2 tablespoons olive oil
2 6-ounce cans tomato paste, plus water
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano leaves
1 small bay leaf
1 teaspoon salt
? teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Pasta:
1 teaspoon olive oil
14 manicotti noodles
Filling:
1 ? cups ricotta cheese
6 large eggs
z pound Fontina cheese, grated
z pound mozzarella cheese, grated
1/3 cup freshly grated best-quality Parmesan cheese
6 tablespoons soft butter (not margarine)
1 teaspoon salt
z teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil leaves
freshly grated Parmesan cheese for sprinkling on top
Preheat the oven to 350 . To make the sauce, gently saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat until the onion is translucent, about five minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir. Slowly add 4 tomato paste cans of water and stir. Add the seasonings and allow the sauce to simmer while you prepare the manicotti and filling.
Bring a large pot of water to a boil, add the olive oil, and drop in the manicotti. Cook just until al dente, about 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and run cold water over the manicotti in a colander. Set aside.
To make the filling, beat the ricotta with the eggs until combined in the large bowl of an electric mixer. Add the grated cheeses and softened butter; beat until combined. Add the salt, pepper, and basil. Beat on low just until everything is combined.
Gently fill the cooked manicotti with the cheese mixture and arrange in 2 buttered 9-by 13-inch pans. Cover the pasta in each pan with half the sauce; sprinkle on additional Parmesan. Bake for about 20 minutes, until the cheese is thoroughly melted and the sauce is bubbling. Makes 7 servings.
Food was the least of my worries. I pulled myself up from my chair, tore fresh greens for the salad, and mixed a lemon vinaigrette. I had made some breadsticks and frozen them the week before. Julian said he would put together a mammoth antipasto platter. I would bake a fudge cake when I returned from church, and that would be that.
Julian did not accompany me to the Sunday service. I came in late, sat in the back, slipped into the bathroom when tears again overcame me during the passing of the peace. I left quietly as soon as communion was over. A couple of curious sidelong glances came my way, but I resolutely averted my eyes. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss murder.
The glumness on Hank Dawson’s ruddy face when he opened the door to let me in that afternoon seemed to emanate more from the prospect of the Broncos having to face the Redskins than from anything to do with Elk Park Prep. The Dawsons had even invited the Marenskys. Bizarrely, Hank and Stan seemed to be friendly, resigned together to weather another tragedy out at the school. Either that, or they were both awfully good actors.
Caroline Dawson was a completely different story, however. Instead of her usual menopause-red outfit, scrupulously made-up face, and stiff composure, Caroline was dressed in an unbecoming cream-colored suit that was made of a fuzzy wool that kept picking up stray watts of static electricity. She looked like a squat, electrically charged ivory post. There was an edginess, too, about her untidily pinned-up hair and too-fussy inspection of the food and the way we were setting the table for her guests.
“We pay a lot of money for Greer to go to that school,” she said angrily during her fifth unexpected appearance in her kitchen. “She shouldn’t have to put up with crime and harassment. It’s not something I expect, if you know what I mean. They never should have started letting riffraff into that school. They wouldn’t be having these problems if they’d just kept their standards up.”
I said nothing. Everybody paid a lot to go to that school, and I didn’t know how Caroline would define riffraff. Julian, maybe?
Rhoda Marensky, dressed in a knitted green and brown suit with matching Italian leather shoes, made one of her tall, elegant appearances. She conspired with Caroline in misery. “First there was that Andrews murder. One of our coats, mind you, was involved, and the police said they found a pen from our store out by the body … and now Ferrell. Poor Brad hasn’t slept in two weeks, and I’m afraid he hasn’t even been able to start his paper on The Tempest. This is not what we’re all paying for,” she exclaimed, eyes blazing. “It’s like someone’s trying to disrupt our lives!”
“Rhoda, honey,” Stan called from the kitchen doorway, “what was the name of that lacrosse player from a couple of years back who graduated from Elk Park and went to Johns Hopkins? I can’t remember and Hank just asked me if he was National Honor Society.”
In a blur of green and brown, Rhoda brushed past Caroline Dawson, Julian, and me as if she had never even spoken to us. Strands from Caroline Dawson’s hair and beige outfit now stood completely on end. Flaming spots of color stood out on her cheeks. Would we please hurry up? she said. Catering was so expensive, and with all the college expenses they would have next year, they couldn’t afford to go for hours and hours without eating.
As soon as she’d banged out of the kitchen, Julian erupted. “Well, excuse the fuck me!”
“Welcome to catering,” I said as I hoisted a tray. “You always think it’s just going to be about cooking, but . . ” It never is.
We served the manicotti to a few grudgingly bestowed compliments. I felt terrible for Julian, especially since my own taste test had rated them mouth-watering. But what could you expect when the Redskins were smearing the Broncos? There was energetic kibbitzing about why this was happening: The coach had changed the lineup, Elway was worried about his shoulder, a line-backer was the subject of a paternity suit. When Washington won by three touchdowns, I feared we would receive no tip. But Hank Dawson reluctantly handed me twenty dollars as we trucked out the final boxes.
He lamented, “When Greer was in the state volleyball finals, we were going to take a gourmet box lunch. But Caroline said no, we had to have ham sandwiches the way we always did or we’d jinx it!”
“Oh, my,” I said sympathetically. I didn’t quite get the connection with the manicotti.
“Anyway,” he continued morosely, “you should have done the same food you did last week. It would have been luckier.” It’s always the caterer’s fault.
19
“Lucky?” Julian groused on the way home. “Luckier food? What a dork.”
“I keep telling you, people eat for different reasons. If they think eating sausage is going to win them the Super Bowl, then get out your bratwurst recipe and rev up the sausage stuffer. It pays in the long run, kiddo.”
After we’d unloaded, he announced he was going to work on his college application forms. He called over his shoulder that anything was better than the thought of pig intestines. I laughed for the first time in two days.
John Richard left Arch off outside the house late that afternoon, the end of their Halloween skiing weekend. There he was, a strong, athletic father not lifting a finger to help his diminutive twelve-year-old son with skis, boots, poles, high-powered binoculars, and overnight bag. Should I scold him for forcing Arch to struggle halfway up the sidewalk with his loads of stuff? Never mind. This was, after all, the Jerk. If I uttered a word, then the whole neighborhood would rediscover why we were divorced in the first place.
I walked carefully down steps Julian had salted liberally that morning, relieved Arch of his skis and boots, and noticed with dismay that his face was sunburned to a brilliant pink except for the area around his eyes, where his
