Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction!

by Lizz Lund

  “No problem,” I lied, handing him the box and getting out of the car.

  Vito put the car back into gear and waved goodbye to me. Boy, he must be in a hurry. He didn’t even bother to change into the shirt he made me pick up for him. Huh.

  I opened the door and Vinnie greeted me by rolling on his back and demanding a belly rub. I threw my raincoat over the railing and picked off a mousie toy that was stuck to his belly in more marshmallow gunk. I padded into the kitchen and peered into the fridge to see what might be playing for dinner. It looked like I was fully stocked with condiments but no food to wear them. Thinking pizza delivery sounded pretty good, I scrounged around for the phone book. Phone book in hand, I called PizzaNow! and ordered a medium white skinny pizza with onions, green peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms and anchovies. Things were looking up.

  The pizza arrived, and I settled down to a pizza orgy for one and watched Stand Up Comic-palooza with a fresh Mug O’Merlot, sans birdie doo-doo. At a commercial I went upstairs and gave Marie some pizza crust. Then I settled back downstairs on the sofa. The last thing I remember was Vinnie curled up next to me on the floor, snuggling my hand.

  CHAPTER 3

  (Sunday)

  I woke up on the sofa to Vinnie snuffling inside the pizza box and a Family Cook-Along rerun. I scooped Vinnie’s head out of the box and petted him. He felt lumpy. I looked closer. A piece of pizza crust was stuck to him. Vinnie scooted away and ran into the basement. I got up, washed the gunk from my fingers and made some coffee. I poured a cup, lifted it to my lips and glanced at the clock. And then I gasped and spat the coffee back out again. It was 9:50 a.m. I was supposed to meet Aunt Muriel at church at 10:30. And for brunch afterward. And the polomathingy after that. Ack. Ack. Ack.

  I grabbed some paper towels and swiped at the mess on the floor. At least Vito would have something different to Swiffer today. I threw some Kitty Cookies in Vinnie’s bowl, and started quickly upstairs when my foot complained. I told it to report to Customer Service. I climbed the rest of the steps, fed Marie and got in the shower. A few nanoseconds later I was out again, wet, purple and red. There was a dull throb in my foot. My face glowed a shiny bright pink. And my eyes were still bloodshot. I shrugged. I figured I’d wear Auntie’s sunglasses again. I pulled on a light-blue sleeveless linen dress and cute spikey white sandals, throb or no throb. I pulled my wet hair up into a quickie French braid, patted on some foundation, and finished with some lip-gloss. With any luck I might pass for sun-poisoned.

  I dashed downstairs, grabbed my purse and stepped into the oven otherwise known as my van. I started the engine, regretting the non-working AC. I remoted the garage door open and lead-footed it down the driveway. I looked in my rearview and realized I’d almost smooshed Mr. Perfect flat on the curb, along with his Dinasouris Muttis. There he was again, greeting me in another moment of my time-challenged hysteria. Sporting his usual tanned torso under a white t-shirt. His hair was freshly washed and he wore a new, somewhat pissed off look. I waved a little in the rearview mirror at him, to which he shook his head and loped off with his hound. I leaned my head on the steering wheel and sighed. When I looked up, I saw Vito ambling toward my car all gussied up in his Sunday best: a powder blue leisure suit and white patent leather Pat Boone shoes. Good grief. We not only matched; we looked like we were going to the prom together.

  “Hiya, Toots, you leaving for St. Bart’s? Can I hitch a ride?” he asked.

  I’d never seen Vito at a church service. Then again, I’m not a regular.

  “Sure,” I shrugged. “Hop in.”

  “Boy, I sure hate walking into a service all by myself.”

  I glanced at him and noticed he’d lost his bridge again. But I was proven wrong: we hit a red light. While we waited for it to turn green, he reached into his blazer pocket, withdrew his bridge and slipped it into his mouth. Then the light turned green. I floored it. I was determined not to stop at any more red lights with Vito or his teeth.

  I parked the van on Mulberry and we walked toward church. Or really Vito walked and I limped behind, my foot barking at my cute spikey sandals.

  Mulberry Street was a picture perfect slice of Americana on a hazy Sunday morning. Just the quiet hum of cars passing, cicadas, and someone washing breakfast dishes.

  “You wanna sit together?” Vito bellowed shyly.

