Chopping Spree
Page 3
My best shopping treasure was gone. Later, I tried not to think of it as an omen.
Spice-of-Life Cookies
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1½ teaspoons ground cloves
⅛ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ cup solid vegetable shortening
¼ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
¼ cup molasses
¼ teaspoon very finely minced lemon zest
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter 2 cookie sheets.
Sift together the flour, soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and nutmeg. Set aside.
In a large mixing bowl, cream the shortening, butter, and sugar until very light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Beat in the egg, molasses, and zest until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture until well combined, with no traces of flour visible.
Using a 1 tablespoon scoop, measure the cookies onto the cookie sheets, keeping them 2 inches apart. Do not attempt to make more than one dozen per sheet. Bake the batches one at a time, just until the cookies have puffed and flattened and have a crinkly surface, 9 to 12 minutes per batch. Cool the cookies for 1 minute before removing to racks.
Cool the cookies completely on racks.
Makes 32 cookies
Shoppers’ Chocolate Truffles
Ganache:
½ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier liqueur
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
11 ounces best-quality bittersweet chocolate, very finely chopped (recommended brand: Valrhona)
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter, softened
Cocoa powder for rolling (recommended brand: Hershey’s Premium European-Style)
Coating:
6 ounces best-quality bittersweet chocolate (recommended brand: Godiva Dark)
1 to 2 tablespoons clarified butter or solid vegetable shortening
Pour the cream into a heavy 1-quart or larger saucepan. Add the liqueur and vanilla and heat over medium to medium-high heat until the mixture reaches 190°F. Remove the mixture from the heat, add the chopped chocolate, and stir vigorously until the chocolate melts and the mixture is shiny. If all the chocolate does not melt, you can briefly return the pan to the burner over low heat, stirring constantly just until the chocolate melts, when the pan needs to be immediately removed from the heat. Scrape the ganache into a bowl and allow it to cool at room temperature. (Do not attempt to hasten the cooling in any way.) When the ganache reaches 90°F, beat in the butter. Allow the ganache to cool until it is firm.
Using a 1 tablespoon ice-cream scoop, measure out the firm ganache into balls and place them on a cookie sheet lined with a silicone (Sil-Pat) sheet. Cover loosely with plastic wrap. Chill overnight in the refrigerator.
Remove the chocolate from the refrigerator and dust your hands with cocoa powder. Roll each mound into a smooth ball, then place it back on the cookie sheet. When all the ganache mounds have been rolled, return the cookie sheet to the refrigerator.
In a double boiler, melt the chocolate used for the coating with a tablespoon of the clarified butter or shortening. Whisk it well until thoroughly combined and melted. Line another cookie sheet with aluminum foil. Working one at a time, drop a chilled ball of ganache into the coating chocolate, roll it around gently with a fork until it is completely covered, then lift it out of the pan, scrape off the excess chocolate on the side of the pan, and place the truffle on the aluminum foil. Work in this way until all the truffles are coated. If the coating chocolate begins to seize and become recalcitrant, add a bit more clarified butter to it and stir and melt as before. Work until all the truffles are coated. Allow the coating to set up and cool on the truffles. (This usually takes over an hour.) Serve.
Makes between 12 and 15 truffles
(The recipe can be doubled, if desired.)
CHAPTER 2
I swept up the mess and went back to work. I was cloaking the final ganache globe with chocolate when Tom and Arch banged into the kitchen. Arch was clutching his usual sixty-five pounds of books, electronic gadgets, and athletic equipment. Lots and lots of athletic equipment.
At the second lacrosse game, I’d watched in horror as a forward had come barreling down the field, bearing down on Arch. My formerly little, formerly passive son set himself into a tough-gladiator defensive stance. When Arch pushed his weight into the forward’s chest, the kid went flying. The team wildly applauded my son. I’d thought I was going to be ill.
