At the counter I order my usual venti decaf hazelnut latte skinny. Marina told me this is the correct way to order when you’d like your drink made with skim, instead of whole, milk. I actually prefer whole milk, but I always feel chic saying “skinny.” In my opinion, moms need to suck up every opportunity for chicness they come across.
“What can I make for you, sir?” asks the young barista, turning to my husband.
“Uhhh . . . just a cup of coffee,” he replies.
“Café Americano?”
“Is that plain coffee?”
“Café Americano is made with espresso and hot water.”
Noticing the blank look on John’s face, she adds helpfully, “That’s what most people who want regular coffee order.”
“That’ll be fine, then.”
“What size would you like?”
“Uhhh . . . regular.”
“We have grande or venti.”
He chuckles. “I’ll splurge. Give me a grande.”
When we sit down at our small table, I notice John scowling at his coffee. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
Silence. More scowling. This time at my cup too.
“It’s just that I hate what’s happened to coffee,” he finally admits.
“What? You don’t like your coffee? You haven’t even tasted it.”
“That’s not it. It’s just that I ordered a grande . . . and your cup is larger.”
“I ordered a venti. That’s larger than grande.”
“That’s my point! How is a person supposed to know venti is larger than grande? Who has ever heard of a venti?”
“Well . . .”
“It’s gotten so you have to know a foreign language just to order a cup of coffee. And I’d like to know what happened to free refills. Did you notice they charge fifty cents for a refill . . . regardless of cup size?” The naturally frugal side of my husband is indignant.
“Well . . .,” I begin to explain.
“This whole coffee thing has gotten ridiculous.” He taps his index finger on the table. A sure sign he is starting to get really wound up. “It all started with McDonalds. Remember when they changed the drink size from ‘small’ to ‘regular’ on the menu?”
“I’m not—”
“Do they think people are idiots? Do they think we don’t realize when they hand a regular cup out the window that we can’t tell it’s really a small?”
I take a sip of my venti latte. “Well . . .”
“And now the coffee shops list sizes in a foreign language,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m just about ready to go back to gas-station coffee.”
I give my exasperated husband a sympathetic smile, knowing after twenty years of marriage when it’s best to leave a subject alone. The last thing I want to do is put a damper on our evening. After all, it’s 9:15 on a Tuesday night, and we are still on a date. Just the two of us. Woo-hoo!
MARY ALICE’S CRANBERRY TUMBLE
2 eggs
1 1/2 cup granulated (white) sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup flour
1/2 cup butter, melted
3 cups cranberries (fresh or frozen—but not dried)
1/2 cup chopped pecans (optional)
Instructions
1. Beat eggs until slightly thickened and lemony colored.
2. Add vanilla and 1 cup of the sugar. Mix in flour and melted butter.
3. Fold in rest of ingredients (cranberries and nuts, if desired), reserving 1/2 cup sugar.
4. Put batter in greased 8x8-inch pan. Sprinkle top of batter heavily with remaining sugar.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 45 minutes or until golden brown and toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.
6. Cool and cut into bars.
LIZ’S BAKED POTATO SOUP
2/3 cup butter
1 medium onion, diced
6 large potatoes, cubed
4 cups milk
2 cups heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon red pepper
Salt and pepper to taste
4 green onions, sliced
10–12 strips bacon, cooked, drained, and crumbled
1 1/4 cups shredded cheddar cheese
Instructions
1. In a large pot over low heat, melt butter.
2. Sauté onion in butter until translucent and slightly browned.
3. Add potatoes and milk. Cook on low heat until potatoes are very tender.
4. Stir in cream and seasonings. To thicken, mash potatoes slightly.
5. Serve hot—topped with onions, bacon, and cheese. Serves six.
It’s Friday! This week FAC is at Mary Alice’s, which probably means Cranberry Tumble—a melt-in-your-mouth concoction whose recipe even Marina hasn’t been able to pry from our usually amenable hostess. Mary Alice says she found the recipe in her late aunt’s file—labeled “secret.” And we all know that when it comes to keeping a secret, M.A. will take it to her grave.
As I open the door to Mary Alice’s cozy colonial home, I am not disappointed. The smell of sugar and cranberries fills the air. Once again, I revel in my decision to heed Clarenzo’s advice and take a break from my low-carb regime. I had announced this decision to my family last night by serving a pot of my famous baked potato soup . . .
“So, Mom, what’s the deal?” Katie peered at her bowl of soup in shock. “Are these real potatoes, or are they made out of some obscure soy product?”
“They’re real, all right,” I said. “I have declared October ‘Back to Carbohydrates Month.’ We’ll go back to a healthier diet in November.”
John groaned. “Great. Just in time for Thanksgiving. Can’t wait to see what’s on the menu this year.”
OK, OK. I guess I’ll never live down last year’s attempt at a “Healthy Harris Holiday.”
“And what about December?” asked Josh, a hint of panic in his voice. “You’re not going to make us eat healthy at Christmas, are you? Mom, that’s un-American!”
“Mommy, do sugar cookies have carbs?” asked Hannah, my angel, who likes all desserts as long as they have brightly colored sprinkles.
