Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (41 page)

“Ha
ha ha,” I faked.

“Enjoy!”
he commanded, and departed as Ma slipped down her third oyster.  Well, no
complaints there.

We
ordered our dinners, and chatted quietly and calmly.  That was when I saw
Armand talking to K., as K. was exiting the cocktail bar.  Armand pointed
toward our table, and K. waved excitedly.  He came to our table, gave little
hugs and kisses into the air next to us, then wagged a finger at me.

“Now
don’t forget we have our special dinner date out this Saturday, missy!” he
warned.

Dinner?
Missy?

“Huh?”

“The
SUPPER CLUB!” he chimed.  “My friend Gillian finagled reservations for us! For
Saturday! Remember?” he asked.

Great.
That meant a very long exodus to New York City in my van with no A.C. in August,
and possibly leftover poo smells.  I sighed.  But I had promised.  I just
hadn’t thought K. could actually swing it.  Or remember.  Rats.

“I’ll
call you tomorrow!”

He
waved, skipped out the door and was gone.  I wondered if I’d have my van back
in time for this odyssey.

Armand
came back with our dinners, placed my order of mussels marinara in front of me,
and I sighed contentedly.  I just love the smell of gahhhlic.  I’d just have to
worry about it tomorrow.  The Supper Club, not the garlic, that is. And it
might turn out to be a blessing in disguise, anyway.  If the Doo-doo wasn’t
available, someone else would have to drive.  Which might mean I wouldn’t have
to go.  I felt a little relieved at that prospect.

Armand
served Ma her roast duckling, and Auntie looked down happily at her sea bass. 
It looked back up at her.

I
was about to ask about the polo cup thingy Bruce talked about, when Armand
asked Auntie if she had received her invitations.  Auntie nodded happily, said
she had and that she and Ma had been talking about going, too, since Ma wasn’t
going back to New Jersey until Monday morning.  After Armand’s long stare in my
direction, they assured him that I was going too, with or without a helmet
and/or fire extinguisher.  Armand nodded approvingly and vanished.

We
continued to eat and chat, and declared we would not even think about looking
at the dessert trolley.  Which we did end up doing, but decided to assuage our
guilt by sharing a single (but very large order, probably thanks to Armand)
Chocolate Pecan Pie.

We
said our goodbyes in the parking lot, and Auntie said she’d call me as soon as
she heard from the massage guy tomorrow.  I ambled my way back down Oregon
Pike, through downtown Lancaster, and carefully back into Vito’s driveway
without grazing anything on Vito’s car, or anyone else’s, either.

I
found Vito lying fast asleep on my sofa, Stanley splayed out asleep on top of
him.  I glanced at Vito’s nose.  It wasn’t bandaged anymore, and had a distinct
nip mark.  It looked pretty bad, but at least it didn’t appear to have been
re-gnawed by the Terrorist Terrier.

The
television blared.  It was ‘Frannie!’, the Southern maven of refried, retried,
bonafide and deep fried cuisine.  If it wasn’t fried, it wasn’t Frannie’s. 
Which included the Fried Alaska on the screen right now (instead of baking the
ice cream in a solid meringue coating like a typical Baked Alaska, she fries
it; it’s faster).

I
thought the TV screen looked a little dirty, then realized a few thousand gnats
also thought Frannie’s show, and Fried Alaska, were worth watching.  Along with
the very loud chorus of crickets serenading from outside.  Or inside.  I wasn’t
sure.

Then
I heard snoring and saw Miriam passed out in the corner chair.

Stanley
stretched and affectionately
patted Vito’s sore nose with his paw.  Vito yipped, “OW!” and sat bolt upright,
which threw both Stanley and Miriam off their seats.  Along with the gnats,
which swarmed away from the TV screen and hovered like clouds.

“Hi
there, Toots!” Vito smiled, swatting the gnats.  “How was your dinner?” he
asked, while trying to poke a plastic grocery bag full of ‘product’ toward
Miriam with his foot, which Miriam tried to smash down into her new ‘purse’, an
over-sized beach bag.

“Good,”
I shrugged, and started up the stairs, trying to be nonchalant.

