Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Yes.” Kelly’s voice is dripping with patience. “But there is usually more than one restaurant in town.”

  “But you must have forgotten, Kelly,” I reply, shooting her my best impression of the proverbial evil eye. “The kitchen at Locust Hill is a bit dated. It doesn’t even have a dishwasher.”

  “Then we’ll use paper plates.” She returns my look with an even more withering one and snaps her planner shut. Subject closed.

  I open my mouth to protest, but the words freeze in my throat. I know when I’m beat. Arguing with Kelly is like trying to fill a bucket that’s full of holes. I might as well accept that I’ll be cooking for an entire weekend in a kitchen built before the Civil War—with appliances from the Roaring Twenties. What I wouldn’t give to strip wallpaper instead . . .

  JOHNNY’S QUICK ’N’ EASY LASAGNA

  1 lb. ground beef and/or Italian sausage

  6 cups meatless spaghetti sauce

  8 oz. lasagna noodles, uncooked

  16 oz. ricotta cheese

  12 oz. mozzarella cheese, shredded

  1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Instructions

  1. In large pan, brown ground beef and/or sausage. Add spaghetti sauce. Simmer 15 minutes.

  2. In a 13x9x2-inch pan, spread 1 cup of sauce. Then alternate layers of lasagna noodles (uncooked), ricotta, sauce, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese. End with sauce, mozzarella, and Parmesan. Cover with foil.

  3. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes until lightly browned and bubbling. Remove foil and cook for 10 more minutes until noodles are softened, but firm.

  4. Let stand 15 minutes. Cut in squares to serve. Makes 8 servings.

  I am officially a nervous wreck. Josh needs “something good” to contribute to the youth group bake sale at church tomorrow morning, FAC is counting on me to come up with a creative menu for the weekend in Tredway, and my turn to host Dinner Club is coming up.

  I rue the day we decided to forgo making this monthly gathering of college friends a potluck affair and instead assigning the host couple sole responsibility for planning and preparing a dinner for sixteen. Our reasoning, that this system only required each couple to cook once every eight months, seemed logical when we were newlyweds. But with three kids and a dog complicating my life, pulling off my turn at Dinner Club is always a feat. And, to make matters worse, my column is due on Monday morning.

  The problem is that I don’t know what to do first. I need to go to the grocery store to buy ingredients for Josh’s bake-sale contribution, but I still have to decide what to make. I also need to send out invitations to Dinner Club, but I’ve procrastinated, and now I’m wondering if I should just call everyone instead. I also have no idea what to cook for the party—much less when I’ll have time to clean the house. With all this rattling around in my head, I don’t have time to even think about our FAC weekend, but I keep obsessing about it anyway.

  What is wrong with me? Organized Kelly and creative Mary Alice would already have lists and timetables drawn up. Jess can usually figure out a way to work much of the preparation for a party into learning projects for her kids. Lucy, a natural hostess, seems to entertain effortlessly. And Marina has such a strong personality that no one cares about cobwebs or table decorations. Me? I’m immobilized—and growing more anxious by the minute.

  Enter my well-meaning husband, John, who always tries valiantly to solve my problems. He suggests we pick up a pie from the grocery store for Josh’s bake sale and even offers to make a pan of his Quick ’n’ Easy Lasagna for Dinner Club. It’s tempting, but I can’t bring myself to take his way out. Why? I hate admitting this, but it all stems from the abhorrent P word—PRIDE.

  Ever since I started writing my newspaper column, “The Lovely Life,” I’ve felt the need to appear as this amazing cook and clever hostess. The only problem is that I’m just an average cook—and not overly clever—so I’ve done everything I can to keep these facts from public view.

  Today, standing over my kitchen sink, it dawns on me. I’ve become paralyzed by the expectation of perfection. That’s it, I decide. Enough is enough.

  I whiz into the study, flip on my computer, and wait on the edge of my seat for it to boot up. And then I begin typing furiously.