The lacrosse players weren’t the only thing that upset me about Elk Park Prep. The majority of EPP students were rich, undisciplined, and self-centered. A minority wreaked true havoc. Unfortunately, most of this contingent’s bad behavior—throwing acid on kids in chem lab, drinking to the point of oblivion at football games, stealing liquor for house parties when parents were absent—went unpunished. I’d longed to call our local rag, the Mountain Journal, to report these incidents, after hearing about them at parties I catered. But Arch had made me swear not to.
I often worried about where all the misbehavior would lead. Unfortunately, the EPP teachers and administrators kissed the feet of the biggest donors. But besides the killer lacrosse and lack of consequences for big-time mischief, what bothered me most these days was EPP’s freewheeling curriculum. Take that anatomy class. On second thought, don’t. This week, I was driving a contingent of Arch’s classmates to Lutheran Hospital, where they would dissect… a cadaver.
I sighed. Get used to it, I always told myself. With the Furman County public school student-teacher ratio at fifty to one, and with Elk Park’s hefty tuition coming out of The Jerk’s hoard of cash, getting used to it was exactly what I needed to do.
I set the last truffle aside to dry and glanced at Tom. He looked dashing in a white shirt, gray pants, and my favorite wool sweater, a crewneck pullover the color of oatmeal. His brown hair was combed up at a jaunty angle, and his spicy aftershave wafted my way. I hurried over and kissed him on the cheek. He smooched my forehead and asked if I’d like more coffee. Dear Tom. He’d known my attempt to cut back on caffeine would be short-lived.
I said yes, then patted Arch on the shoulder, which was all the maternal affection he’d allow these days. My son—now surpassing me in height (not hard, since I’m five feet two inches)—slid away hastily and adjusted his new John Lennon-style wire-rimmed glasses. The previous month, I’d offered to buy him contacts. He’d replied that what he really wanted was laser surgery. He’d need eight thousand bucks, though, to get the great surgeon the Elk Park kids used.
I’d bought him new glasses.
Checking his reflection in the window, Arch ducked his chin to assess the new tobacco-brown fuzz on his scalp. He then checked his choker of shell bits, smoothed the oversized khakis and rumpled plaid shirt that were the school’s unofficial uniform, and frowned. Something was bothering him.
“Uh, Arch?” I ventured rashly. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Is that polite?” I asked.
“Is it polite to be nosy?”
I gave up. Tom offered me a cream-laced espresso. It was my sixth of the morning… amazing how these things add up. I slurped the fragrant drink—blissfully similar to hot coffee ice cream—and faced my next task: breakfast for Arch. Lacrosse players, I was always telling him, needed a large morning meal so they could build the strength to pound on each other.
I retrieved English muffins, eggs, butter, and jam, and tried to ignore the fact that Arch was guzzling an energy drink. When I’d said I was giving up caffeine, he’d advised me to switch to the bottled concoction known as Virtuous Vigor. I’d tried one swig, and choked.
“Tom? Arch? In ten minutes, I can give you a late breakfast or an early lunch… your choice.”
“No time, Mom,�
�� Arch replied as he simultaneously tossed the energy drink bottle into the trash and snagged another one. “Ready to go, Tom?” When Tom replied that he was, Arch said, “Oops, I need to get my spare long stick.”
The long stick, I’d learned, is what the lacrosse defenseman uses to scoop up the ball—after he sends a forward into the air or onto the ground. As Arch galloped back up the stairs, I banged the eggs back onto the fridge shelf and slammed the door closed.
“He’ll be fine,” Tom murmured as he hugged me. “After I pick him up at practice, we’ll make your favorite beef stew, ready when you get home from the mall. Arch gets plenty of good nutrition. Frankly, in the health department, it’s you I worry about, Miss G.”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” my husband countered. “You’re not. You need to cut back, Goldy. You’re exhausted.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
He kissed me again, then stepped back. “When I get down to the sheriff’s department, they’ll have doughnuts waiting.” He smiled. “Just kidding. Listen. After I leave Arch off, why don’t you let me pick up some sandwiches… for you and Liz?” Liz Fury was the assistant I’d hired at Marla’s behest. Liz had been a godsend. Tom concluded, “I can be back in an hour. Interested?”
