Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “What about other family members?” asks Jess. “Would any of them be interested in buying it?”

  “Mother had one brother, but he was killed in the Korean War . . . and Aunt Bette never married.”

  Mary Alice leans forward. “What does Alli think, Lucy?”

  “The letter just came last week. I haven’t even brought it up to her. She has enough on her plate at school.”

  “Lucy, whether Alli realizes it or not, the house is part of her history,” says Jess. “Don’t you think she should at least have a say in what you do?”

  “You’re probably right, but I have no idea what shape the property is in. I’m sure Mother visited Aunt Bette, but I haven’t been there in years.”

  “That settles it then,” Marina states, as if the decision is a done deal. “The only way to find out what kind of shape the house is in is to take a look at it. I say we have FAC in Tredway next week.”

  “From what I remember about Aunt Bette, I’m sure she’d love to have us,” says Lucy. “But, honestly, I don’t think I’m ready.”

  Kelly squeezes Lucy’s hand. “No one ever feels ready to deal with painful memories. But you’re going to have to face them eventually.”

  “Remember,” adds Jess, “we’ll be right there, praying you through it.”

  Tears began to slip down Lucy’s cheeks again. “All right, we’ll go to Tredway—soon. But I have one condition. Marina has to drive. I think I’m going to need those candy bars in the glove compartment.”

  CLARENZO’S BRASCIOLE

  1 (2–2 1/2 lb.) round steak (ask butcher to butterfly the meat)

  Rind of one lemon, grated

  Salt and pepper to taste

  2 1/2 teaspoons oregano

  1/4 lb. prosciutto, thinly sliced

  4 eggs, hardboiled, peeled and chopped

  2 cups bread crumbs

  1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

  1/2 cup chopped parsley

  1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary (crumbled between fingers)

  1/2 cup flour

  1/4 cup olive oil

  4 cloves of garlic, minced

  1 small onion, chopped

  1/2 cup dry red wine

  2 cups chopped, canned pear tomatoes, undrained

  Instructions

  1. Open butterflied steak and pound between plastic with a meat mallet until 1/4 inch thick.

  2. Rub meat with lemon rind, salt, pepper, and 1 1/2 teaspoon oregano.

  3. Lay prosciutto slices evenly on steak. Sprinkle evenly with chopped egg, bread crumbs, grated Parmesan, and parsley.

  4. Roll up meat tightly, taking care to tuck in both ends to hold in filling while cooking. Tie roll with string at 2-inch intervals.

  5. Season flour with rosemary, remaining oregano, salt and pepper. Rub this mixture onto surface of beef roll.

  6. Brown meat roll in olive oil in a large pan over medium-high heat.

  7. Add garlic and onion to the pan and sauté until it begins to brown.

  8. Add wine, and cook for one minute.

  9. Add tomatoes with their juice. Cover pan and simmer over low heat for 1 1/2 hours, or until meat is very tender. Add wine as needed to keep liquid in pan.

  10. Remove meat from pan, remove strings and cut into 1-inch thick slices. Pour tomato mixture over the slices. Serves 4–6.

  DRUCILLINA’S DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

  8 oz. dark semisweet chocolate

  2/3 cup butter

  1 cup sugar

  4 large eggs

  1/2 cup flour

  4 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/4 cup sour cream

  Instructions

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  2. Line bottom of a 9-inch round cake pan with a circle of parchment paper. Grease sides of pan.

  3. Break chocolate into small pieces. Gently melt it with butter in a pan over hot water or in the microwave.

  4. Beat eggs with sugar until well combined and slightly thickened. Mix in flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and vanilla extract.

  5. Slowly fold in sour cream and melted chocolate mixture.

  6. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes, or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean.

  7. Cool cake. Remove from pan and peel off parchment paper. Frost with chocolate ganache.

  Chocolate Ganache Frosting

  1. Gently heat 2/3 cups heavy cream in a saucepan, or microwave.

  2. Add 9 oz. chopped dark semisweet chocolate. Stir until smooth. Pour over cake.

  It always amazes me how time flies during FAC! Now that our little “intervention” with Lucy was over, we spent the last hour in typical female fashion—talking about nothing. That’s what is so great about getting together with girlfriends. You don’t need the distraction of a “topic” for conversation to flow. In fact, most of the time, we all talk at once—switching conversations like corn popping in a kettle. While such interactions are second nature to most women, this drives men crazy.