  The Lovely Life

  By Elizabeth Harris

  Dear Readers,

  This may be the last time you read my column. What is the reason for this rather startling and unexpected statement? Today I must make what may be, for many fans of “The Lovely Life,” a very disquieting confession. I can no longer live with the charade . . . the great farce . . . the sham . . . that has become my public image.

  Please believe me, I didn’t intend for this to happen. I’m not even sure when the situation began to snowball. The simple fact is this: I can no longer hold up—either physically or emotionally—under the pressure of my public persona. I have to “come clean,” as they say in criminal circles, fully realizing that I may lose many of the faithful readers I hold close to my heart.

  So, without further delay, I post my confession boldly—for all the world to see.

  MY NAME IS NOT “MARTHA.”

  IN FACT, I AM ABOUT AS FAR FROM BEING A DOMESTIC DIVA AS ONE CAN GET.

  There! I’ve said it! The proverbial cat is out of the bag! And, I must admit, it feels fabulous! I suspect some of my faithful readers may not share this joy—and perhaps harbor a hope this is a great exaggeration. For those readers, I feel compelled to present the following “Top Ten List” as proof of my domestic ineptitude:

  1. I have never made a radish “rose” or dressed a strawberry in a chocolate “tuxedo.”

  2. I am hopeless when it comes to craft projects. In fact, I have an acute fear of glue guns after an unfortunate incident involving dried flowers and raffia.

  3. I have not alphabetized my spices.

  4. There are plastic containers in my cupboards without lids—and lids without containers.

  5. Each fall I plan to plant spring bulbs in my garden but have yet to actually do it. More than one box of bulbs, intended for planting, has rotted in my garage.

  6. I have never had my air ducts professionally cleaned. (Please do not e-mail me about what is likely living in the ductwork. As the mother of two teenagers, I have enough to keep me awake at night.)

  7. I once created a toxic cloud in my home by mixing up a cleaning solution of ammonia and chlorine bleach, prompting a trip to the emergency room.

  8. I despise doing laundry and sometimes surreptitiously raid my husband’s underwear drawer in a desperate search for clean lingerie. (Can a pair of men’s briefs even be considered lingerie?)

  9. I do not tie my sheet sets with a satin ribbon or stack them neatly in the linen closet. In fact, our “linen closet” is stuffed with shoeboxes and grocery sacks containing photos from the last twenty years.

  10. The idea of scrapbooking instills me with such panic that my throat begins to tighten. (What if I die in an accident and Hannah discovers I haven’t finished her baby book?)

  Yes, it’s true. A Domestic Diva I will never be. However, I am convinced that shedding this image provides a wonderful opportunity for the future of this column.

  Join me in throwing off pretense. Celebrate being REAL women—without perfect cupboards and pedicures! Women who would love to serve their families ossobuco with roasted seasonal vegetables, but realistically reach for the Hamburger Helper! Women who love their families, but sometimes need their own space!

  Faithful readers, I give you this solemn promise. My next column (if I still have one) will contain practical ideas and advice to help make the most of the time and abilities with which we are all uniquely blessed. REAL WOMEN UNITE!

  As I clicked Send, shooting my column through cyberspace to my editor, I wondered if the paper would even run this piece. Perhaps the editorial board would decide to quietly retire the column—and its obviously loony author.

  But I didn’t care. I was savoring the sweet taste of fre
edom. Snatching my car keys from the counter, I headed toward the garage. After all, I had to talk to a man about a pan of lasagna—and pick up a pie at the grocery store.

  PANINI

  3/4 cup Italian salad dressing

  8 oz. prosciutto, thinly sliced

  8 oz. roasted turkey or chicken, thinly sliced

  12 slices mozzarella cheese

  12 tomato slices

  12 large fresh basil leaves

  12 slices Italian bread

  Instructions

  1. Layer prosciutto, turkey or chicken, mozzarella, tomato slices, and basil on six slices of bread.

  2. Drizzle lightly with dressing.

  3. Press top slice of bread on top. Brush both top and bottom of bread with dressing.

  4. Grill panini on both sides until lightly browned and cheese is melted.

  5. Cut sandwiches in half to serve.

  LIZ’S COLD BROCCOLI SALAD

  3/4 cup salad dressing or mayonnaise

  2 tablespoons sugar

  2 tablespoons vinegar

  1 medium bunch broccoli, separated into bite-sized florets

  6–8 slices cooked bacon, crumbled

  1/2 cup red onion, chopped

  1/2 cup raisins (optional)

