Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel

by Ann B. Ross

  Chapter 4

  “See, Lillian,” I began, “I came up with this about the time Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens moved into Sam’s house, which, as you know, gave Hazel Marie her own household. Now we both know that she is no hand in the kitchen and with two babies, well, let’s just say that James taking over the cooking was an answer to prayer. But sooner or later, even if James hadn’t put himself out of commission, Hazel Marie has to learn something about planning and preparing meals for her family.

  “So my idea was to compile a cookbook with easy recipes and helpful household tips from each of our friends. I thought it would be personal enough to encourage her to try the recipes since she’s probably tasted them at one time or another and knows how they’re supposed to turn out. I planned to have recipes from Mildred and LuAnne and Emma Sue and you, of course, and from Etta Mae and Binkie and who all else I can think of. So, even if she never managed to make anything from it, it would be a keepsake she would treasure.”

  “That sound like a good idea to me,” Lillian said. “Why didn’t you go ahead an’ do it?”

  “Because of the summer we’ve had. With the house torn up and workmen underfoot all day, I just didn’t have the energy or the space to do it. But now that the dust has settled, I can give it my full attention.”

  “Yes’m,” Lillian agreed, “but one thing I don’t see is how another cookbook gonna do her any good. She got all kinda cookbooks already an’ they jus’ settin’ there on a shelf.”

  “That’s where my new idea comes in,” I said, hitching forward on my chair. “Think about this. What if I ask each person to contribute an easy recipe? Then ask them to go to Hazel Marie’s house and show her how to make it? That way, she’d learn how to do it and have something for her family to eat that day.”

  Lillian looked at me from under her eyebrows, her mouth twisted in thought. “You think Miss Mildred Allen gonna cook in somebody else’s kitchen when she don’t in her own?”

  “Well, no, but Ida Lee would. And I’d be there, too.”

  She looked even more skeptical at that thought, but she said, “I guess it could work, if everybody know when they s’posed to be there.” She gave it a little more thought, then said, “She might not learn much cookin’, but I ’spect she have a real good time tryin’ to. I’d like to see what Miss Binkie teach her. I bet it be open two cans an’ heat it up.

  “One other thing, though,” Lillian went on. “What if somebody want to he’p her fix choc’late balls or pecan pie or cole slaw or something like that? None of that make much of a supper for Mr. Pickens. Or Lloyd, either, ’cept I feed him over here, anyway.”

  That would be a problem, so I gave it some thought. “Well, what about this. What if I tell everybody they have to give her a main dish recipe—that would be the one they’d prepare—but they can also contribute another recipe for anything they want, but they wouldn’t have to prepare that. That way, each person would have at least two recipes in the cookbook.”

  “Maybe, ’cept I don’t know how you gonna tell ’em they have to do anything.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s all in the way it’s presented, Lillian. For instance, if I can get Mildred with Ida Lee onboard, and of course LuAnne, who’ll talk it up all over town, then everybody else will rush in to volunteer. Hazel Marie could have a couple of meals prepared every week for as long as James is in a cast. You know how people are—as soon as they hear a family’s having a hard time, they start bringing in casseroles or hams or cakes, anyway. Or in Emma Sue’s case, a dump cake.”

  “Well,” Lillian said, rising from the table, “I guess you better start linin’ up them ringleaders, an’ I better get some supper started. I’m gonna make that chicken dish what Mr. Sam like, an’ send some to Miss Hazel Marie. He spendin’ the night over there again?”

  “He’s planning to, I guess, unless James has had a remarkable recovery. Which I doubt.”

  “Uh-uh-uh,” Lillian said, shaking her head. “It better be the las’ night Mr. Sam spend over there, else we be nursin’ him ’fore long.”

  I went into our new library and sat in a wing chair by the fireplace; giving the logistics of putting a cookbook together some deep study. The big problem wouldn’t be collecting recipes—most people were happy to share them unless they considered one a secret family recipe. And nine times out of ten, you could find that secret recipe in Joy of Cooking or Southern Living magazine. I recalled the time when the recipe for red velvet cake was such a big secret until all of a sudden recipes for it popped up everywhere you looked. Which just goes to show that when you tell one person a secret, it won’t be long until the whole country knows it.

