Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  But I’d decided that Priscilla was too much of a diva for me.

  I checked the clock over Bubbles and Suds, the coin laundry. I had to zoom back to the Big House and put the final touches on the tea before the horde of Tri-Gams and Sandy Harbor dignitaries arrived after the parade. Hurrying to my car, I waved to Ty, who was directing traffic, as Hal Manning’s antique hearse passed by.

  It was easy to pull out, but I had to drive home slowly. The two plows the village owned had really concentrated on the parade route and hadn’t paid much attention to the outlying roads.

  When I got to the Big House, my friend Antoinette Chloe Brownelli (who preferred Brown these days) was parked in the lot with her radio blaring. Some kind of country song was on, and ACB was singing right along with it. I beeped my horn, and she got out of her car.

  As usual, she was wearing a colorful muumuu. This one had big birds-of-paradise all over it, with their orange heads and sharp green beaks, and tropical flowers on a purple background. I shivered when I saw her glittery rubber flip-flops slosh through the snow to meet up with me. Even though Max and Clyde had plowed, there were tracks of snow left from the equipment, and ACB managed to walk through them all.

  She’d dyed her hair light blue, for the occasion, it seemed, since it had been flamingo pink last week. And as always, she wore a fascinator on her head. ACB’s fascinators were handmade by her and fashioned to whatever event she was attending at the time.

  For the tea she sported a pink plastic teacup in a nest of silk flowers glued to a lime-green net. She’d also found a place for one or two faux birds. This time it was two seagulls standing in the teacup. The gulls and silk flowers, too heavy for the net, hung precariously over her right ear.

  Her earrings dangled with pink teacups that matched the one on her fascinator.

  To keep herself warm from the twenty-degree temperature, she’d draped a red tartan shawl around her shoulders, but that didn’t seem like nearly enough protection from the cold to me.

  Before I could get steady on my clunky boots, she scooped me into a bear hug, and as usual, I tried not to sneeze from the scent of heavy perfume and cosmetics.

  ACB was one of a kind, and I adored her—muumuu, fascinator, blue hair, birds, teacups, perfume, and all.

  “I’m here to help,” she said. “Let’s get this tea out of the way, and then we can concentrate on the mac and cheese contest.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  I reminded myself to thank Max and Clyde for clearing the snow and for salting the driveway. The walk was mostly bare.

  “Antoinette Chloe, let’s get this show on the road.”

  We hurried into the Big House. I yanked off my boots and put them on the floor of the closet. For the guests, I’d laid out a big throw rug. “I have two huge silver coffee urns set up. All we have to do is plug them in.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Antoinette Chloe, don’t take your flips off. I won’t hear of it.”

  She set down her purse, which was actually a beach bag that read I HEART SANDY HARBOR, LAKE ONTARIO, NY in yellow letters on a fluorescent orange background, and said, “I’ll wipe them off.”

  She pulled a blue flowered scarf from the folds of her muumuu and wiped the bottom of each flip-flop.

  Now, that’s winter etiquette!

  Blondie was a different story. She was loaded with snow. I tried to dry her with a terry towel I kept by the door, but instead she bounded around ACB and shook herself off. Hair and snow flew everywhere.

  “Thanks a bunch, Blondie.” She licked my hand, then went back to ACB, who didn’t mind wet dog as much as I did. Good thing Ty was going to pick Blondie up later and let her stay at his apartment.

  “Your house looks fabulous, Trixie. Everything looks so elegant and pretty. Mabel will love it.”

  “Yikes, Antoinette Chloe! Don’t forget to call her Priscilla!” And Priscilla had better not forget to add the “Chloe” when talking to you, my friend!

  “I’ll call her Priscilla when Blondie flies. She’s always been Mabel Cronk to me. I started Gamma Gamma Gamma to reach out to her when she was a farm girl without friends. I don’t care that she’s the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food and a big shot. I remember her when.”

  Good for Antoinette Chloe!

