Tom, Julian, Arch, and I had laughingly patted out silky discs of focaccia with garlic and pine nuts. Don?t think about it, I ordered myself.
Arch placed the sheets in Tom?s oven and drained the pasta wheels. Soon the kitchen was wrapped in a scent as rich and sweet as any country inn. I breathed the heavenly aroma in deeply: it was another gift from Tom, his memory, his recipe. Tom?s cookies emerged as golden, moist rounds delicately fringed with brown; Arch and I each took one. As before, buttery lemon flavor melted over the crunch of almonds. They were out of this world.
?Those churchwomen are so lucky,? Arch said with undisguised envy. Outside, the whine of Marla?s and Julian?s vehicles announced their return.
?Try a Canterbury Jumble.?
He palmed one and patted me on the shoulder, then picked up his bookbag and trundled out. I glanced at the clock: 8:50. The boys wouldn?t be too late for school. When I was going through the divorce from The Jerk, a therapist had told me that during a time of crisis, staying on schedule with a child?s normal events was essential. Missing school, delaying mealtimes, getting to bed too late, would all say to Arch that his world was falling apart. The last thing I wanted was for my son to feel that chaos was taking over. Even if it seemed that way to me.
Marla traipsed in, took one look at my anguished expression, and popped a warm cookie in her mouth. I did the same, and tasted the warm chocolate oozing around the rich crunch of macadamia nuts and sweet, chewy raisins and coconut. Marla raised one eyebrow at the assembled ingredients on the counter. ?Tell me how to fix this shrimp,? she said dejectedly, trying without success to conceal her distaste for cooking. It wasn?t the first time I had been reminded what a good friend she was, but tears smarted in my eyes as I set about instructing her in boiling the prawns.
An hour and a half later, and with periodic pauses in her clumsy culinary activity to massage my back, Marla had finished putting together the women?s luncheon food. The medley of succulent shrimp, sweet peas, and tender pasta lay under a blanket of wine-and-cheese sauce, awaiting only heating in one of my large chafing dishes, the kind used by caterers; a hotel pan. An inviting bowl of purple radicchio, dark green oak leaf lettuce, pale nests of chicory and baby romaine leaves glistened under plastic wrap next to a jar of freshly made balsamic vinaigrette. The cookies lay in alternating rows on a silver platter. To go with the main dish, Marla had thawed homemade Italian breadsticks taken from my freezer. When she had laboriously transported everything out to the van, she nipped over to her Jaguar and brought out a garment bag. Within ten minutes, she emerged from my bedroom, wearing a lovely wool dress the color my mother called dusty rose. With a monumental sigh, she collapsed on one of the kitchen chairs.
Shrimp on Wheels
5 ounces pasta wagon wheels (ruote)
salt to taste
1 quart water
1 tablespoon crab-and-shrimp seasoning (?crab boil?)
z lemon
z pound large deveined raw shrimp (?Easy-Peel?)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons minced shallot
2 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon chicken bouillon granules, dissolved in ? cup water
1 cup milk
? cup dry white wine ( preferably vermouth)
2 tablespoons best-quality mayonnaise (such as homemade)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup frozen baby peas
Preheat over to 350 . Butter a 2-quart casserole dish with a lid; set aside.
Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water for 10 to 12 minutes or until al dente. Drain; set aside.
In a large frying pan, bring the quart of water to a boil and add the lemon and the crab-and-shrimp boil seasoning. Add the shrimp, cook until just pink (about one minute), and immediately transfer with a slotted spoon (leaving the seasonings behind) to a colander to drain. Do not overcook. Drain, peel, and set aside.
In another large frying pan, melt the butter over low heat and saute the shallot in it for several minutes, until limp but not browned. Sprinkle the flour over the shallot and cook over low heat for 1 or 2 minutes, until the mixture bubbles. Stirring constantly, slowly add the chicken bouillon, milk, and wine, stirring until thickened.
Combine the mayonnaise and mustard in a small bowl. Add a small amount of the sauce to the mustard and mayonnaise and stir until smooth, then add that mixture to the sauce. Stir until heated through. Add the cheese, stirring until melted. Add the pasta, shrimp, and peas and stir until well combined. Transfer the mixture to the buttered dish and bake, covered, for about 15 to 25 minutes or until heated through.
Makes 4 servings
?Damn! Catering?s hard work!?
I said, ?Let?s get going. I?m just fine.? I leaned over and gave her an awkward hug. ?This luncheon wouldn?t be happening if it weren?t for you.?
?Don?t get sentimental on me,? she said as she unplugged the heating pad. I shambled into the bathroom and changed into the front-buttoning black dress Marla had picked out. The pain in my back was noticeable but not unbearable. Standing hurt more than walking. When I arrived back in the kitchen, Marla was already wearing a Goldilock?s Catering apron; she slipped one on me and tied it in the back.
?Seriously, Goldy, this work is too hard. I hope you?re putting some money away in a retirement fund. If not, I need to get you together with my investment guy.?
It hurt when I laughed. ?To be perfectly honest, I haven?t thought about retirement lately. If you?re talking about a major life change, at this point, I?d rather get married.?
She had finished tying my apron and I turned around. Dear cheerful Marla, my best friend, who sashayed through difficulty with flippancy and aplomb, had a look of such sadness and disappointment on her face that I knew it could mean only one thing, a thing she would never say. She thought Tom Schulz was dead.
18
We drove to the church in silence. The air was still cold, and gray lamb?s tails of cloud wafted just above the rim of the mountains. Several older women had already arrived in the church parking lot. They watched Marla?s and my arrival with hungry interest. When I tried to help Marla unload the boxes, a razorlike pain screamed across my back. Marla saw my wince: she promptly ordered me into the church. ?Besides,? she announced, ?here comes Bob Preston, and I just know he?s desperate to help me unload.
Preston, who had clearly driven up in his just-waxed gold. Audi only to leave Agatha off, submitted to Marla?s orders after she rapped loudly on his car window with her ringed fingers and hollered at him through the glass. Sheepishly, he untangled himself from the gleaming car and picked up two boxes from the back of the van. I prayed that he would not have a hernia while carrying in a box and sue Goldilocks? Catering. But for Bob, a macho display was more desirable than being embarrassed in front of a gaggle of churchwomen.
Inside the church, Zelda Preston was already at work. Her wiry body and intent face were bent over a long table covered with a floral-print tablecloth. Her strong hands expertly set each place with the church?s beautiful matched silverplate, Inlaid Rose. When I arrest the wrong guy, Schulz had told me once cheerfully, I do my best to be real nice to him the next time I see him. I hobbled over to Zelda, knew better than to give her a hug, so merely picked up forks and spoons and started putting them around the table.