  But be that as it may, I knew that collecting recipes wouldn’t be a problem. The problem would be getting hands-on cooks in Hazel Marie’s kitchen.

  I realized that our friends might look askance at my taking on such a project. They know I don’t cook, never have, never wanted to, never intend to. I have Lillian, who can prepare any recipe handed to her, but who can also set out a fine meal without a guideline in sight.

  But Hazel Marie, as sweet as she was, simply could not get the hang of it. When she finally married Mr. Pickens and was growing daily with expected twins, she’d suddenly turned domestic on us. Every time I turned around, there she was, hanging around the kitchen, watching Lillian, questioning Lillian, wanting to help but mostly getting in the way. Lillian is a patient woman, but she said to me, “Miss Julia, Miss Hazel Marie gonna need a cook real bad. And real soon, too.” So James’s willingness to cook for her had been a godsend.

  The problem for Hazel Marie when she’d been trying to learn everyday cooking, which is what she was most interested in for the sake of her new husband, was that Lillian hardly ever uses a recipe. Lillian cooks like she’s always done—a little of this and a little of that, never measuring, never tasting, and never failing. She just knows how it’s done. It drove Hazel Marie to distraction. She’d lean on the kitchen counter, pen in hand, ready to write down whatever Lillian did, which she couldn’t do because half the time Lillian herself didn’t know exactly what she did. Hazel Marie would ask, “Is that half a teaspoon of salt or a whole one?” And Lillian would look up in surprise and say, “Why, I don’t know. Just however much my fingers pick up.”

  Take biscuits. Lillian can make them in her sleep. She began making biscuits before she was five years old, standing on a stool beside her granny, who taught her everything except how to measure. I think she cooks by ear. Some people can, you know. So, of course, biscuits were one of the first things that Hazel Marie wanted to learn to make.

  So Lillian started telling her, and while Hazel Marie was poised to jot down the directions, I listened in.

  “They’s nothin’ to it,” Lillian began. “Just take some flour an’ some short’nin’ an’ some milk, an’ knead all that together. Then you roll it out and cut it with a biscuit cutter or a jelly glass, or you can pinch off some dough an’ roll it in your hand an’ pat it out flat, an’ put ’em all on a bakin’ sheet. Then you put the pan in a hot oven till they good ’n’ brown, an’ that’s it.”

  Lillian glanced over at Hazel Marie, who was bent over her pad. “Well,” she went on, “that’s if you usin’ self-risin’ flour. But if you usin’ reg’lar, you got to put in some bakin’ powder an’ some salt. An’ that’s if you usin’ sweet milk, ’cause if you usin’ buttermilk, you got to add some Arm an’ Hammer, too.”

  “What?” Hazel Marie asked, frowning. “Wait a minute. How much flour did you say?”

  So Lillian went through it again, and I have to say that I couldn’t have made a batch of biscuits from her directions if my life depended on it. Too many ifs to keep up with. But Lillian did go on for a while about the merits of thin, crispy biscuits as opposed to the thick, doughy kind, coming down on the side of thin and crispy.

  “That kind’s ’pecially good with jelly,�
� she said. Then she said, “Now, Miss Hazel Marie, what you do when you make biscuits for supper is you make enough for breakfast the next mornin’. So when you get up, you take an’ split ’em in two, put a dab of butter on each side, and run ’em under the broiler till they nice an’ toasted. That’s good eatin’, an’ you won’t have no trouble with your folks leavin’ home on a empty stomack.”

  By that time, Hazel Marie had given up in despair. I think it was the Arm & Hammer that did it. “I guess I’ll just use the Pillsbury frozen kind,” she said, sighing, “and try to hide the package.”

