Dying for Chocolate

MONTESSORI MUFFINS

2 cups whole wheat flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

? teaspoon salt

1 cup chopped pitted prunes

1 egg, beaten

? cup oil

? cup molasses

1 ? cups milk

Preheat oven to 400°. Combine whole wheat flour, baking powder, salt, and prunes in a bowl. Stir together egg, oil, molasses, and milk in another bowl. Combine the mixtures, mixing just until blended. Spoon into a greased 12-cup muffin tin. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean.

Makes 12 muffins

He looked up, pushed the glasses back on his nose, and regarded me with magnified brown eyes. He said, “You look tired, Mom.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Oh. I don’t know what that means.” He was rooting through the bag.

“Sorry. It just means when you’re tired yourself, you think I am.”

He did not answer, but drew a newspaper from the bag.

I said, “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

I halved fat Valencia oranges, whirred them on the Farquhars’ electric juicer to extract pulpy nectar. I poured the thick juice into another Waterford pitcher, one that had survived the garden explosion. The buzzer for the muffins went off. When I turned back from putting them on a cooling rack, Arch was carefully pouring the fresh juice into the newspaper.

I gasped. Arch said nothing. Trying hard not to lose my temper as the last of the juice drained into the folded paper, I said, “Please. What are you doing?”

He said, “Experimenting,” without looking at me.

Then he did look at me. He unfolded the newspaper with a flourish, paged carefully through it to show that it was just a newspaper. No liquid, no stain. Then he refolded it with aplomb. He dropped his chin, gave me another knowing look over the top of his glasses, and poured the juice out of the newspaper back into the pitcher.

“All rightl” said Julian from the kitchen doorway, where, unknown to me, he had been standing watching. Julian held on to his towel with one hand and enthusiastically clapped the counter with the other.

I smiled. “Let’s drink that juice,” I said. “I’ll make more for Bo and Adele.”

When the two of them had drained their glasses, Julian said to Arch, “You going to show that trick to your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” came Arch’s hot protest.

I said, “Excuse me?”

Julian gave Arch a profoundly apologetic look. Then he snitched a muffin and walked quickly out of the kitchen, tossing a comment over his shoulder. Arch, he said, should be ready to go to Elk Park Prep in thirty minutes.

I echoed, “Girlfriend?”

Arch let out a deep breath. He took a bite of muffin. He looked at me and shrugged. Said, “Remember I told you Julian really likes your cooking, Mom? He even told me he wants to, like, take lessons from you.”

“Please don’t change the subject. You never mentioned a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend! I need to go get dressed.”

“You are dressed.”

Another sigh.

I tried another tack. “You don’t have to tell me about this if you don’t want to.”

He said, “Good. Because I don’t want you asking forty questions.”

“How about two?”

He shrugged.

“Was your dad nice to you?”

He nodded.

“How’s school?”

His cheeks turned pink. “Fine.” Then he pressed the rest of the muffin into his mouth and reached again into the grocery bag. “This is for you,” he said with his mouth full. He handed me a thick manila envelope. To my chagrin, it was labeled Parent Packet—Please read immediately.

“Apparently paying tuition isn’t enough,” I said, to no one in particular.

Adele’s distant tap-step announced her approach. I slapped down the manila envelope, set her a place at the oak table, and started slicing oranges for more juice.

“Better go get ready,” I said quickly to Arch.

“Okay, but I need to ask Adele something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Smart kid. Arch knew the best way to get what he wanted was to try for it when I was in a rush to prepare food. I nabbed Adele’s muscle-relaxant medication from the cabinet and pressed the orange halves into the whirling juicer. Just when I had extracted a new pitcherful of the sweet orange liquid, Adele appeared at the kitchen doorway. Her face was drawn in pain from morning back stiffness.

Arch said, “Good morning, Mrs. Farquhar. That’s a really pretty robe.”

Unbelievable. Not only was Arch learning tricks, he was taking charm lessons from The Jerk. Even Adele looked at me in surprise. I noticed that the shiny dark blue Chinese silk robe with its red-and-green embroidery was indeed lovely. The astonishing thing was that Arch had noticed it.

“Why thank you,” she said with a smile that eased the wrinkles of pain. “The fragrance of those muffins is indescribable.” Carefully, Adele lowered herself into her chair.

Arch echoed the movement and sat down in the chair next to her.

“Mrs. Farquhar?” he said when she had taken her pills with dainty sips of juice.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised. When I stepped forward to offer support, Arch shot me a forbidding, dark look. I stood still.

“Mrs. Farquhar,” he began again, “I was wondering if you would mind if I had some kids over one of these days.”

Again there was a radiant smile from my employer. I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want Arch to see me grin.

“A pool party!” said Adele with enthusiasm. “It sounds lovely. Let’s have it as part of our anniversary celebration.”

“I don’t know about a pool party,” said Arch. “I don’t want them to swim. I want to do an act.”

“An act?” I said, incredulous. This from a child who had balked at show-and-tell for six years?

“What kind of act?” asked Adele. “Of course, I mean, it’s fine, dear. But what will you be doing?”

Arch stood. He reached into the bag and then walked with great drama to Adele’s side. He held up a half- dollar in one hand, showed it to us, and then had it disappear. With his other hand he snapped behind Adele’s ear and the coin reappeared. He looked at us both and gave a slight bow. Then he straightened up.

He said, “Archibald the Magnificent’s Traveling Magic Show.”

13.