  I preheated my oven and pulled out a plastic bag of cheese-olive puffs from the freezer and positioned the little balls on a tray. Then I slipped the tray into the oven. The puffs were perfect for a tea—or any type of party, really.

  After thinking about it, I decided that I should try to convince ACB to call her Priscilla, just because Megan would have a meltdown if she didn’t.

  “Antoinette Chloe, we promised Priscilla to use her . . . um . . . stage name . . . so just play along. Please? Remember that she’s doing the weekend as a favor to Sandy Harbor.”

  “And for her own publicity! Have you seen all the reporters that have been hanging around town since her arrival? The fairgrounds are loaded with them in their RVs and vans.”

  I plugged in the coffee and the hot-water urns for tea. “That’s my point, Antoinette Chloe. Priscilla is a great draw to Sandy Harbor and the cook-off.”

  “But so are the other chefs.”

  I gathered all the fixings for my three punches. One was a mix of juices and wine. The other was made of champagne, pink lemonade, and raspberry sherbet. I made another nonalcoholic punch with just fruit juices and ginger ale, as well.

  “The other chefs are a great draw, too, but remember they are all hoping to win first prize to get on Priscilla’s show,” I reminded ACB.

  “Good point, Trixie.” She sighed. “But I think it’s baloney that Mabel has that fake accent going and she has all her queenly ways. Did you see how she acted at the parade?”

  I chuckled. “Countess ways. She’s a countess.”

  “Hog poop.”

  I chuckled again and handed her some ingredients. “Do me a favor and put together this other punch while I check on my cheese-olive puffs. The recipe is by the bowl.”

  ACB ambled over to the other silver punch bowl. “By the way, are you entering the mac and cheese contest?”

  “Of course! It would give me and the Silver Bullet some great publicity if I won. I mean, I’d get to be on TV! And I’d be sure to drop in some comments about my diner and cottages then. Publicity like that is priceless. I could completely pay off what I owe Aunt Stella. Besides, if I got more business, maybe I could put an addition on the diner and build more cottages. I can picture it all now!”

  I closed my eyes and imagined my own personal touch on the property I owned—or will own when I finished paying Aunt Stella.

  My heart started pounding in double time, and I began to feel overwhelmed. After the tea was over and everyone got out of my house, I would have to clean everything up. Then I needed to make my mac and cheese entry. Then I had to cook from midnight to eight because, unfortunately, Linda Blessler couldn’t sub for me tonight of all nights. Then I had to drive to the fairgrounds right after my shift in the morning.

  Sleep? Who needs it!

  ACB looked at her reflection in one of the silver trays. “Of course, Brown’s Four Corners will be represented by my special mac and cheese casserole, which will contain some of the bounty of Lake Ontario—trout, salmon, and perch.”

  “Sounds fabulous, Antoinette Chloe.”

  She put the tray down, pulled out a plastic bag full of coconut macaroons from the depths of her purse, and began arranging them on the silver tray. “What’s your entry like, Trixie?”

  “I’m putting kielbasa, mango-peach salsa, and four cheeses into mine.”

  “Yum.”

  “I’m also adding some secret ingredients, which I won’t say.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m your friend.”

  I fussed with getting
the sherbet out of the container for the punch, and then I fussed with the red napkins, stalling, knowing it would drive her crazy until I told her.

  But I cracked first. “Oh, all right. Quit nagging me! I’m adding sage, marjoram, and oregano, all of which I dried from my herb garden.”

  “You’ll win for sure.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “I think I hear horns and sirens,” ACB said. “It must be her ladyship arriving for tea. I mean, her countess-ship.”

  * * *

  Megan and the Tri-Gams had wanted a sheriff’s escort for Priscilla with the three members of the Sandy Harbor Sheriff’s Department on motorcycles with flags waving and sirens blaring. However, Ty convinced them that it would be just as glamorous with the local deputies warm and cozy and inside their patrol vehicles after spending the length of the parade out in the elements.

  “Wait! We have to get into our aprons,” I reminded ACB. I pulled out two white aprons and two white mobcaps that looked like they’d come straight out of a Charles Dickens novel for us to wear during the tea.