  But being defeated by biscuits hadn’t stopped Hazel Marie from continuing to ask everybody she knew for their recipes. We couldn’t go to a circle meeting or to the book club or the garden club without her bringing up recipes. Just let her taste something she liked, and out would come a pad and pen to write down how it was made. Why, one Sunday Helen Stroud didn’t get all the way through the lesson at the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class because Hazel Marie asked what we reckoned manna was made of. That disrupted the whole class because everybody started guessing what the ingredients might have been. Miss Mattie Freeman said she’d always figured that manna was something like matzo balls, and that created a furor because half the class didn’t know what matzo balls were. So that led to another discussion of kosher cooking, which led in turn to the question of the difference between kosher salt and regular salt—which then moved Adele Harrison to remind us all to use Morton’s iodized salt so we wouldn’t develop a goiter. And all this while Hazel Marie was trying to write down everything anybody said.

  I finally leaned over and said, “Hazel Marie, forget about making manna. There’s no way in the world you’ll find the ingredients in this town.”

  And, my land, just let that white-haired Georgia woman with the big diamonds fix a dish on television, and up Hazel Marie jumps to print it out from Lloyd’s computer. I won’t even talk about when she tried to replicate those dishes, but we had to make a few changes in the kitchen. Since Lillian doesn’t always come in on the weekends, I handed over Saturday and Sunday night suppers to Hazel Marie—this was while she and Mr. Pickens were still living with us before the babies came. She had the kitchen to herself, and we were the worse for it. Every weekend, Lloyd would sidle up to Mr. Pickens and carefully suggest that his mother needed to be taken out to dinner.

  I declare, I don’t know how that boy survived for nine years before coming to live with Lillian and me.

  Well, I was long past worrying about that. Lloyd gets three good meals a day now, and he is thriving in spite of the fact that he’s still skinny and probably always will be. But I’ll tell you the truth, there must be a lot of nutrition in peanut butter, frozen macaroni and cheese, and hot dogs, which may satisfy a child, but may not go down so well with a new husband. From the way I’ve seen Mr. Pickens eat, though, he won’t be a hard man to please. Except I’ve just seen him eat Lillian’s cooking, so he might have to go through what might be called an adjustment period before Hazel Marie gets her act together.

  Actually, the mistress of a house should know her way around a kitchen—whether she ever uses it or not—and she should know how to plan the week’s menus, and she should be able to oversee whatever goes on her table. So it was to that end that I had at first set myself to the task of putting together a collection of recipes. And now, with all the commotion and disruption in her house, to also talk our friends into putting on aprons and personal demonstrations.

  I must, however, issue one major caveat in case there are some litigious would-be cooks who happen to come across Hazel Marie’s book: I cannot guarantee the success of any recipe written therein, so don’t come to me. Either Lillian or a friend will have used each one, which means that I’ve eaten at one time or another the dish prepared from each recipe. But that’s the extent of my involvement. I do not run a test kitchen, nor am I an accomplished cook, of which Hazel Marie is well aware. If she runs into trouble with any of them, she can call on Lillian. I myself can offer no help to anyone. When I get the recipes collected and written down, and arrange for the contributors to become instructors in the preparation thereof, I figure my job is done.

  Chapter 5

  “Lillian,” I said, walking through the kitchen with a folder under my arm, “I’m going over to Mildred’s. I’m taking a pad and pen and a calendar to start a schedule, and I’m counting on her being the first one on it.”

  “She know why you comin’?”

  “Well, no, I just called and asked if I could visit a few minutes. I thought it’d be better to present it in person. That way it’ll be harder to turn me down.”

  “Miz Allen, she a real nice lady, but she not too active.” Which was Lillian’s backhanded way of cautioning me not to expect too much enthusiasm from Mildred.

  I had to laugh because Mildred was the least active person I knew. An unkind person might call her lazy, but Mildred’s attitude was why should she do anything when she could hire it done. And, of course, her weight slowed her down considerably, although I would never mention that. Still and all, Mildred was a generous and thoughtful person and a very good friend, so I had high hopes of scheduling Ida Lee for the first cooking demonstration in Hazel Marie’s kitchen.

  “If Sam gets up before I’m back,” I said as I went out the door, “ask him to wait for me.”