  My dear husband once commented after coming home from work early and witnessing the tail end of a particularly lively FAC at our house that he couldn’t understand how women seem to enjoy “talking everything to death.” I responded by pointing out he should consider FAC a blessing for providing an alternative audience. That raised a male eyebrow. And then I went as far as suggesting he look at FAC not as just a female diversion, but as the true marriage-building activity it is. By this comment I was starting to get around to the fact that it may be a wee bit taxing for the average man to have to absorb all of a woman’s words.

  I once read an article about “a woman’s word count” and “a man’s word count,” which explained just how many words each gender requires during an average day. The author of the article (a man!) said that most men complete their required word count during the “normal workday”—even before they get home to their families. It seems they are talked out before they walk through the door. And this is the time when most women are chomping at the bit for meaningful communication—or just plain chatter.

  Until I read this article, I was sure John’s “hmms” and grunts, which he refers to as “filtering,” was an indication he needed more practice in the art of communication. My response was to try to draw him out—by talking more. And more. After I came across that article, I understood why John failed to get “better” at the art of conversation when he was getting so much practice. I couldn’t wait to tell him about my discovery when he got home, but all he said was “hmm.”

  John was true to form in this instance. Apparently sensing that this subject was on the verge of being talked to death, he suddenly remembered something he had to attend to in the garage. I’ve never seen a faster exit . . .

  “I hate to break things up, ladies,” says Jess, pulling my mind back to the present, “but I need to get home. Michael and I have a date night.”

  “Oooohhhh,” we tease.

  “I expect it to be quite the evening. Look, I even painted my toenails.” Jess stretches out a manicured foot for inspection.

  “I have plans, too, but my evening won’t be quite so exciting,” Kelly reports. “I promised Mackenzie and Michaela I’d take them to see a movie.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaim, leaning forward in my chair. “My kids won’t be seen with me on a Friday night.”

  Kelly grins. “Poor Liz. It’s obvious that I’m the ‘cool mom.’”

  “I hate to break it to you, Kel,” says Jess, “but once Mackenzie and Michaela hit high school, you’ll join us in the ranks of nerdy parents.”

  “Not me, girls. I’ve got a toe ring.”

  “That’ll do it.” Lucy laughs for the first time.

  “I better get going too,” says Mary Alice. “Craig has hockey tickets for the whole family, and the game starts at 7:00.”

  “You! At a hockey game!” howls Marina. “Have you ever watched a hockey game, Mar
y Alice? You’ll be on the ice waving your first-aid kit before the end of the first period!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve seen my share of roughhousing.”

  Marina snorts.

  “You may be forgetting, Marina, that I was team mom when you coached Sally and Amy’s soccer team. Some of those girls were brutal.”

  “How could I forget? You were the first parent referee to issue a red card to a player for bad manners. Trust me . . . you do not have the stomach for hockey!”

  “OK, ladies, that’s enough,” Jess chimes in. “Marina, how about starting the car before you scare poor Mary Alice to death?”

  “I hadn’t realized how much I missed you guys,” says Lucy as we begin to gather our things. “I hate to see you go.”

  “Is that an invitation to stay?” I tease.

  “Could you? I mean, I’d love for you to stay, but I know you’re busy, Liz. I don’t want to interfere with your plans.”

  “What plans? John’s on a fishing trip all weekend, and I’m a pariah to my kids on Friday night. I’ll just tell them dinner is Yo-Yo.”

  I can tell by the circle of perplexed faces that my friends have no idea what I’m talking about. I explain that Yo-Yo in our home is shorthand for “you’re on your own.”

  “Yo-Yo! I love it!” Marina gives me a high-five. “I don’t have anything going on either, Luce. The twins are with their dad this weekend. And, as I said earlier, all of this talk about food has made me hungry. How about getting some dinner?”