  “Sure,” I said, “but we have to look out for Aunt Muriel. I’m supposed to meet her.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s great!” Vito smiled enthusiastically. Somewhere in the dim recesses of my ancient love-life, I vaguely recalled this was what attraction smelt like. Vito was oozing something very much like this at the mention of Aunt Muriel’s name. Huh.

  We headed into church and scoped out Aunt Muriel. I walked down the aisle and tapped her on her shoulder. She slid over, while I offered Vito first dibs to sit next to Auntie. Aunt Muriel’s eyebrows flew to the ceiling and she pursed her lips together into an asterisk. Vito responded by flashing his game-show-host-with-bridge-in grin at her. I sat at the end of the pew and pretended to memorize the hymnal. But maybe things were looking up. My foot hurt a bit less, and my eyes felt adjusted. I took Auntie’s sunglasses off. Maybe I didn’t look like I had eyeball aneurysms anymore. Vito tapped me on my arm. I looked over, and saw Auntie waving at me to put her sunglasses back on. I put them on.

  We went through the service with some confusion, which is typical for Episcopalians and visitors alike. We quickly realized poor Vito was a visitor. I tried to explain the Prayer Book vs. Hymnal vs. Contemporary Hymnal vs. Weekly Insert, nudging him when to pick up his hymnal, put his knees down, put his right foot in, put his right foot out, that’s what Salvation’s all about. The Eucharist began, and eventually it was our turn to walk up to the altar. I stood up and let Vito and Auntie out of the pew. Vito got ahead of us, but I figured we’d catch up. I shrugged at Aunt Muriel and she smiled her thin-lip look back at me. We shuffled up the aisle and took our turn to kneel – Vito, me, and Aunt Muriel.

  The first pass with the Host went okay, with Vito starting the lineup. Then the chalice with the Blood of Our Lord was offered to Vito. Instead of gently guiding it to his lips, Vito grabbed hold and gulped it all down. Aunt Muriel’s jaw dropped. I stared in amazement. I’d never seen anyone like tawny port that much.

  Once the chalice was wrested back from Vito’s fervent grasp, there were a lot of blank looks. While we were one of the last pews up to bat, there was still a line of people waiting to partake of the Eucharistic feast, which meant sharing the One Cup. Except that Vito had chugged it.

  Suddenly the organist whipped up a Toccata, and vamped for sacramental wine time. This allowed for some new wine to get blessed asap. Tawny port might be getting a new claim to fame in the Episcopalian church. “We bless no wine before its time.” Yup. It was eleven-thirty.

  We kneeled for a while and waited for the sacramental backup to appear. Vito was polite enough to hang around kneeling with those of us who remained dry. New wine appeared, got poured into the chalice and was offered to the start of the line, beginning with Vito. Which was probably why Aunt Muriel reached across me and snapped it out from underneath his nose, and took a big swig. Just to be polite and not have Auntie look a little alcoholic, I took a big gulp too. What the heck – the worst anyone could accuse us of was being thirsty.

  We ambled back down and through the chapel. Vito pulled me aside. “What are these little candles for?” he asked. I explained. “Oh. Well, then I’m gonna light a candle here, for my sainted wife, Marie,” he explained, a little misty-eyed. Poor guy. He really missed his wife. Either that or all that tawny port had mellowed him out.

  “Okay,” I said, “you just put your offering in here, then light a candle. And I’ll hang around in case you get… lost.” I wasn’t sure what other liturgical faux pax Vito might commit, but I hoped he’d used up his quota for the morning.

  “Right, thanks, kiddo,” he said.

  He pulled out a wad
of cash from his pocket. I stood bug-eyed: the roll of dough was big enough to choke an elephant. Vito put a crisp, new one-hundred dollar bill into the donation box. Well, at least St. Bart’s could replace the port he’d guzzled with that, and then some. He lit a candle and bowed his head while I hovered around him, just to be sure he didn’t set anything on fire. I stood, smiling limply as people tried to weave their way around Vito’s girth and return to the sanctuary.

  Once Vito’s mumblings to the Almighty were done, he turned around and winked at me. I led Vito back down the aisle toward Aunt Muriel, who was on her knees, muttering and shaking her head. I hedged in ahead of Vito to kneel next to Auntie this time, in case she forgot where we were and hit Vito in the pew.

  The service over and our handshaking with the vicar complete, we stood uncomfortably between the church and the Fellowship Hall. “Beauteous day!” Vito beamed at Aunt Muriel.

  “Yes,” Aunt Muriel replied.

  “Anyone want coffee? We can grab a cup in Fellowship Hall,” I asked and then felt Aunt Muriel’s stilettoed heel stomp my hurt foot. “OWWW!!!” I yelled.