Once again I knew what my New Year’s resolution would be—and thanked God for the genius who invented the elastic waistband . . .
I’m the last one to arrive at FAC since I had to take Josh to an orthodontist appointment after school. Much to my surprise, the group is already in the midst of an animated discussion about our visit to Tredway last weekend.
Since I stink at keeping secrets, I’m extremely relieved to find that Lucy has obviously told the group about our little field trip. Plus, over the past week, I’ve done some research on the property, so I’m itching to talk about what I found.
“I just love old houses,” says Mary Alice, passing around a plate of Cranberry Tumble. “When did you say it was built, Lucy?”
I slip into my usual chair at the kitchen table.
“Actually, I wasn’t sure until our resident journalist here”—Lucy gestures, smiling at me—“used her connections at the paper to dig up some history for me.”
I wave away her thanks. “I just ran a search on the property. I think it helped that the house had a name as well as an address. Plugging ‘Locust Hill’ into the search engine brought up news clips as well as the usual public records.”
“It was fascinating to read about my family’s history here in Nebraska. I can’t thank you enough, Liz.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Marina. “We all know Liz is an ace reporter, but enough already. I want details!”
“You’ll be proud of me, Kelly.” Lucy pulls a folder from her bag. “I actually started a file on Locust Hill.”
“Duly noted . . . and impressed,” says Kelly.
“OK, girls,” Jess breaks in. “I’m starting to agree with Marina. Enough yada, yada. What’d you find out?”
“Well, Liz was right when she said the house was probably more than a hundred years old,” Lucy reports. “Loc
ust Hill was built in the 1860s by Aunt Bette’s great-grandfather, Joseph Simmons. He and his wife, the former Emily Clarke, moved west with a group of Congregationalist settlers to establish the town of Tredway.”
“Their story is fascinating,” I add. “Like a novel that’s hard to put down.”
“Details, Liz,” says Marina. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“I found out that Joseph and Emily met at Oberlin College in Ohio where they were both students.”
“Really?” asks Jessie, pouring another glass of tea. “I thought colleges were same-sex at the time.”
“That’s what’s so interesting,” I continue. “Most colleges only admitted men. Oberlin was the first college in the nation to offer coeducational classes. The couple married shortly after graduation, and Joseph began a medical practice. Meanwhile, Emily became very involved in the Young Ladies Literary Society.”
“A book club?” asks Mary Alice.
“No, actually the Literary Society was very active in the abolition movement before and during the Civil War,” I explain. “They produced pamphlets to educate people about the horrors of slavery and spoke quite frequently at antislavery rallies.”
Kelly lifts an eyebrow. “Really? It’s so cool to hear about women who were politically active . . . even before they had the right to vote.”
“I know what you mean. Just in reading about the activities of the group, I found connections to a ‘Who’s Who’ of female abolitionists, including Harriet Beecher Stowe, Angelina Grimke, and Mary Sheldon.”
“I’ve heard those names,” says Jessie. “I had the kids read Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe last spring, and it prompted Sarah to choose to do a project on the Underground Railroad. I remember reading about Grimke and Sheldon in her report. They were pretty gutsy ladies, especially for that time.”
“Looks like you come from pretty strong stock, Luce,” Marina announces. “Now I know where you get that stubborn streak.” She gives Lucy a light punch on the shoulder.
Lucy laughs with more life in her voice than I’ve heard in months. “Behind every book club is a revolutionary.”
“Actually, the Oberlin women were thought by some people to be quite revolutionary,” I say, “but their values were very conservative. And rooted in a deep faith. In fact, the women eventually established what was called the Maternal Association for mothers to ‘discuss and improve their practices for rearing godly and moral children.’”
“Sounds like MOPS without the crafts,” Mary Alice comments.
“In a way. Older women of the community, particularly the wives of college faculty, served as mentors to the young moms. And from what I read, the men were so impressed that they formed their own auxiliary organization to mentor young men.”
“Liz, where did you find all this out?” asks Lucy. “It wasn’t in the material you sent me, was it? Or did I just miss it?”
“No,” I admit a bit sheepishly. “I did some more research yesterday. Once I get going on a subject that piques my interest, it’s hard for me to stop. Maybe I can work it into a column so I’ll have an excuse for all the laundry I’ve been neglecting.”
“Before we start commiserating about laundry,” says Kelly, “I want to know what prompted your ancestors to move to Nebraska, Lucy.”
“From what I’ve been able to figure out from the records, Joseph left a successful medical practice to bring Oberlin’s philosophy west. He wanted to establish a Christian college.”
Kelly furrows her brow. “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t it a little odd to start a college in the middle of nowhere?”
“It does seem a little ambitious, but they apparently got the school going. Tredway College was founded in 1861. Joseph Simmons is listed as one of the charter faculty members.”
Jess whistles softly. “That’s very impressive.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . now let’s get to the good stuff,” Marina insists.
“Such as?” Lucy asks.
“Liz said Old Joe’s story reads like a novel. All stories have juicy parts. You know, deception, intrigue, murder, mayhem . . . the good stuff.”