  “Yes’m, I’m gonna see he stay an’ eat supper here. Might as well cut down on his long night much as we can.”

  “Oh, Mildred,” I said as we sank into the cushioned chairs on her side porch, “it is so nice and balmy out here. It won’t be long, though, before cold weather sets in.”

  “Yes,” Mildred agreed amiably, as her large diamond flashed in the sunlight, “there’s already a little nip in the air now and then. So if you get chilly, we’ll go in. I thought we’d have coffee instead of something cold. And, see, Ida Lee has made some shortbread cookies.”

  Mildred is a heavyset woman, as I may have occasionally mentioned, the result, as she tells it, of a combination of inherited genes and glandular difficulties. “I have thyroid problems, Julia,” she’s said a million times, although I’ve never said a word to her about her size and wouldn’t for the world.

  But Mildred had Ida Lee to look after her, and I knew for a fact that Ida Lee worried about Mildred’s weight. She had tried to get her to cut back, but it was a losing battle because Mildred was accustomed to getting her way. Ida Lee was not only a knowledgeable cook, she was an excellent one, as well. I knew because I’d eaten many a meal at Mildred’s table at luncheons and dinner parties, and I knew that Ida Lee could serve Mildred healthy, low-calorie, but tasty meals, if Mildred would only be satisfied with them.

  In fact, just as I brought up Hazel Marie’s interest in recipes, Mildred started complaining about what Ida Lee had served her for lunch.

  “I tell you, Julia,” she said as she stirred sugar into her coffee, “Ida Lee’s trying to starve me to death. But come to think of it, here’s something that would be good for Hazel Marie to know. I expect she has some weight to lose, now that those babies have come, but since she doesn’t have glands to worry about, a fruit salad will probably work fine for her. Would you believe that Ida Lee’s served it to me twice this week? Of course, I’ll have to say that it’s tasty, but it’s not enough for my taste. My blood sugar gets so low, I have to have a snack an hour or so later. I admit, though, that a fruit salad makes a nice lunch for a busy woman, but I wouldn’t serve it to Horace or to Mr. Pickens, either. And I told Ida Lee that once a week is enough for me, and only on the days I’m having a late breakfast and an early dinner.”

  “I declare,” I said, not wanting to comment on Mildred’s eating habits. “At least no cooking is required, so it would be easy for Hazel Marie.”

  “Well, you know,” Mildred confided, leaning close, “I am on a diet. Dr. Hargrove was quite firm about it, so I’m trying. But, Julia, Ida Lee has
a wonderful chef’s salad that I’m sure Hazel Marie will love. Here’s what you do. Write it down. First, you put some shredded lettuce to make a bed on a plate, then you layer chopped fresh tomatoes, slivered carrots, sliced cucumbers, chopped celery, a few broccoli florets, and chopped onions. That takes care of your vegetables. Then you shred or chop up a couple of slices of smoked turkey and Virginia ham, slice a couple of boiled eggs, and crumble a few slices of bacon over that. Then grate Cheddar cheese on top, and there’s your protein. Now, on the sides of the plate, put a heaping spoonful of cottage cheese, several slices of pickled beets, and some corn relish. Oh, and some olives, both black and green, and a bowl of Ida Lee’s homemade blue-cheese dressing on the side. I like a few slices of buttered and toasted French bread with it.”

  “My word,” I murmured, “that must make a plateful.”

  “Oh, it does. But Dr. Hargrove told me to eat lots of salads, so that’s what I’m doing, but I have to watch Ida Lee like a hawk or she’ll leave something out. Now, Julia, getting down to real eating, Hazel Marie has to have my boeuf bourguignon recipe. It’s perfect for when she entertains.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Mildred. It’s delicious, but I doubt Hazel Marie will be entertaining anytime soon. Besides, something so hard to spell and pronounce might be too hard for her to make.”

  “You may be right. Let’s see what Ida Lee thinks.” Mildred picked up the little silver bell that was on the table beside her and gave it a tinkle. That bell was never far from her hand wherever she was in the house, and never long out of use.