  “Really, Mina!” she gasped.

  “You pierced my foot!” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Beg pardon.”

  “Hey, yeah, some coffee would be great,” Vito said, and smiled. “And maybe some ice for your foot, huh, Toots?” he asked. I nodded and Auntie and Vito ambled into Fellowship Hall. I limped behind.

  Inside there were some of the members of the Breakfast Wars, plus a few of the enlisted kids. Evelyn stood in the kitchen, supervising the coffee service with her kinetic eyebrows. Ernie loaded the dishwasher, minus his eyebrows. Norma and Ray put out some sweets, wearing their pressed best. I looked and realized the coffee hour snacks were mostly leftovers from yesterday’s Breakfast Wars. Lancaster folk must believe in the ‘waste not, want not’ thing pretty intensely. It was going to take me a long time to even think of serving used food.

  Ed looked around in both directions at once, holding out a fresh pot of coffee and waiting to pour. But most people knew enough to wait until he set the pot down and left. You have to be kind of careful with Ed so you don’t get hot coffee poured right next to you. I spotted Henry holding a coffee mug with a gauze-bandaged hand. Huh. If I didn’t know better I’d say Henry’s hand was pretty badly burned. But maybe he had let Ed pour for him last week.

  “Hey, Henry,” I said. “Missed you yesterday. Everything okay?” I asked.

  Henry’s face kind of paled. “Oh sure, yes, thanks for asking,” he said, and then smiled at someone across the hall and hurried away.

  Someone pinched my arm hard and I spun around and hurled my coffee smack into Aunt Muriel’s chest. “What the?” I asked too late, realizing Auntie had pinched me to rescue her from Vito’s verbal clutches. “Sorry, Aunt Muriel,” I said lamely.

  “Jeez, Mina, you could have scalded your Aunt!” Vito puffed up in defense of his afflicted object of affection. To Aunt Muriel’s mortification, he pawed at the coffee stain in the middle of her chest with his handkerchief.

  “Really, really, I’m quite alright! Thank you all the same!” Aunt Muriel spluttered. I guess she wasn’t very happy about having her boobs blotted in public.

  Aunt Muriel grabbed Vito’s handkerchief and tucked it into her blouse like a farmer’s wife settling down for a big Sunday dinner. Except that Aunt Muriel was definitely no farmer’s wife, and she looked pretty upset. Even her diamonds spluttered. “Mina, I simply must go home and change. I cannot go to brunch like this. And certainly not polo,” she finished.

  “Pick you up at your house?” I asked.

  “Yes please, dear,” she said, and whisked away, the edges of Vito’s handkerchief fluttering past her like a veil. I looked at Vito. We shrugged and walked back to my van.

  We began to sweat as soon as we were back in the Doo-doo. As I started the van, I re-wished I had working AC. At the light on Walnut Street, I glanced at Vito and saw orange sweat trickling down his neck, where it began to form a dark brown line along his collar. I looked closer. Vito’s hair was melting. By the time we pulled up my driveway, Vito’s liquid hair had started to dry, making shoe polish lines around his jowls and neck. I sighed inwardly. I just didn’t have the heart to tell Vito about his hair malfunction. Or the time. I had to be on the other side of town at Aunt Muriel’s and then hightail it with her back downtown for the brunch thingy. But my foot ordered me to change shoes.

  “I guess you can’t come in for a minute, huh?” Vito asked. I shook my head. “No problem, Toots. I just wanted a little female advice about decorating, that’s all.”

  Vito smiled and got out of the van and waved bye-bye. I sat still in amazement. Vito was asking the owner of Disney Puked Walls a la Hot Sauce stains for decorating advice. I wondered if his walls in his half of the duplex actually looked worse than mine.

  I got out quick, walked inside and slipped in a puddle of kitty puke, falling smack down on my keester. Vinnie came trotting up from the basement and licked my nose. I shook my head, patted him and found a couple more marshmallows stuck to him. Then I saw some wet marshmallows in the puddle he’d left. Apparently Vinnie’s cleaning himself of marshmallow gunk wasn’t a good thing.

  I grabbed a few hundred paper towels and cleaned the floor. I washed quick and got rid of my dirty duds. I stood in the bedroom in my underwear while Vinnie rubbed against my shin and stuck. There was still marshmallow glue on him. “Okay, buddy, that does it,” I said. We trotted into the bathroom together. Vinnie stretched out on the bathroom floor belly up, and looked up at me. Apparently he didn’t want any more s’mores, either.