For
some reason I was edgy.  I figured I was just anxious about Vinnie and Marie. 
If Vito and Miriam had let this many bugs in, I wanted to make sure Vinnie and
Marie weren’t let out.  Or covered with gnats.

“Hey,
it doesn’t smell like smoke, anymore, right?” Vito hollered up after me.

“Uh,
no,” I said, peering into Marie’s room.  Which was true, actually. Finally.

I
went into Marie’s room and removed the cricket serenading her in her seed dish
and put him in my pocket to put back outside.

“See,
Miriam here had a great idea…” Vito continued to shout up the stairs at me. 
Oh boy, I could hardly wait.

I
checked out Vinnie in my room.  He sat on the floor next to the threshold
arranging his tally:  6 dead crickets lined up in a row, 2 lightning bugs and a
box elder, with a last bug twitching on the end.  I shuddered.  He gave me the
head nod and trilled.  Clearly, Vinnie knows I do not want our home filled with
bugs.  Even crickets, who are supposed to be good luck.  I am not Chinese, but
I wouldn’t care how much luck they bring even if I was.  If I can scoot them
outside, that’s great.  Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned, they’re just
cockroach cousins with big noisy elbows.

In
spite of my repulsion at Vinnie’s line-up, I was glad he caught them.  And that
he hadn’t eaten them.  I got some tissues and scooped up the carcasses – and
the one that was now post-transit – and flushed them down the toilet.  Vinnie
accepted congratulatory petty-pets on his head.

I
went back downstairs to find Miriam post-stretching and yawning and Stanley and
Vito in similar stages and wagging their tails.  Really.  Never mind.

“Well,
uh, thanks, Vito,” I said. “Looks like the fans worked.”

“Oh,
no, Toots!” Vito said.  I also noticed he no longer had a speech impediment. 
Guess that was because of finally losing the nose bandage.  “Miriam here’s the
life saver!  She said the screens would hold in the smoke, sos it was better to
have them sit open.  But what with the pets and all, she offered to sit with me
to make sure no one got out.” Vito beamed.

Miriam
nodded enthusiastically, draped in what could only be described as a tablecloth
with plastic gemstone fringe and gold embroidery sewn across it in an owl
motif.  But the complimenting black and purple headscarf, with a hot pink
feather tucked rakishly in its front knot, underneath the plastic jewel, really
did the trick.

“I
know how conscious you are about your pets and all,” Miriam twittered.

Conscientious,
I thought.  But maybe she was right.  I resolved not to think again until I
woke up tomorrow morning.

“Uh,
thanks,” I said.

“I
read in Housework America that smoke leaves quicker when you have the screens
up.  But I know how worried you are about bugs and all, so the article said to
rub some clove oil and fresh garlic along the window jambs,” she said, nodding.

I
closed my eyes and sniffed.  No wonder I felt anxious when I walked in.  My
house was riddled with savory harbingers of Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays
past.  Those kind of memories always make me a little jittery.  They conjure up
traumatic visions of menus for six and winding up with leftovers for fifty.

After
some prolonged faked exchanges, I shuffled Vito, Miriam and Stanley out onto my
front porch, and then closed my front door.  My guests dispensed with, I vowed,
once again, to change the locks.  I closed all the windows, shut all the fans
and mercifully turned the AC in the house back on.  I vacuumed up the gnats
while they watched the end of their lives across the TV.  I scooted a few more
crickets out the back door, along with the one in my pocket.  I tucked Marie in
and let Vinnie out of his kitty jaildom.  Then I poured myself a mug from the
Box O’ Burgundy, and settled down to watch the evening news.  So did the chorus
of crickets chirping peacefully in the background.

The
phone rang.  The crickets stopped.  Huh.  Well, that was an upside.  Maybe I
could get friends and family to call and hang up repeatedly.  It might convince
the crickets that being outside was a lot more peaceful after all.

I
rolled off the sofa, mug in hand, and managed to answer the phone on the fifth
ring.