  All the Tri-Gams and I would be dressing like ye ol’ kitchen maids during the tea.

  “I’ll wear the apron, but I am not giving up my fascinator. I made it special, just for the occasion,” ACB said.

  It wasn’t Downton Abbey, but we’d do.

  I hoped that the glue would hold on everything and that the gulls wouldn’t dive into the punch.

  ACB marched to a different tune from everyone else. That’s what made her so unique.

  As for me, I’d rather not start another Revolutionary War on the shore of Lake Ontario. One was enough, thank you very much.

  Walking to the front door as I tied my apron, I saw a couple of the Tri-Gams rolling out a red carpet from the motor home to my front door. Only it was lacking about thirty feet in length.

  Heads would roll on the Tri-Gam Red Carpet Committee!

  A six-piece band from the high school played what might have been “Pomp and Circumstance,” but it was hard to tell. If they were going to play it for graduation in June, they really could use more practice.

  People lined up on both sides of the red carpet. ACB and I stood inside and watched, not wanting to get cold or wet.

  On a certain note during the march, Megan Hunter knocked on the door of the motor home and the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food emerged in all her regal glory. She had changed her outfit a little bit and now was dressed all in red from the top of her pillbox hat to her dyed faux-fur coat. Red palazzo pants ballooned out from bright red patent-leather boots.

  Even with the fur coat on, she looked skinnier than she had at the parade earlier. Unlike me, Priscilla Finch-Smythe did not sample her own cooking.

  Immediately, I wanted to feed her some protein—like a juicy, rare Delmonico steak with a roast chicken chaser and a side of pork. However, she needed carbs, too. How about a mug of gravy, a vat of potato chips, and butter-soaked garlic bread? Oh, and dairy! There was a salute-to-cheese platter in my fridge that the Tri-Gam Cheese Committee had prepared, complete with a tiny flag of the country—or state—that the cheese had come from.

  I’d make her a nice plate of that. In fact, she should have the whole tray.

  Halfway up the walk, Megan stopped Priscilla. The mayor, Rick Tingsley, was making a speech and pinning a huge corsage on her coat. However, her red fur was too thick. Mayor Tingsley got flustered and just handed the red and white flowers to her.

  “Another corsage?” I asked. “It’s a little big for her.”

  “I made it,” ACB said. “I’m on the corsage committee.”

  “I guess you can never have too many flowers,” I added.

  “That’s what I always say.”

  “Why don’t you open the door of the Big House, Antoinette Chloe, since you know her? And remember, don’t call her Mabel,” I whispered.

  ACB threw open the door as wide as it could go and pulled Priscilla into the room. “Well, hell, Mabel Cronk! It’s been a long time! About time you came back for a visit!”

  Blondie appeared out of nowhere, took one look at the red fur coat, and thought she’d found a kindred spirit. She couldn’t stop circling Priscilla, sniffing, lunging, and barking. Then Blondie clamped onto a mouthful of the fur and started pulling.

  I took hold of Blondie’s collar just as Priscilla was about to topple over. Antoinette Chloe steadied her.

  The crowd started screaming, led by Megan in high C, who yelled, “A vicious dog is attacking our Priscilla! Someone stop it!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ty enter the room and hurry Blondie out the back door.

  “Was that . . . a . . . a wolf?” Priscilla said, fanning herself with her new corsage.

  “It was Blondie, my golden retriever. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. I think she just wanted to play with your coat.”

  “That police officer should have shot the beast!”

  “What did you say?” How dare she dis my adopted dog?

  ACB sniffed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mabel. You know the difference between a dog and a wolf.”

  Priscilla sniffed back. “Antoinette Chloe, you haven’t changed a bit. You are still as blunt and as crass as you used to be.”

  “You’ve sure as hell changed. Since when did you become British?”

  “Since I got my own TV show,” she whispered.

  “I heard that you got married four times,” ACB said.

  “Three, but who’s counting?”

