1 tablespoon beef bouillon Granules
? cup nonfat dry milk
2 cups skim milkIn a large saute pan, saute the turkey over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until browned evenly. Drain the turkey on paper towels and set aside.Spray a wide nonstick skillet with vegetable oil spray. Over medium heat, saute the apple and onion, stirring frequently, until the onion is translucent. Set aside.In another large skillet, heat the olive oil over low heat just until it is warm. Stir in the flour and curry powder. Heat and stir over medium-low heat until the flour begins to bubble. Combine the bouillon granules, dry milk, and skim milk; whisk until combined. (The bouillon granules will dissolve when they are heated in the sauce.) Gradually add the milk mixture to the curry mixture, continuing to stir over medium-low heat until the mixture thickens. When the mixture is thick, add the turkey and the apple-onion mixture. Stir well and heat through. Serve over Raisin Rice.
LOWFAT CHICKEN STOCK
12 ? cups canned chicken broth (2 49 ?-ounce cans)
1 large onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
3 to 3 ? pounds chicken legs and thighs, skinned and all visible fat removed
12 ? cups water (2 cans of water)
1 celery stalk with leaves
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried thymeDiscard fat from the top of the cans of chicken broth. Heat a very large stockpot. (If you do not have a very large stockpot, you can divide the ingredients and make the stock in two stockpots.) Remove from the heat and spray twice with vegetable oil spray. Toss in the onion and carrot, lower the heat, and cover the pot. Cook, stirring frequently, over medium-high, add the chicken, and cook until the chicken flesh is browned on both sides, about 5 minutes. Pour in the chicken broth and water, add the celery and bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Boil for 5 minutes. As foam accumulates, skim it off and discard. Lower the heat to simmer and add the thyme. Simmer, covered, for 2 hours. Add water as necessary to keep the chicken covered with liquid.Remove the pot from the heat. Remove the chicken and allow to cool, then pick the meat from the bones and reserve for another use. Strain the stock and discard the vegetables and bay leaves. Cool to room temperature. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Lift any congealed fat from the stock and discard. Store for 2 or 3 days in the refrigerator or freeze for longer storage.
The porch door was open. Frances stood next to a stout man whose white hair was brushed back in thin streaks. She was talking rapidly and intensely. Their backs were to me, and they were both oblivious of my presence. From the doorway I could see the porch room was simply furnished with a futon piled with unfashionably striped pillows, two mismatched chairs, and a table. On the table was an old rotary-dial telephone and a sax.
My attention was drawn to the older man listening intently to Frances. This, I assumed, was the grandfather I’d never seen. I tapped on the aluminum doorframe. Frances turned abruptly and fell silent.
“Excuse me?” I said politely. “May I come in?” Without waiting for a reply, I edged into the room. Through the jalousie windows on the other side of the small room, the roof of Frances’s Fiat was just visible. So this was where she’d been parking. But who had told her when I was home? Maybe the grandfather was the one who’d been spying on my house. Uneasily, I asked, “Is Dusty home?” The man turned slightly in my direction, but not fully. “Are you Dusty’s grandfather?” I asked politely. “I’m your neighbor, Goldy Schulz. Frances was just over at my house….” I offered my hand. He ignored it.
Mr. Routt’s face looked like a pie crust that had spilled over its edges. I looked at Frances for guidance, but her face had tightened in quiet fury at my appearance.
I said, “Mr. Routt?”
He turned large, watery blue eyes to me. There was no way this man had been spying on my house. He was blind.
I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Please forgive the intrusion,” I added bitterly. I gave Frances the most withering glance I could muster. She assumed an indifferent demeanor and shrugged, as if to say,
“It’s not her fault,” said the old man. His voice cracked and wheezed, as if it were rusted from lack of use. “She was doing something for me. Please, Mrs. Schulz, don’t be upset with Frances.”
The three of us stood in the spare, dismal room for a moment without speaking. The man shifted from one foot to the other, as if he were trying to decide what to tell me.
“I’m John Routt, Mrs. Schulz,” he said at last. His rumpled white shirt hung in soft folds, as if it had been washed and dried but not ironed. The shirt was slack over John Routt’s chest, but a button strained to stay clasped over his copious stomach. His gray pants were as wrinkled as the shirt. I had the painful feeling that he did his own laundry.
“Forgive me,” I said again, “I was just trying to find out why Frances here”—I glared at her—“always seems to be turning up only when she’s certain I’m home.” Then I remembered the truck outside my window during the storm. I added, “Or spying on me at night.”
“I am not now, nor have I ever, been engaged in spying on you,” Frances countered defensively. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
“Mr. Routt,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here or how you’re involved.” To Frances, I said acidly, “Do you want to come back to my house, Ms. Journalism? Tell me the real reason you went in disguise to Prince & Grogan? Or is department store intelligence not on the same level with spying on a caterer?”
Frances drew a cigarette out of her purse. She lit it and said, “Goldy, chill out. I’m working on a story. That’s all you’ve ever needed to know.” She blew smoke in my direction.
“Oh, really? Are you going to do a story on how the Prince & Grogan head of security was found dead this afternoon?”
This had the desired effect. Frances’s body jerked. The cigarette dropped from her fingers.
“Nicholas Gentileschi?” John Routt said. “Dead?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
John Routt was shaking his head. “No. No, I did not.”
I said, “Well, then—”
His shoulders slumped. There was an uncomfortable silence. “You see, Mrs. Schulz,” he said finally. “I was doing something for Frances and she was doing something for me.”
“And what was that? I’m sorry, but this does affect our family … you see, my helper, Julian Teller, lost a dear friend—”
“I know,” said John Routt. He absentmindedly patted his wrinkled pants. “Oh, Mrs. Schulz, the reason I hired Frances is that Nicholas Gentileschi suspected my granddaughter of theft. I’m sorry to hear he died, but I’m not surprised, with the people we’re dealing with. Frances and I were trying to clear Dusty. That’s why we needed the