  I look at Lucy. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Sure,” she agrees.

  “Great! I’ll just drop these social butterflies off while you escort Lucy to the shower and get her to change out of that pitiful flannel nightgown.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” I tease, performing a mock salute.

  “And I don’t care where we go as long as they serve good pasta. I’m craving—”

  “Marina, wait a minute,” interrupts Lucy. “I’m really not feeling up to going out. I was thinking perhaps we could order something in.”

  “Too bad,” Marina fires back. “You need to get out of this house. And if you put up a fuss, I’ll ask some of my buddies at the station to stop by with lights and sirens. You wanna explain that to the neighbors, Luce?”

  “Come on, Marina,” Lucy pleads, turning to me for help. Finding none, she continues, “We can light a fire and have a cozy dinner right here—”

  Marina cuts her off. “Number one: in its present shape, this place is not cozy. It’s depressing. Number two: you need to wash your hair. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. You’d better be ready, Lucy, or I swear I’ll call dispatch.”

  We settle on dinner at Drucillina’s, a neighborhood restaurant known for fabulous homemade pasta and even better pizza. In celebration of Lucy’s “coming out” party, I decide to put all concern of carbohydrates aside, reciting the perennial dieter’s excuse: “I can always get back on my program tomorrow.”

  The proprietor, Drucillina’s son, Clarenzo, stops by our table as we peruse the menu. “Bella signorine! It’s so nice to see you,” he exclaims in a thick Italian accent. “Signorina Lucy, I am so sorry to hear about your mama. She was a molto speciale.”

  “Thank you very much, Clarenzo. I know Mother was very fond of you and your restaurant.”

  “Thank you, signorina.” He puts a fist to his heart and wipes a tear from his eye. “And where have you two been lately?” Clarenzo adds, turning to Marina and me. “You don’t like my mama’s ravioli no more?”

  “Are you kidding? Everybody knows Mama Dru makes the best pasta this side of the Hill,” replies Marina, referring to the South St. Louis neighborhood of Italian immigrants where she grew up and her mother still resides.

  “Then why I not see you?” he presses. “You no like my ristorante?”

  “I’m afraid my diet’s the culprit, Clarenzo,” I interject. “I’ve been trying to watch my carb intake. But tonight I’ve decided to—”

  “Carb?” he interrupts. “What’s this you say? ‘Carb’? You no like my carbonara?”

  “No, no,” I explain. “By carbs I mean food like bread and pasta. I’m trying to eat less of those things.”

  “What? You on a hunger strike?” He gestures wildly as people at other tables begin to look our way. “Signorina Lizzy, don’t you know pasta is the food from God? The book of Exodus say the Good Lord himself ordered the semolina to come right down from the sky”—he wiggles his fingers like tiny raindrops—“to feed Moses and the Italians in the desert. You no believe in God, signorina?”

  “Yes, I mean, no. Of course I believe in God.” My eyes dart around the room, noticing the growing number of patrons who have taken more than a casual interest in the spectacle unfolding before them.

  “Face it, Liz,” Marina observes, “your lack of carbohydrates is clouding your mind. How can you turn down the food God gave to the Italians in the desert? What were you thinking? Don’t worry, Clarenzo, we’re here to put an end to this nonsense.”

  “Bene! Then, I, Clarenzo”—he lifts his chin—“will make you speciale dinner tonight. Food to put some meat on your bones.”

  “Grazie, Clarenzo,” says Marina, while I fervently pray that others in the restaurant have overheard Clarenzo’s observation that I am in need of “some meat on my bones.”

  Our trek through Italian gastronomical paradise began as the waiter set a gorgeous antipasto platter before us, featuring succulent honeydew melon slices wrapped with paper-thin slices of prosciutto. The cool melon was the perfect mate for the spicy Italian bacon.

  “How I’ve missed this place,” says Lucy after her first luscious bite. “Judd and I used to come here all the time. He was such a tease. He and Clarenzo had this silly running joke.”