  I’d better separate those two before things got heated, I thought. But I secretly loved how ACB was handling the diva.

  I took Priscilla’s coat and hung it in the closet, wondering where the Tri-Gam Coat Committee was. They were supposed to put the coats on three designated beds upstairs.

  Then it hit me! I was having boarders staying over tonight and maybe tomorrow night. I’d completely forgotten that I’d volunteered to house Priscilla’s entourage at the Big House since my cottages were already closed up for the winter.

  Well, I’d get the details later from the Tri-Gam Lodging Committee.

  Megan stood on the top step and shouted to the crowd, “Can I have the Tri-Gams committee people come in first to meet and greet Priscilla? Everyone else step aside!”

  Soon I was joined by the Tri-Gam Tea Committee. They went to work like little beavers in their mobcaps and aprons and walked around with silver trays, toothpicks, and napkins, serving the guests. Other guests found their way into the kitchen to help themselves.

  Megan made a plate for Priscilla, who was too busy meeting and greeting to make it to the buffet in the kitchen. Priscilla was sitting on my uncle Porky’s favorite faux-leather recliner with the footrest up.

  I stationed myself in a corner of the kitchen, passing out punch.

  The afternoon passed by in the blink of an eye. But it seemed that everyone loved the entertainment so much, they didn’t want to leave. The Tri-Gam Tea Committee had arranged for a violinist and a soloist from the church to play and sing through the event.

  “Do you want to clear out this place quickly, Trixie?” Antoinette Chloe asked me as she replenished a platter of cookies to distribute to the guests.

  “You read my mind, girlfriend.”

  “Watch this!”

  She glided over to the violinist, whispered something in her ear, and locked arms with the soloist.

  It was then we all heard the strains of “Home on the Range” warbled in a way that only ACB could warble it. The soloist inched herself away from ACB and found her way to the punch bowls in my corner of the kitchen.

  “How about a stiff one?” I asked, filling up a cup with champagne only.

  “Hit me,” she said, taking the cup. “And I need a smoke even though I haven’t smoked in two years. Where can I hide?”

  “Back porch, but it’s sn
owing, and you shouldn’t smoke.”

  “I’ll risk it,” she said, chugging the champagne and holding her cup out for another. “I gotta get that caterwauling out of my head.”

  I filled her cup again, and she walked out onto my back porch, closing the door behind her.

  ACB’s singing did the trick. In a matter of minutes, I could see dozens of arms checking their watches. The coat committee quickly started fetching coats from upstairs, and as ACB kept on singing old Western songs, people kept on leaving.

  Finally, during a showstopping rendition of “Red River Valley,” she paused midwarble and asked, “How’s that?”

  I’d just opened and closed the door for my last guest, the violinist. Then I hugged her. “Better than a smoke bomb.”

  “So, where’s the Tri-Gam Cleanup Committee?” she asked.

  “I think we’re it. They either ran for the hills or the Adirondack Mountains.”

  Just then Ty walked in. He shook off his boots and shrugged out of his coat. “The parking lot is clear except for Priscilla’s motor home and our vehicles. Clyde and Max are plowing and snow blowing to tidy everything up in the parking lot.”

  “Good. Where’s Blondie?” I asked.

  “I left her in my apartment. I thought you might need some help cleaning up.”

  I looked around at my beautiful house, and it looked worse than the village dump.

  “It’ll be no problem, Trixie.” ACB held a garbage bag open. “We can clean this up in no time.”

  I was touched. “Thanks. Both of you. I really appreciate it.”

  We cleaned the place in record time, and then I made the mistake of looking at the kitchen floor.

  “Don’t worry about it, Trixie,” Ty said, reading my mind. “I’ll take care of the floor. You just go upstairs and get a couple hours’ sleep. Antoinette Chloe, you probably have to get your entry ready, so head for your house and drive carefully . . . and go slow!”

  “I have to get my entry ready, too,” I reminded him.

  “Nope. Not now. Find time at work during your shift to put everything together,” he said, bossy deputy that he was.