Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction!

by Lizz Lund

  I then realized I probably owed close to a hundred bucks for several days of parking, which I probably couldn’t blame on snow emergencies. Yeesh. “Thanks,” I said, and meant it.

  We drove up to the top level, where I’d left my car parked near Bauser’s usual rooftop spot. But as we got within sight we noticed some security guards and police cars huddled around my van. Along with the ‘new’ Detective Appletree. I groaned and slid back down in the backseat next to Jim, poots or no poots.

  Appletree walked over and leaned in the window. Then he backed away, waving at Jim’s fumes with his hand. “Hi, Mina,” he said, about two feet from the Aspire, with a handkerchief over his nose. “Was wondering when you’d show up. Not like you to leave your van like this, right?”

  I sighed. “Nope; didn’t have my keys after my purse, uh, didn’t get stolen,” I said, and rubbed at the twinge that was tapping inside my shoulder.

  Appletree sighed. “C’mon out. I think you’d better take a look at this.”

  Bauser cut the engine and we all climbed out. Appletree led me over to the Doo-doo. He pointed to a broken window at the backseat.

  “Oh, great,” I muttered. Why is it when the Unemployment Fairy visits, she dumps expensive accidents on you, too?

  Appletree shook his head. “Not just the broken window. Look inside.”

  I peered in and saw what looked like hundreds of neatly folded, filled brown lunch bags, wrapped up and piled high on the seats and even in the way back, along with a small container of gasoline. And rags. And fireplace matches. And a plastic recycle carton full of glass coke bottles.

  With the broken window open, the stench of cooking doggie poop was unmistakable. Norman and Bauser looked in and held their noses.

  “Look, I was nowhere near this van until just now,” I started. Appletree waved me off.

  “Relax; you’re not a suspect. Knowing you, if you tried to be an arsonist, you’d set yourself on fire.” He pulled a smile. I looked back at him flatly. “And besides, whoever put this stuff in here broke your window to get into your car. It’s not exactly like anybody would break into an old van to steal doggie poop out of it. And it also looks like somebody was getting ready to barbeque your van.”

  Appletree pointed beneath the van. I knelt down and peered. Several waiting Coke bottles, filled with gasoline and stuffed with rags stared back at me. This I did not like. I don’t like the Doo-doo, but she’s mine. It wasn’t fair that someone would break in and put doo-doo in the Doo-doo. The thought of someone torching it – for whatever reason – was akin to pet abuse.

  “We’d like to tow your van back to the station, and get it dusted for fingerprints. It’s going to take some time. Your car insurance should pay for a rental.”

  Car insurance. Great. When you’re driving a 1996 Dodge Caravan, you pretty much don’t have a two-hundred and fifty dollar deductible. Try, like, twenty-five hundred. So now I’d get to treat myself an early Christmas present of a new window and a rental car.

  My butt twinged and I rubbed at it absentmindedly. Appletree blushed. “Hey, maybe you wanna sit down or something? Or have some, uh, time to yourself?”

  I nodded and sat down on the hot floor of the parking garage roof. Jim sat next to me.

  “Here’s my card with my new contact information,” he said, handing me a rather official police detective business card. “You call me Friday afternoon and I’ll be able to let you know when you can pick up your car. You’ll need your I.D. with you.”

  I nodded, took his card, and itched my butt with it before throwing it in my purse. Appletree shook his head. Bauser and Norman shrugged. They picked me up off the ground and packed me back inside the backseat with Jim and we headed back toward my house.

  The drive back was quiet. I was deeply immersed in not irritating the little black cloud that kept floating serenely over my life.

  We drove up to my house but had to park at the curb, because the fire truck was in my driveway. Also, the firemen were blocking the entrance to my front door.

  After screaming at them that I had two pets who I did not want to be barbequed, I dragged out my driver’s license and they let me through.

  Billows of smoke were coming out my front door. Vito and Miriam sat on my front porch, chit-chatting with a couple of firemen and shaking their heads.

  “What happened?” I screamed.

  Vito shrugged. “All I wath doing wath trying to leave a thwank you. So I braised a brithket for yuth,” he said. “Then I thought I’d make a tweat for Thanly,” he added.

  “A treat?”

  “I was trying to thmoke pigs’ feet. Anyway, Mirwium thwings by, and we got to talking, and next thing I knows the pan’s a widdle too hot.”