I shook my head as unexpected tears pricked my eyes. When you endure seven years of being belted around by a Jerk, kindness comes as a shock. Guess I was more tired than I thought.
“Thanks, but no,” I said hastily. “If Liz and I can get all our work done, we’ll grab a bite at the mall. Then—”
Arch banged back into the room. He was now toting the long stick in one hand, the second energy drink in the other. “Westside Mall?” he interrupted. I nodded; his eyes brightened. “Westside Music just put the fifteen-hundred-buck Epiphone on sale for seven hundred. It’s the exact guitar I need, Mom, and they only have one. And The Gadget Guy is having a mega sale, so everything is fifty percent—”
“Stop!” I said, too loudly. At least I didn’t scream, Seven hundred dollars!
“Westside Music has one guitar on sale, Mom. By tonight it’ll be gone.”
I swore I’d check it out, then gave each of them a wrapped truffle for a midafternoon snack. With an air of being put-upon, Arch tucked the truffle into his bookbag, pawed through his athletic carrier, and announced he was missing his Palm pilot and cell phone, and did I know where they were.
I did not. Arch banged back up the stairs, and I gave Tom a look. “My son has become a materialist.”
“It’s the age, Goldy.”
“But where was he yesterday? What if he ends up shoplifting like those other Elk Park Prep kids?”
“Goldy, come on. Only one of those kids we caught was from Elk Park Prep, and he was carrying goods from a pen store, a leather boutique, and Victoria’s Secret.” Tom slipped into his jacket. “Plus, your pal Barry Dean, whose stores buy more advertising than God, has installed a new state-of-the-art security system at Westside. He’s even threatened to bar certain kids from the mall.”
I shook my head. I thought of my broken cup shards in the trash, and shuddered.
Tom jangled his keys. With shaking hands, I picked up the foodstuffs list to begin my check-off. Finally, Arch slammed back into the kitchen. He slipped a handful of electronic accoutrements into his backpack, then yanked up the bag in a practiced motion. In so doing, his untucked shirt revealed the skin of his back. I gasped.
The bottom fourth of Arch’s back was inked with a tattoo of a lacrosse stick.
“Mother of God!” I exclaimed.
“What’s the matter?” Tom demanded, startled.
“I… he…” I croaked. “So that’s where you were yesterday, at a, at a, tattoo…” I couldn’t finish.
“Back off, Mom!” Arch yelled.
“I, I—”
“May I see it, Arch?” Tom interposed quietly. Eyeing me furiously, Arch faced me and lifted his shirt so Tom could inspect his back.
“Well, well,” said Tom. “A tattoo. Had any bleeding or swelling?”
“No.” Arch flipped down his shirt, tucked it in, and announced he’d forgotten one more thing upstairs: his anatomy class assignment.
I sank into a chair. “I’m losing my grip,” I moaned.
“Hate to tell you, Miss G., but that’s what you’re supposed to do with an almost-fifteen-year-old.” He stroked my cheek and kissed me again. “Just concentrate on the cooking. Julian’s helping you today?” he asked. “Along with Liz?”
I took two deep, yoga-style breaths. Liz Fury was good, but twenty-two-year-old Julian Teller, our one-time boarder and close family friend, was, in my opinion, the best young gourmet cook in Colorado. “They’re both helping,” I answered. Plus, I added mentally, Julian was close to Arch, and might have some ideas about dealing with adolescence. Maybe Julian had tattoos, too.
“You’re sure you’re going to be all right, Miss G.?”
I opened my eyes wide. I wasn’t sure of anything. “Tom, I’ll be fine. Julian’s leaving Boulder at one, meeting us at the mall at two.”