  “What was it?” I ask, catching a drop of juice that began to wander down my chin.

  “Clarenzo would ask about our food, and Judd would respond that his dinner had ‘too much oregano.’ Clarenzo would toss his head back and hurl an insult in Italian, then they would both start laughing. I never could understand what was so funny. It’s strange the things you remember.” Tears glisten in her blue eyes.

  At a loss for words, I examine the pattern of Clarenzo’s silverware. As aggravating as John can be sometimes, I can’t imagine being without him.

  “I know what you mean.” Marina spears another slice of melon. “Bobby and I considered Drucillina’s ‘our place.’ It’s where he took me on our first date. For a long time after the divorce, I couldn’t even eat here—not that I didn’t try. I wasn’t about to let him take away my favorite restaurant too. But every time I tried to take a bite of food, I’d get a big knot in my throat. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d taken ‘her’ here.” Anger simmers in Marina’s dark eyes.

  “Oh, Rina,” Lucy says. “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Luce. I’m fine with it now. That’s not to say I didn’t wallow in bitterness for a while. In fact, I relished it! I did my best to hide it from the twins, but Kimmie could always see through me.”

  “Alli calls every day.” Lucy shakes her head. “I know she’s checking up on me. I’ve tried to convince her that everything’s fine, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.”

  I finally find my voice. “But, Lucy, you are far from fine. Alli’s your daughter. She loves you. She deserves to know that you’re struggling. And besides, you are all she has left.”

  “And what a prize I am!” Lucy surprises me with her angry tone. “The poor girl loses her wonderful dad and beloved grandmother, and all she has left is a mother who can’t even sleep in her own bedroom.”

  “Preach it, sister!” Marina gives a sardonic laugh. “I’ve been there. I remember thinking, ‘What kind of mother am I if even my cheating rat of a husband rejected me?’”

  “Come on, Marina,” I begin.

  Her eyes grow thoughtful. “No, it’s true, Liz. I was so full of anger that I wasn’t even sure w
ho I was mad at from day to day. One day I’d be ranting about the hussy who seduced my husband. The next day I’d convince myself that Bobby was a world-class jerk and I was better off without him. Then, before I knew it, I was wondering what I did to chase him away. Was I too controlling? Not pretty enough? Did he feel neglected because of the twins? I could beat myself flatter than my mom pounds scaloppine.”

  “Marina, you’re one of the most upbeat people I know,” I protest. “The last word I’d use to describe you is angry.”

  “I can put on a pretty good show when I want to. A lot has changed in the last few years.”

  “Such as? You’re in the same house, same job . . . same nail salon,” I tease in an effort to lighten the mood.

  “Yes, I do have a killer nail technician.” Marina laughs as she examines her meticulous manicure. “I guess the turning point for me was when a good friend told me that it’s much easier to change how we react to a situation than to try to change the situation.” She reaches for a crunchy breadstick and looks pointedly at Lucy. “This good friend also promised to pray for me. And she told me she would be there whenever I needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on. This wise friend didn’t wait for me to call her. She left little treats on my porch with encouraging notes and Bible verses. She’d stop by the precinct unannounced at noon and take me to lunch. This pushy friend even found out when I was having my nails done and made an appointment at the same time. That’s when I realized I’d better give in, because I wasn’t going to shake her.”

  Lucy’s glistening eyes overflow with tears under Marina’s steady gaze.

  I sit, stunned, and simply stare at Lucy across the table. “I didn’t know,” I say hoarsely. “You never said a word to the rest of us about how much Marina was struggling.”

  “My good friend understood how difficult it was for me to talk about the divorce,” continues Marina. “Even though FAC was great, I was embarrassed. You all had your perfect little families, and mine was falling apart.”

  “Marina, you know we never judged you. The same thing could have happened to any of us.” I swallow hard, thinking of all the times I haven’t treated John as well as I should. I wince inwardly, feeling guilty for taking his presence and his care for me for granted. Suddenly I wish he were sitting next to me right now so I could give him a hug. But then again that sort of spontaneous female behavior might make him start to sweat . . .