  Instructions

  1. Mix salad dressing or mayonnaise, sugar, and vinegar in large bowl.

  2. Add remaining ingredients; mix lightly.

  3. Refrigerate 1 hour or until ready to serve.

  Our FAC weekend has finally arrived. And none too soon for me. I’m in bliss just thinking about a whole three days with girlfriends . . . and no teenagers. I lean my head back—face soaking up the late October sun—as we cruise along the country roads in Marina’s blue convertible. There’s nothing better than fall in the Midwest. Granted, we have our share of nasty blizzards and hot summer days here in Nebraska, but the languorous change of seasons makes it all worthwhile.

  “So what time did Mary Alice and Lucy leave this morning?” asks Jessie, who is sitting next to me in the backseat.

  “About ten, I think.” I open one eye and see that Jess looks as relaxed as I feel. Clothed in her husband’s oversized denim shirt—chestnut curls billowing and the autumn sun glancing off her face—she is the picture of serenity.

  Jessie is just a few years older than I am (although I’d never say so for fear of offending her). She is who I hope to be when I “grow up.” Really. Jess is one of those people who’s comfortable in her own skin. She has strong convictions and isn’t afraid to tell you how she feels. But she does it in a gentle way that has you leaning forward in your chair to hear more. I reach across the seat and squeeze Jessie’s hand—a silent acknowledgment of how much I treasure her and our friendship.

  The four of us—Marina, Kelly, Jess, and I—are on the way to Tredway and Locust Hill. The two other members of our group had loaded up Mary Alice’s SUV with paint, wallpaper, and tools and were already there.

  At our last FAC, Kelly said we needed to hit the ground running at Locust Hill to be most effective—and attempting to get six women to leave on time for a weekend trip would be a logistical nightmare. Thus, Lucy and Mary Alice, who have the most flexible schedules, volunteered to serve as the advance team for our project.

  “I hope they didn’t forget anything this morning,” says Kelly from the front passenger seat.

  “How could they, Kel?” I tease. “You put the supply list on a spreadsheet and e-mailed it to Home Depot. I think you have the bases covered, sweetie.”

  “Turn here, Marina,” Kelly orders, ignoring my teasing. “The house is just up this road at the top of the hill.”

  “I see it now,” Marina says after turning onto Locust Ave. “It looks a little lonely up there, doesn’t it?”

  Kelly smirks. “What were you expecting? To find a haunted house in the ’burbs?”

  It takes us awhile to untangle ourselves and all the paraphernalia we’ve brought for the weekend. But finally we all start up the driveway toward the house.

  Jessie pauses for a moment on the gravel drive and gazes up toward the sky. “Look at all these beautiful old trees.”

  “I suspect most were planted by Anna’s husband,” I say. “According to the newspaper clips I read, he became quite an arborist—probably influenced by J. Sterling Morton, who lived not far from here in Nebraska City.”

  Jess nods. “You’re probably right. Morton started Arbor Day around that time.”

  “Morton’s the salt guy, isn’t he? The box with the little girl and the umbrella?” asks Marina. “What do you think made a guy in the salt business turn into such a tree hugger?”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t grow up around here.”

  I jump at the sound of the deep voice behind us. We all turn to see the source of the comment.

  The man who’s walking up the hill behind us is tall. He looks to be in his midforties and has the easy stride and wiry body of someone who works with his hands. As he comes closer, I’m startled by his bright blue eyes—a stark contrast to a deeply tanned face that looks like it’s been cured by the sun.

  “Who are you?” Marina demands, putting a hand to her belt and affecting what I’ve come to refer to as her tough-cop persona.

  “Sure you want to know?” answers the stranger, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I might be one of those tree huggers you were talking about.”

  “Are you?” asks Marina.

