hot sauce? The thought made me feel squeamish. I thought about the 1980s remake of ‘The Fly’ with Jeff Goldblum. Was I really becoming Brundle-Rash?

  I tossed the thought aside, and my sweaty gear along with it, and climbed into the shower. When I was done, I slipped on a soft T-shirt and some old lightweight jammie bottoms.

  About then I decided it was half-past naptime. I hopped into bed and dozed and dreamt about buffets and kitchens and cats (oh my). When I woke up, Vinnie was curled up against me and the clock read almost four. I considered it, got up and sidled downstairs. I poured a glass of water and raised my glass to Vinnie. “Well, here’s looking up your address,” I said.

  After toasting the cat, I went upstairs to feed Marie and apologize for not bringing her down for TV later. It was tough enough going up and down the stairs with my mangled foot, much less carrying the triceps-shaping cockatiel cage.

  Back downstairs, I went through the usual dinner routine with Vinnie and held out his menu. “Okay, do you want ‘Chicken Lips’ or ‘Edible Entrails’?” I asked. Vinnie purred his face up to the tin of slivered lips: we had a winner. I plopped the contents down into a clean bowl for him and shivered. Yeesh. And I thought Scrapple was what they squeegeed off the killing room floor.

  By now it had cooled down outside to a tolerable 80-something degrees. I put on an old Tom Waits record, scratches and all. I opened the screen door from the dining room, so the music could stretch out to me on the deck, and Vinnie could check out the nature channel safely from inside. Then I opened up a new box of red wine, poured some into a coffee mug, and sat outside in my lounger and sipped.

  There’s a saying about the bluebird of happiness, and may it fly over you, yada yada. In my family we use this as a curse. Because we all know what birds do. They do doo-doo. Which one did, right into my mug o’Merlot after I drunk my first swig. Shit.

  It was also the harbinger of more dirty stuff falling out of the blue.

  “Psst, Mina,” Vito hissed through the bushes that separated his yard from mine. I sighed. For a second I considered pretending I was asleep, but Vito toddled over through the shrubs. I fantasized about planting roses, barberries or anything else with thorns that would discourage future neighborly visits.

  Tom Waits tucked into ‘Jersey Girl’ so I motioned shhh at Vito. He held both paws up to me in complete understanding and plopped down with his diet Coke in the other chair. As the song started to end, so did my peaceful evening.

  “Mina, I hate to ask ya this,” Vito said. “But I really got to get some stuff back from Lickety-Split Laundry, lickety-split, like.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m missing something I really need, and I gotta get it before they close tonight at six.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great! So you’ll help me!”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  Vito gulped and took a breath and I swear I heard the gears in his head shift to Big Fat Lie mode. “You see, the thing is,” Vito began, “Mrs. Phang kinda likes yous, and she really hates me. She always gives me a hard time.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I shrieked politely. He looked at me.

  “Well the thing is, I really need to get a particular shirt tonight on account of because I’m going out somewhere… yeah, yeah, that’s it! I’m goin’ out somewheres and I need this particular shirt what Mrs. Phang’s got ready for me.”

  Vito smiled at his massively fabricated whopper. But being my usual schnooky self, plus having had a Merlot and Extra Strength Tylenol cocktail, I let my guard down. “So what you’re asking me to do is to go downtown and pick up dry cleaning for you – again,” I emphasized, to make sure the guilt thing hit home. After all, guilt can be highly profitable.

  “Well, when ya put it like that …” Vito said.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Oh.”

  We stared at each other Mexican Stand-Off Style. I had to hand it to him. He might have retired to Lancaster from Philly like he said, but he had all the tenacity of a Jersey guy. Huh. Go figure.

  At last, I grimaced. “Okay, Vito, here’s the deal.”

  “Yeah!” he said, patting my shoulder in thanks.

  “Okay, I’m not really in a position to drive right now, what with my foot hurting and drinking wine and Tylenol,” I said, emptying my glass into the planter next to me.

  Vito’s brow furrowed. “Okay.” Clearly he was worried about the sobriety of my zinnias.

  “So I’ll pick up your laundry, but I can’t drive there. You’d have to drive me there. And by the way, since you’d already be there, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to just be polite to Mrs. Phang and pick up your own dry cleaning?” Ha.

  “No! No! No! Mrs. Phang hates me! She’ll put scorch marks in my best shirts!” Vito whined. I could totally empathize with his fear of Mrs. Phang. And ironing. I hadn’t ironed a piece of clothing since 1982.

  “Okay, look, I’ll do it but you gotta get me there. And back,” I added.

  “Sure, sure, sure, Toots,” he said.

  I limped inside while Vito retreated. I turned off Tom Waits, put my raincoat on over my jammies and gimped out of the house and into Vito’s Towncar. On the ride into town I readied myself to be dropped off in front of Lickety-Split Laundry. But Vito drove right past it, and parked in the lot near Central Market.

  “Vito, don’t you want to drop me off in front of the cleaners, and not a block away?” I asked.

  “Ummm. No. I can’t. On account of Mrs. Phang knows what my car looks like and I’m afraid she’ll close up early once she sees it. She’s done it before,” Vito mumbled.

  I wasn’t buying it. “Vito, let me get this straight. You’re so afraid of Mrs. Phang that it’s okay for me to limp around the block with a sore foot and your dry cleaning because you’re afraid she’ll hurt your laundry?”

  Vito gulped. “Yep.”

  “Here’s a little clue: MAYBE IT’S TIME TO USE A DIFFERENT DRY CLEANER!” I glared at him.

  Vito gulped and looked down and started the car. “Uh, maybe you’re right, Toots… sorry… didn’t realize your foot hurt you so bad,” he mumbled apologetically.

  Hrumph, I
thought. Vito pulled up in front of the cleaners, gave me the cleaning ticket and I gimped inside. Mrs. Phang was waiting for me, adorned with one of her best sneers. “Why he park here? What he want?” she snapped.

  I was in no mood. “This!” I answered, equally as snappy, slapping the cleaning ticket on the counter. Mrs. Phang jumped back a bit.

  “No need shout,” Mrs. Phang sulked, and she disappeared into the back room. I heard her rummaging for Vito’s shirt amidst a lot of Vietnamese expletives. Then she returned with the usual shirt box and handed it to me. I took it and stared at her. “I know, I know, he regular customer, he pay by check.” Yeeshkabiddle.

  Mrs. Phang nodded brusquely, folded her arms and stared at me. “You go home, you put on cream! Get rid of rash!” she advised with a shout.

  I stepped out of the building and walked over to the curb where Vito’s car had been idling. Except neither Vito nor the Towncar were anywhere in sight. I rolled my eyes and wanted to do a Mexican hat dance on his shirt box. But I figured that would hurt my sore foot more, so I calmly slammed the box against a nearby lamppost. Something rattled from inside it. Great. It sounded like I’d knocked all the buttons off his shirts. I stood on the corner in my raincoat and jammies, leaning on the lamppost, watching all the tourists pass by.

  Just then Vito pulled up to the corner and waved at me to hurry into the car.

  “Where’d you go?” I asked, sliding into the car as Vito sped away from the curb. “What are you in such a hurry for?”

  “Sorry, Toots. I was afraid I got spotted by a traffic cop and didn’t want to risk a ticket. I just drove around the block,” Vito said. I held on to the box and closed my eyes. When I opened them again we were parked in Vito’s driveway. “Thanks again, Mina,” Vito said.