“Hello,
dear,” Aunt Muriel’s voice sang.  She sounded really happy.  Then again, it was
late, after a very nice dinner, and I’m pretty sure she and Ma were having a
very nice nightcap.  “Sorry to call so late, dear,” she offered, “but I just
heard from our masseuse – he can fit us in at ten o’clock tomorrow morning!”
She giggled.  Somewhere in the background I heard Ma’s voice complaining about
nonsense, waste of money and lost time.  I wondered if she was referring to me
or the masseuse.  Then I heard Aunt Muriel hold her hand to her receiver, hiss
at Ma, and come back to me.  “Well, then we’ll see you about ten o’clock
tomorrow morning, right?  After all, if you want your mother to be able to walk
normally again, you have to have a massage too, remember?”

I
sighed and nodded.  “I promise I’ll be there about ten o’clock tomorrow
morning,” I replied.

“Good
girl,” Aunt Muriel said, and hung up singing a “Nighty-night!” to me.

I
sat back down on the sofa and tried to go back to the news.  Which was over.  I
flipped the flipper, and fell back to the cooking channel.  ‘Romantic Dinners
Gone Wrong’ was on, and I immediately got suckered. This was getting good. 
Then I started wondering when I’d ever serve a romantic dinner again.  My
non-existent social life was overrun by somewhat peculiar family, friends, pets
and a pervasive theme of doo-doo.  Nothing, oh nothing, about these social
circumstances hinted whatsoever at finding a boyfriend.

The
Twinge started up again, and a sharp pinch started in my ass and shot down to
my toes.  I panicked.  I couldn’t stand being this tense, with my nerves
kicking me in my own literal butt.   And what about the massage guy?  Did he
really laugh at me?  He was cute.  And OMG he was going to be feeling up my
butt at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.

Another
pinch.  I winced.  I had to do something to relax, quick.

I
was up and on my cramping feet before you could say custom omelet for two.  I
grabbed the leftover loaf of French bread that was turning a slighter shade of
stale from the top of the fridge.  I sliced, beat eggs, fried bacon, grated
cheese, found the lost Parmesan cheese and threw in various peppers, onions and
the like.  I got all these savory ingredients on top of the bread bits lying
peacefully along the bottom of my good lasagna pan.  I covered them up with
wrap, and put them back in the fridge.   Tomorrow morning I’d throw them in the
oven for forty-five minutes and have a nice hot breakfast casserole to take to
Auntie’s.  Ha!  I’d impress that massage guy!

I
was contemplating side dishes (ham? hash browns? fruit cup? muffins?) when the
phone rang.  Again.  I looked at it warily and answered.

It
was Trixie.  “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks and all for dinner last night.”
Good old Trixie.

“No
problemo,” I said, smiling.

“Huh?”
she asked.

“No
problem.” Seemed Vito-speak was starting to rub off on me.

“Also
wanted to say thanks for the boyfriend pep talk,” she said.  “I think you’re
right.  I guess I’ve just been a little low.”

“No,
no, you’re fine. You know you’ve been working very hard.”

“You’re
telling me.   That witch tried to hitch me with a third second shift this
week.  I’ve already put in sixty hours and it’s not even the weekend yet.  And
you know they’re gonna call me because I’m single, have no kids, and now
everyone knows that I have no boyfriend.”

“Well,
your track record’s still better than mine,” I offered.

“Mm.
I guess it’s not so bad being solo.  Just lonely, sometimes,” Trixie said.  I
gulped at some of my wine, jealously wondering what that was like.  She added,
“Sometimes when I’m feeling really lonesome, I just go and leave the toilet
seat up before I go to bed.  That way when I wake up in the morning, I feel
like I haven’t been home alone all night. And it really annoys me, so then I
remind myself how much better off I am without a guy around.”

You
have to admire Trixie’s logic.  Or not.

“Anyway,
how have you been? Anymore burning Buy-A-Lots news?  How’s your pinched nerve?”

I
told Trixie about the morning massage.  “Well, seeing a massage guy should be a
good thing,” she said. In the background I heard her rummage around and throw
some ice cubes in a glass.

“What
are you drinking?” I asked out of curiosity.  And envy. The Box O’ Burgundy and Mugs O’ Merlots were getting old.

“Tom
Collins,” she replied.

“You’re
listening to Tom Collins?”

“No,
stupid, Tom Collins is a drink mix. Tom Jones is the guy you listen to.”