  “Maybe.” He doesn’t break her stare. “As I said, if you were from around here, you’d be a little more grateful for old man Morton. Without him and Arbor Day, this area might still be a treeless plain instead of the lush landscape you ladies were just complimenting.”

  “It’s getting so a person can’t even make a joke without the PC police swooping down,” grumbles Marina, looking away and shaking her head.

  “I know you didn’t mean any harm, but this subject’s a little sensitive for me. My family has farmed west of here for three generations. If it weren’t for the trees, the wind would have taken the land a long time ago.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” says Marina in a more congenial tone. “I’m just a city girl with a big mouth. Why don’t we start over?”

  “No problem.” He chuckles.

  “Well . . . who are you?”

  “Jeff Taylor’s the name. I’m the contractor you hired last week. That is, if you are the infamous Lieutenant Favazza.”

  Marina’s jaw drops.

  He grins. “Your big-city accent gave you away.”

  For one of the first times I can remember, Marina appears speechless.

  Jessie breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Well, Mr. Taylor, I can see that you come by your affection for wood naturally.”

  “I guess you could say that. So, Lieutenant”—Jeff turns to face Marina—“have I lost the job?”

  A bit flustered, but apparently unwilling to admit she may have met her match, Marina assured Jeff that she was perfectly willing to give him a fair shake, regardless of his political leanings. Right now she and Lucy are showing him around the house while Kelly supervises the rest of us in unloading the supplies.

  Kelly’s in her element and on a roll. “Let’s use the kitchen as a staging area. Just put everything in there as you unload. I’ll check it off my list as it comes off the truck.”

  “Wait a minute, Kel,” I break in. “If we store the supplies in the kitchen, where am I supposed to cook?”

  “Liz, you know I love you, but this cooking issue is beginning to grate on me.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll figure something out.”

  I bite my tongue, remembering my commitment not to “sweat the small stuff.” Tonight I won’t even bother cooking. We’ll have sandwiches. No big deal.

  I am calm.

  I am relaxed.

  I will be serene.

  Even if it kills me.

  As I’m making my sixth trek down the narrow front corridor of the house with a paint can in each hand and a plastic s
ack of brushes pinned under my arm, I hear a loud CRACK!

  “What in the world,” I mutter, racing toward where the sound appears to have originated. As I turn the corner into the kitchen, I see Jeff has wedged a crowbar between the wall and a built-in cupboard. He and Marina are using the tool as a lever in an attempt to pry the cupboard away from the wall. Meanwhile, Lucy is on the floor, frantically running her hands along the woodwork at the base of the cabinet.

  I pause in the doorway. “I thought demolition didn’t start till tomorrow.”

  “Liz, get over here,” grunts Marina. “We need your help.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute.” Marina’s voice is strained, and so are her muscles. “Just drop the stuff and get over here. Quick! I don’t want to lose our leverage.”

  “Liz, we need you to feel around the bottom lip of the soffit above us,” Jeff explains. “We’re looking for some sort of latch . . . or maybe a button.”

  “OK.” I set the paint and brushes down and pull one of the tall kitchen stools toward the cabinet. “What do you want me to do if I find something?”

  “Unlatch it,” says Marina. “And could you do it before I throw my back out?”

  I climb up on the stool and run my hands along the painted wood. Lucy does the same thing below. We comb every inch of the cupboard and woodwork without success.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find anything,” I report after several minutes.

  “We’re going to have to force it then,” says Jeff. “Got anything left, Marina? Think we can pop this baby?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s give it a shot.”

  “OK. On three. One. Two. Ready? Three.”

  The groans of Jeff and Marina mingle with the sound of splitting wood as they attempt to pry the cabinet from the wall. All of a sudden, there’s a sharp thwap, like a thick spring has snapped.

  “There it is,” says Jeff. “I knew there had to be a latch. Someone had boxed over it. We should be able to move the cabinet now.”

  As we stare with wide eyes, Jeff slowly swings open the cupboard like a door. A cloud of dust filters into the room, causing him to cough. Pulling a flashlight from his tool belt, Jeff peers into the darkness behind the wall.