“OK, listen,” Arch interjected as he traipsed back into the kitchen and deftly nabbed a third energy drink. “Could you tell Julian I need a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting? For my birthday? You’ll probably be too busy to do anything, and Julian always makes me a terrific cake,” he added.
“Arch!”
“One Epiphone on sale, Mom. One.”
Tom winked at me and waved. The back door banged behind them. A moment later, Tom’s engine growled in the driveway. My heart ached. Was I a failure as a mother? If I bought the expensive guitar, would I be succumbing to acquisitiveness? If I didn’t buy it, would Arch get more tattoos?
Before I could answer these questions, however, there was a frenzied knocking at the front door. My peephole revealed Liz Fury.
“Where’s your husband going this time of day? Is everything OK?” Liz demanded.
I stepped out onto the porch. “He’s just taking Arch to school. Late start.”
“Oh.”
Liz, an early-forties single mom, was gifted with food and efficient at catering. With her tall, slender figure, attractive face set off by sapphire eyes and chopped silver-blond hair, she even looked the part. Or at least, she looked the way most people visualize an upscale caterer. She didn’t look chic just at that moment, though. In the cold April wind, her hair had all blown to one side. Her cheeks and nose were red, and she looked less like a hip caterer than a silver-haired doll with a punk haircut.
Tom and Arch zoomed away. Liz, clutching a bag, hastened past me toward the kitchen. Under her coat, it looked as if she was wearing dressier-than-usual clothes. Hmm. I’d seen Liz talking earnestly with Barry Dean while we did the lounge measurements. Maybe she was trying to impress the most eligible bachelor.
And maybe I was becoming too obsessed with other folks’ issues. I marched into the kitchen.
“What are we doing first?” Liz asked as her eyes swept the room. “Why were Tom and Arch in such a hurry?”
“Ah…I don’t know.” I truly did not know what Tom was doing today, but I’d finally learned a thing or two as a cop’s wife, among them: Regarding police work, keep your mouth shut. And anyway, I’d forgotten to ask what Tom’s plans were; I’d been sidetracked by Arch’s tattoo.
“I got that expensive Burgundy. You’re right, though, it will make a difference.” Liz banged bottles onto the counter, then hung up her coat and washed her hands. I complimented her on her outfit—shimmery white silk shirt, spotless black silk sweater, and wrinkled-silk gray pants—undoubtedly remnants of her high-flying days as a party planner and caterer for a high-flying corporation that had gone under. When her employer had declared bankruptcy, she’d tried to find work with other big-spending companies. But the new big guns in town had brought their own party planners. With no savings, Liz had ended up begging for food stamps. If I were in her position, I’d chat up single guys, too.
Without thinkin
g, I asked, “Going somewhere after we finish tonight?”
“Well,” she replied with a smile as she tied her apron over her beautiful clothes, “maybe.” She lowered velvety lashes over her dark blue eyes. “Not that I’d ever tell my boss about my social life.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
A grin flitted across Liz’s heart-shaped mouth as she retrieved a wide frying pan and containers of reserved beef drippings and clarified butter. I packed up the first container of truffles while she whisked flour into the melted fat, set the heat to low, and pulled out the beef stock. As I covered layer after layer of chocolate, Liz slowly stirred the stock into the roux until it thickened. Leaving it to heat, she went back to the refrigerator and perused the contents.
“Goldy, what else do we have left to do?”
“Shrimp rolls. You can check the crab dip. I’ve got two pages of printout over there. Could you, ah, bring me the grilled shrimp?”
Liz brought out the vat of shrimp, then perused the printout. A moment later she dove back into the depths of the refrigerator.
She bumped around for a bit, then called, “What’d you do, work all night on the Stockham lunch?”
“Just trying to get ahead. We’ve got that party plus Barry’s lessee lunch the following day.”
Sweethearts’ Swedish Meatballs in Burgundy Sauce
⅔ cup cornflake crumbs
1 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon dried minced onion
⅛ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1¼ teaspoons salt