  I found out pretty quickly that pulling marshmallow gook out of Vinnie’s fur was going to hurt me a lot more than it hurt him. His claws are pretty sharp. So I got a pair of scissors and cut off anything that felt remotely sticky. After I was done, Vinnie looked like a large stuffed toy that had been attacked by moths. But, as he purred and rubbed against me, he didn’t stick. Progress.

  I washed my hands, pulled on a pair of Capri length chinos and a hot pink sleeveless shirt. I matched that with a pair of hot pink flat sandals. My stubbed toe and pierced foot still complained, and I told them to mind their own business. I did a quick double-check at my make-up. My face looked pink (not scarlet), and my eyes looked less vampiric (more Dean Martin-esque). I’d probably fit in. I tossed some spare Tylenol in my pocket for back up, and went downstairs with my moth-eaten mountain lion leading the way. Out of the house I went, Auntie’s sunglasses back on my face, hopped into the Doo-doo and then floored it across town.

  I weaved my way across Millersville Pike, Columbia Avenue, Marietta Pike and into Auntie’s development. I got to her house and let myself in through the garage door. “Hi, I’m here!” I shouted. No answer.

  I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. The message light on Auntie’s phone blinked. I wondered if the message was from Ma, then wondered what Ma was doing. Sometimes I miss Ma being in New Jersey, especially when I’m god-mom sitting. But I figured I’d get a call from her at lunchtime tomorrow about new swatches.

  “In here, dear,” Aunt Muriel called out.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Bedroom,” she said.

  I walked into Auntie’s bedroom and saw her standing in the middle of the room in her underwear and knee highs wearing a plastic grocery bag over her head. “Everything okay, Auntie?” I asked.

  She pulled a pale yellow silk top over her head, bag and all. She removed the bag and stared at me. “It keeps your hair in place,” she explained. That was a relief: for a moment I wondered if she was performing a very slow form of suicide.

  She put on white linen trousers and slid her feet into matching yellow sandals. Aunt Muriel looked very nice, cool and collected. In contrast to me, I thought as I glanced at myself in her dresser mirror. I looked hot, pink and harried.

  We took Aunt Muriel’s Lexus and headed across town and b
runched at ‘Camille’s’. We both love it there. It’s like dining in a 1930s movie set. Different kinds of Art Deco lamps decorate each table, the windows are Frank Lloyd Wright-like, and vintage jazz music plays in the background.

  We each ordered a Bloody Mary, then studied our menus to the tune of several fire engines in the background. “Oh dear,” Aunt Muriel commented idly. I sighed, wondering if the Fruitville Buy-A-Lots got flambéed again and worried about facing EEJIT tomorrow morning. Aunt Muriel looked at me. “How are your eyes, dear?” she asked. I lowered her sunglasses. She pushed them back up on my nose.

  Just then the GQ-like waiter we’d been admiring came back with our Bloodies. I picked mine up and took a sip. “Are we ready, ladies?” he said, smiling. For what? I thought idly, staring at his handsome face and movie star smile. I really needed to get a boyfriend. And a life. Auntie’s was nice, but it was a loaner.

  Aunt Muriel woke me up politely. “Mina?”

  “Sure,” I said, and we ordered. To my credit, I at least don’t live up to my namesake’s restaurant habits. Great-Grandma Mina vacillated horribly between menu items and typically wound up ordering two to three entrees as a result (with several doggie bags on the side.) I ordered only one entree.

  In the amicable quiet that followed, Aunt Muriel asked hopefully, “Have you chosen any paint colors, dear?”

  “Oh, there are a few I’m thinking about,” I lied.

  Aunt Muriel sighed and gnawed her celery. We both turned and looked out the window at a fire engine racing past us. I took a healthy swig of my Bloody Mary and pretended Mondays happen to someone else.

  I went to split the tab with Aunt Muriel but she insisted on treating me. “Of course, dear,” Aunt Muriel said, leaving Handsome Harry a large tip. I also thought I saw her write my phone number down for him.

  Back out in the street, the heat pummeled up at us from the sidewalk. Aunt Muriel’s gadgety car thingies confirmed the ridiculous temperature with their feminine-esque electronic voices. “It is one-hundred and one degrees Fahrenheit, with a humidity index of 92, which will make the air quality seem like one hundred and seventeen degrees.” Yeesh. How about just saying it’s hot?