  “There was smoke!” Miriam said defensively.

  “There’th supposed to be smoke!” Vito yelled back. “I was thmoking pigs’ feet!”

  I rubbed the back of my neck; as my headache creeped down my spine.

  “You were burning brisket! And the pigs’ feet! You’re supposed to smoke food outdoors! With water! In a pot! ” Miriam cried.

  “I TOLD YOU! DO NOT BE AFWAID OF CARBONIZATION!”

  I interrupted, “Carbonization?” Vito nodded his head up and down. I sighed. “I think you mean carmelization,” I said. “Where’s Vinnie? And Marie?”

  After dealing with and apologizing to the firemen, and checking on Vinnie and Marie – now housed in separate bedrooms upstairs in Vito’s townhouse, away from all the smoke – and after borrowing a half dozen fans to blow the smoke out of my house, it was a little after four in the afternoon and I was mad. Vito knew it.

  “I wath justh twying to thay thwank you,” he stammered. “And I got dithtwacted.”

  “Why were you cooking in my house?” I asked simply.

  Vito shrugged. “I gueff it’s kinda wike a habit now. And bethides, you got real good pots and dings. I dunno know how to shop for that kinda thutff,” he said, gingerly fingering his nasal injury. I looked pointedly at the burnt out cast iron pan, and the burnt out stockpot – the culprit – on top of my stove. “Ah guess ah should have athked you,” he said sheepishly.

  “Look, I’ll take you shopping soon and we’ll get you your very own set of good quality pots and pans that you can burn out happily in your own kitchen,” I said.

  “You mean id? And spitheth?”

  “Yes,” I sighed, “and spices.”

  CHAPTER 13

  (Thursday into Friday)

  Downstairs was still pretty smokey, so we got Vinnie and Marie arranged upstairs. Then Aunt Muriel called to let me know she’d made dinner reservations at Conestoga Cabana for her, Ma and me for seven o’clock. It was five-thirty. She asked me if I wanted to come over and have a drink first, which I certainly did. But after the way today had gone, I was afraid I wouldn’t stop. Plus, I was still without a vehicle. And I still needed to shower, dress and make another vain attempt at cosmetics. We then began the logistics negotiations.

  That was about when the migraine in my posterior voiced a loud and angry salutation. I kept nodding and uh-huhing into the phone at Auntie while I walked over to the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas and held it against my butt.

  Ten minutes later, I was still reminding Auntie I was without a car.

  Vito waved at me. “Yeth you do, Toods,” he whispered, dragging out a large, heavy golden key chain from his pocket. “You justh take my Towncawhr,” he said. “I’d dwive you over, if we weren’t airing oud your houthe. Id’s the weast Ah can dew.”

  I motioned for him to throw me the keys. I dropped the peas, caught the keys, and told Aunt Muriel I’d meet her and Ma at the restaurant.

  By now the clock said it was a quarter to pretty late. I got Vinnie’s food ready and carried it upstairs. He was ensconced across my bed, one paw hooked over his nose, enjoying the most of it. Really. He took up the whole bed. Beside him was a Recipes Quick! magazine I’d left on my night table. Appar
ently he’d dragged it onto the bed for perusal. I shrugged. Maybe someday he’d show me a 5-minute feed-and-clean-the-pets-and-shower-and-dress-and-get-your-ass-out-the-door-in-time-for-work recipe.

  Vinnie woke up, stretched longer and yawned. I put his dinner down in front of him – Chicken Toes-es with Fishie Noses – then left and closed the door to repeat the parallel process with Marie across the hall.

  I went back into my room, looked in my closet and saw a bundle of fresh dry cleaning waving at me. Sorting through the plastic wraps, I found a favorite silk shirt set that I’d completely forgotten about. Wow. It was as good, if not better, than getting a new outfit for free. I remembered the Capri linen pants that went with it, which by some miracle were hanging up clean and not bunched up in the dirty laundry.

  I lay everything out on my bed. “Okay, Vinnie, no pre-fluffing my good duds, right?” I asked.

  “Aw-kay!” Vinnie yipped in response and leapt on top of the bed to guard my clothes from the ‘mysterious other cat’ who is usually responsible for shedding on them.