“It seems my family is a bit lean on the murder and mayhem front, but they did experience some heartbreak. It looks like Emily and Joseph may have had some difficulty having children.”
“I could only locate birth records for one child—Anna Louise,” I say.
Lucy nods. “That’s right. And it was very rare in those days for a family to have only one child.”
“But that makes sense,” Jess reasons. “It took a lot of work by everyone in the family just to survive during the pioneer era.”
“Anna inherited Locust Hill after her parents died,” says Lucy. “She married a circuit preacher named Jonathon Crawford in 1876. There are birth records for four stillborn children before my grandfather and Aunt Bette were born.”
A pained expression crosses Mary Alice’s face. “Four children were born dead? The poor woman.”
“I suspect that may be part of the reason for Locust Hill’s reputation,” I add.
Marina sits forward. “What kind of reputation?”
I look at Lucy for permission to reveal my findings.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just a silly legend, but go ahead and tell them.”
“It seems Locust Hill is thought to be a haunted house.”
“Ooooo . . .,” says Marina.
Kelly shakes her head. “Give me a break.”
“Liz, are you saying that people think the house is being haunted by Anna’s babies?” asks Jess.
“I’m not really sure. I just came across an old newspaper clipping about Halloween traditions that referred to the property as Tredway’s ‘House on Haunted Hill.’”
“Well, I certainly didn’t notice any ghostly forms or floating orbs when we were at Locust Hill,” Kelly chimes in.
I frown. “I didn’t say the house is haunted . . . just that it has a spooky reputation. Maybe it’s the reporter in me, but I’d like to know what’s behind the mystery.”
“Me too,” agrees Marina. “So, Lucy, when are you going to introduce us to your mystery manor?”
“Well, it’s hardly a manor, but it does have a certain amount of charm. And some good memories.”
“Have you given any thought to what you’ll do with the property?” Jess asks.
“Yes, quite a bit. In the last few days, actually. I’m not sure I’ll end up keeping it, but I don’t feel comfortable putting Locust Hill on the market right now. Besides, it needs some updating.”
Mary Alice perks up. “Are you talking major restoration, Lucy, or just some freshening?”
Lucy looks at Kelly and me. “A little of both, don’t you think?”
“The floors and woodwork are beautiful,” Kelly says.
“And the house is full of some gorgeous old furniture,” I add. “Lucy will have to beat the antique dealers off with a stick.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Mary Alice gushes.
“It is, but there’s still a lot of work that needs to be done,” says Kelly. “I recognized the dining-room wallpaper from one of my mother’s childhood photos. I’d describe it as more shabby than chic.”
“The kitchen is huge, but it doesn’t have a dishwasher,” I add. “Also there’s only one bathroom. On the second floor.”
“Aunt Bette must be pretty spry to live there as long as she did,” Marina reflects. “I’m too spoiled to live with just one bathroom.”
“It sounds like you’ll need a contractor to update the kitchen and see about putting in a second bathroom,” suggests Jessie. “But if the ‘bones’ are good, we could probably handle the rest.”
“What do you mean by ‘we,’ Jess?” asks Lucy.
“You know what she means, Luce, and she’s right,” Kelly declares. “If we work together, we can get a lot done.”
“I agree,” says Marina. “Besides, ever since I watched Trading Spaces on television, I’ve had an itch to r
edo something.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Lucy begins.
“I can ask around at the station about contractors,” says Marina. “Cops are always looking for ways to moonlight. Gives ’em an excuse to flex their muscles.”
“Great idea.” Kelly pulls the ever-present day planner from her purse. “And Mary Alice has a flair for design. She can help pick out the paint and wallpaper.”
“Kelly, I don’t know if Lucy would like—,” Mary Alice protests.
“Quit being modest,” orders Marina. “Just look at this place.” She gestures flamboyantly around the tasteful, color-coordinated, well-organized room. “It’s like something out of a magazine.”
“You do have wonderful taste, Mary Alice,” agrees Lucy, “but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Actually, Lucy, it would be a treat to help you. I love to decorate, but I’m afraid Craig will hit the roof if he finds the furniture rearranged again or new wallpaper in the bathroom.”
“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be imposing on our friendship,” says Lucy, “I’d love to have your help.”
“I don’t know what shape the grounds are in, but I could spruce up the landscaping,” Jessie offers. “Besides, I love to dig in the dirt this time of year. Maybe I could put in a few bulbs for next spring?”
Lucy beams. “Jess, that sounds delightful.”
“That settles it,” says Kelly. “We’ve got our crew. All we need to do is set a date.”
After some coaxing, Lucy agrees to schedule a working weekend at Locust Hill in place of our FAC fall retreat. Marina dubs it “Extreme Home Makeover: Locust Hill.”
In the past, we’ve booked a hotel in a nearby city for our annual girls-only getaway. We call it a “shop and hop” since the weekend usually involves some serious shopping—and a good deal of restaurant hopping. This year, we agree to forgo the shopping to spend our days giving Locust Hill a face-lift. But when it comes to food, we decide not to break tradition.
“Liz, you can be in charge of food,” Kelly announces, writing my name down on her planning sheet.
“Great idea!” Marina booms.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Don’t we usually go out for meals?”
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