Chopping Spree

Vanilla Ice Cream

First things first. I brought out cardboard boxes and packed in the vats of chilled, Asian-flavored stock I’d already made. After preheating the oven, I put in the roast. I would sear and roast it partway at home, then finish it at the Stockhams’.

Outside, the snow was thickening. Looking down, I wondered how my raw-skinned, much-washed hands would look with a ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring glittering on one finger. It didn’t matter. If we didn’t get paid for this lunch, I was going to sell the damn ring.

I started water boiling for the potatoes. After trimming the enormous, firm Portobello mushrooms, I whisked together the luscious sherry and balsamic vinaigrette in which the mushrooms would be briefly bathed before I grilled them in the Stockhams’ state-of-the-art kitchen. Food was great, I reflected, as I got swept up in the rhythm of cooking. It’s dealing with folks that makes catering so challenging.

Liz arrived, her coat dusted with snow, her nose red. She proffered a bag of cinnamon and cheese Danish from the Aspen Meadow pastry shop.

“I didn’t want you to fix anything for me,” she protested sheepishly. “Anyway, I thought I wouldn’t be hungry, what with my son on the loose, getting us into so much debt I won’t be able to charge at the grocery store anymore. But I’m ravenous and out of cash… not a good time to run into the store clutching your credit card.”

It turned out that I was ravenous, too. While the potatoes and roast cooked, we dug into the Danish and told credit card jokes. I wrote Liz a check for the Monday event, for which she was almost pathetically grateful. Then we rewashed our hands and quickly divvied up the tasks for the rest of the lunch. Liz, who had a remarkable knack for presentation, asked to be put in charge of piping side-by-side dollops of mashed sweet and russet potatoes in the potato skins.

“I’ll make it look great,” she promised. “A fat golden swirl of mashed russet next to a creamy orange swirl of sweet potato, both piping hot and crackling with melted butter. Trust me.”

“Trust you? You’re making me hungry all over again, and I just downed two Danish!”

We worked feverishly over the next hour. As I energetically mashed the white potatoes—Liz was working on the fleshy, orange sweet ones—I wondered how to broach the subject of Teddy. Can anyone account for every movement of Teddy’s, from the time he left the security office to the time you picked him up at McDonald’s? I wanted to asked. How about someone vouching for your own doings?

“How’s Julian doing?” she asked as she fitted a piping tip onto my pastry bag.

“I saw him yesterday. He was feeling pretty low, didn’t talk much about what was going on there. I do know that the day after an arrest, the sheriff’s department does an advisement by video from the courthouse. Lets you know what you’re charged with. The arraignment comes a couple of days later. I’m just hoping that someone else will emerge as a suspect, someone, say, without an alibi—”

“Teddy and I are lucky in that department,” Liz interjected, without looking at me. Instead, she concentrated on heaping scoops of mashed potatoes into the pastry bag. “I left you around quarter after eight, then went straight to Security. I left them around eight-thirty, which, thank God, is what the guards told the cops. Somebody was just coming in for his shift at McD’s when I arrived there at eight-forty, and watched me talking to Teddy until we left, around nine-thirty.” She finished the first four potatoes, and gave me a look. Triumphant? Defiant? I couldn’t tell.

“Well,” I said thoughtfully as I brought an oversized bag of field greens out of the walk-in. “Hmm. So… if Teddy’s not a suspect, why would he take off? It’s just going to make them come down harder on him when they do find him.”

Liz filled another bag with snowy whipped potatoes. “Teddy took off because he was under stress. When he’s under stress, he shops.”

Or steals, I added silently, but said nothing. I rinsed the field greens and set them aside to drain. What else could I ask Liz before it was time to take off? “Know anybody who might have pushed Barry down, causing him headaches?”

Super Spenders’ Strawberry-Rhubarb CobblerFruit:

? to ? cup sugar, depending on the sweetness of the strawberries

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1? pounds strawberries, washed, trimmed, and halved

? pound rhubarb, washed, trimmed, and cut into 1-inch pieces

1 teaspoon vanilla extractTopping:

? cup all-purpose flour

? teaspoon baking powder (High altitude: ? teaspoon) ?

? teaspoon salt

11 tablespoons (1 stick plus 3 table-spoons) unsalted butter, softened

? cup sugar

1 egg

? teaspoon vanilla extract

Vanilla ice cream or heavy creamPreheat the oven to 375°F. Butter a 9 ? 13-inch pan or 2-quart au gratin pan.For the fruit: In a small bowl, mix the sugar with the cornstarch. Place the trimmed fruit in a large bowl and pour the sugar mixture and vanilla over it. Mix together gently and pour into the prepared pan.For the topping: Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt; set aside. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter until creamy and light. Add the sugar gradually, beating until light and smooth. Beat in the egg until thoroughly combined, then mix in the vanilla. Turn off the beater and with a large wooden spoon, stir in the flour mixture just until all the ingredients are well combined. Using an ice-cream scoop or other large spoon, drop the dough in large, even spoonfuls onto the fruit in the pan.Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the topping is golden brown and the fruit is bubbling. Test for doneness by spooning up a small section of the middle of the topping. If it is like cake, it is done. If the topping is still a liquid yellow, bake until it is like cake. Serve warm with best-quality vanilla ice cream or heavy cream, either poured or whipped.Makes 6 large or 8 small servings

Liz finished a creamy swirl of whipped white potato and smiled at me. “What are you talking about?”

Nothing, I said. After all, if she or Teddy had had enough physical strength to push Barry Dean down, I was pretty sure that she would have at least blushed when I mentioned it.

Two new inches of heavy, wet snow plastered the sidewalk, trees, and streets by the time Liz and I set out. My new van boasted not only four-wheel drive, but new snow tires, also taken care of by Tom. Gosh, but it was nice to have a husband who actually cared about me.

Liz told me that she, too, had new tires. But she wasn’t nearly as gleeful about it. Teddy had had new radials put on her van right after he got out of jail for his latest shoplifting offense. It was to say he was sorry, Liz explained, as we trudged through the cementlike white stuff with our last boxes. Of course, he’d charged them.

I led the way to the Stockhams’ place. The Aspen Ranch area was situated just at the foot of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, a sprawling hundred-thousand-acre wooded refuge for elk, mountain lions, and all other manner of wildlife. Hunters, hikers, fishermen, Scouts, and nature lovers shared the Preserve and gloried in the Aspen Meadow itself, reputedly one of the largest living organisms on earth (a stand of aspens is actually one tree that has developed an extensive root system and become many trees). The Aspen Meadow was also the namesake for our town, which benefited from the tourism that the Meadow itself brought.

Four years ago, the sale of the ten-thousand-acre Burdock Ranch abutting the Preserve had provoked the usual hysterical conflict between Colorado’s pro-and anti-growth folks. After two years of vicious wrangling, Aspen Ranch, a luxurious subdivision featuring five-to ten-thousand-square-foot homes on ten-acre lots, had been approved. The builders swore they were preserving the character of the Wildlife Preserve. We could put up ticky-tacky condos, they’d threatened the planning commission, who eventually denied their application. But the county commissioners—all of whom had received huge campaign donations from the builders, it was later reported, and not just in the Mountain Journal—unanimously reversed the decision of their own planners and approved the project.