  I grabbed a quick shower, then threw back the curtain to find Vinnie sitting vigil in his usual spot – just outside the tub – and immediately began chatting me up with a diatribe of cautionary tales while I toweled off. Did I know what happens to humans who get deliberately wet; this was how pneumonia and disease are spread; you wouldn’t catch him doing that sort of thing, etc.

  I threw on my clothes and some make-up and opted for my usual wet ponytail since I’d run out of blow-drying time. I gave a goodbye pat to Vinnie, poked my head into Marie’s room so she could hiss me farewell, and clopped downstairs.

  Vito looked up. “Wow, Twoots, you wook gweat!” he shouted above the fans. I rubbed at the nerve that was starting to twinge again deep inside my right buttock. Vito winced, then handed me his keys. I patted Stanley on the nose and headed out the front door toward Vito’s driveway and his waiting Towncar.

  Air conditioning. In a car. Ahhh. And silence! I suddenly realized just how noisy my household was these days. I exhaled in relief, blasted the AC, and changed the radio station from WPOP (Polkas of Polska) to an FM station I can’t pick up in the Doo-doo. Mostly since the Doo-doo only picks up AM. Not that she doesn’t have a normalish radio. It’s just that she refuses to pick up FM. Unless it’s some kind of religious talk show, or Christian rock.

  I headed out Vito’s driveway and checked in the rearview and almost ran over top of Mr. Perfect, aka Bruce, as he walked David past the driveway. He waved back good naturedly. It figured. Now that I was all dolled up, and know Bruce is gay, of course I’d run into him when I wasn’t looking crummy.

  I stopped and pushed the button to unroll the driver side window. The trunk flipped open. I tried again. The gas cap opened. I tried again. The windshield wipers washed. I sighed. I pressed the last of the Chinese takeout buttons on the driver’s side door and the front passenger side window rolled down. Bruce loped over with David, shut the trunk, closed the gas cap, then leaned in the opposite window at me and turned off the windshield wipers.

  “Hi!” he beamed. “Wow, new car?” I shook my head, explained about the Doo-doo and needing to borrow Vito’s car to meet Aunt Muriel and Ma at Conestoga Cabana. Bruce nodded enthusiastically. “You’ll have a fabulous time!” he said. “And you’ll be able to check out the menu before the Conestoga Cabana Cup at polo this Sunday!”

  “Huh?” I asked politely.

  Bruce explained that the restaurant sponsors a competition game each summer, and that invitees only gain admittance to the private party via invitation. Which was only issued to regulars. The feast is served while the guests pretend to watch the polo match. “It’s a lovely, lovely time,” Bruce advised. “Your aunt is such a regular at Conestoga Cabana; I’m sure she’s invited. She must bring you!” he declared. Or I thought I heard him declare. Well, I certainly didn’t declare – I’m born well north of the Mason Dixon line.

  But I gulped and felt a little panicked. “Umm… well, maybe I should skip it this year, and try next year, after everyone’s forgotten about the Chukker Tent getting set on fire,” I mumbled.

  Bruce waved me off. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “You should have been there when one of the patrons used a mini-propane grill to win the tailgate competition – inside his trunk!” David woofed in agreement. “They were invited not to bring a hot meal ever again!” Bruce added. I gulped again. “Look, I’m sure they sent me an extra invitation so I’ll stop by to see if you need it – that is if your aunt hasn’t already received hers,” he offered.

  I blushed. Gay or not, Bruce is waaa-aaay cute. And very nice. But then again, he is from Lancaster.

  I smiled, said thanks again, patted David on top of his giant head – which he was hanging through the passenger side window, slobbering down Vito’s side panel. I made a mental note to feign complete ignorance about that when I returned the car, and hoped Stanley wouldn’t bite too much.

  I waved bye-bye, then pulled out of my development and onto Millersville Pike, and started my trek toward Conestoga Cabana.

  After I was well into Manheim Township, I made a left at the used car place that housed the ‘Conestoga Cabana – This Way!’ billboard above it. I followed the arrowed signs that led to it, driving across the small wooden covered bridge and up a long driveway.

  Finally, I entered through the iron gates that welcome visitors to Conestoga Cabana and parked under one of the many trees in the parking lot. Which was unusual, since most establishments don’t asphalt around trees for their parking lots. But this one did. It also sported over-sized paintings on the restaurant’s exterior walls. Done by the owner himself, or so I’d heard. I always wondered what made him trade a brush for a spatula?

  The digital temperature screen in Vito’s car told me that inside the car was a wonderful sixty-eight degrees, which accounted for the goose pimples on my arms. Outside it was ninety-eight with 85-percent humidity. I braced myself, opened the door and stepped out. Walking to the front door, I tripped on a tree root and lost my shoe while tumbling into an exiting patron. I put my slightly damaged very best sandal (damn!) back on, and limped inside.

  At the Maitre’D’s desk, I was officially greeted by Gus, Armand’s manager. “Good eee-ven-innng,” Gus intoned. I nodded. It was best to spare as few words as possible with Gus, especially where poor Armand’s work schedule was concerned. “Do you have a rez-errr-vaaaa-shun?” he creened.

  He had to be kidding. Did I have reservations? Where should I start? I’m worried about everything. I wasn’t even sure I should be here.

  Armand appeared behind him. He didn’t walk out from behind a partition or curtain or anything. I mean, he just appeared. Literally. He leaned over Gus from behind. Which was easy to do, considering Gus is vertically challenged.

  “She iz weeth Table 12,” Armand glowered.

  Gus shot a daggered look back up at Armand, then shifted as he realized I was still in the audience. As well as the party of eight lined up behind me.

  Gus looked back down at the reservation list. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, yes of course, you would be joining the Mrs. Muriel?” he said. I looked at him blankly. The Mrs. Muriel? Did he think I was boarding a ship?

  Armand answered for me. “That izz correct,” he replied darkly.

  I tried to warm the frost-bitten air. “Hey, Armand! Great to see you! Didn’t realize you’d be working tonight!” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied darkly, looking directly at Gus. “It is Thursday.”

  Gus winced. Apparently Gus was living to regret putting the kibosh on Armand’s weekend schedule status. Then Gus glowered back at Armand. He was nothing if not punitive.

  Gus sniffed. “If you will pleeeese follow your waaaaaaaai-ter.” And he gestured toward Armand’s rapidly receding back.

  I caught up with Armand at the home stretch as he held out a chair for me at Aunt Muriel’s and Ma’s table. “Sorry I’m late,” I started to say, when Armand mutter
ed, “Motherless dog of thieves,” while seating me. Aunt Muriel’s eyes bulged; Ma immediately picked up the menu she had obviously studied ad nauseum while waiting for me and re-read it with renewed gusto.

  I faked a smile that probably looked a little like I had gas. “Aunt Muriel, Ma, isn’t this nice? My friend, Armand, is our waiter tonight,” I said.

  “Oh, my!” Aunt Muriel said. “I remember you and K. telling me so much about him! Very nice to meet you, Armand.” She relaxed and smiled. Ma copied. “My goodness, I’ve been here so often this summer, I’m surprised we haven’t met before,” Aunt Muriel offered.

  Armand glowered and turned a kind of plum color. “You dine here on the weekends, yes?” he growled.

  “Well, of course, yes…” Aunt Muriel began.

  “It is Thursday.”

  After Armand took my drink order, and some quick unplanned replenishment drink orders from Auntie and Ma, I explained to them about the weekend mafia schedule. They nodded with understanding. Armand came back with our cocktails – Aunt Muriel’s usual Absolut, Ma’s Grey Goose, and my very nice Cosmo in a very, very nice glass – patted me on the shoulder and left with our appetizer orders.

  For those of you wondering about how to make a very nice Cosmo for one, here goes:

  COSMO FOR 1 RECIPE HERE: starting with 1 very, very nice glass (remember, presentation is everything).

  l Vodka of choice; 2 shots

  l Triple Sec; 1 shot

  l 2 shots cranberry cocktail juice

  l 1 shot water

  l 2 tsp FRESH squeezed lime juice

  l couple drops of angostura bitters

  Mix in a small pitcher with a lot of ice. Stir well (I’m not good at martini shaker thingy… I mostly wind up with a Cosmo colored walls when I do this). Strain into a pretty looking martini glass. Top with an ice cube, and sip alongside a decent vinyl of Coleman Hawkins.

  We heaved our glasses and sighs of relief, imbibed and exhaled. We chatted about Ethel and Ike and the soon-to-be junior. Or junior miss. Apparently it was already decided between Ma and Mu that I would be the godmother and accordingly would arrange the baby shower. Soon. Very, very soon. I sipped my Cosmo while visions of tubal ligations and vasectomies danced through my head.