Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (5 page)

Armand
fixed himself into the conversation scornfully by asking, “Who are zee
vaiters?”

“There
are none!” K. said, throwing his hands up and sailing the remnants of his
frozen vodka over our heads and into a hanging plant.

“How
do you know about this?”  I asked.  “And how do you know they’re not some kind
of scam to rob you? Or sell your organs while you’re lying naked in a bathtub?”

“Oh
no-ooo! That’s just the point.  It’s a very exclusive
friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend thing…”

K.
bobbed from Armand to me.  Armand and I responded by trying to sip the remnants
of our drinks in unison.  Instead, we succeeded by bumping elbows and hurling
our drinks backwards over our shoulders.  Oh well.  I decided it was
Lancastrian for good luck.

K.
checked to make sure there were no hostile reactions to our vodka missiles.

“They
are invitation only, like dining in someone’s home,” he said.

“But
you are served!?” Armand asked.

“Oui!”
K beamed, tickled to pull out another of the few foreign phrases he knew. K.
hadn’t done very well with foreign languages in high school and was just a
teensy bit jealous of Armand’s accent. He was always endearingly proud when he
could throw in a foreign phrase.

“…and
you PAY for being invited?” I ventured for the necessary cash information.

“Mina,
dear, you pay for the experience; it’s not just a meal!”  K. had an annoying
way of making hunger tantamount to treason.  As if anyone would consider eating
because they were hungry.

“Right
then,” I said, and looked into my very empty glass, imagining I was swirling
something fuller. “And the board of health licenses?”

“And
zee drink license. These are allowed to sell?”

“Oh,
you are both just too much!  I’ll ring up Gillian! Gillian will know! We should
all go and try this! It’ll be fun!”

I
muttered an oath.  Armand placed a curse.  Someone baptized our shoes with a
gin and tonic, and we took that as a cosmic hint to pay the tab and leave.

The
clock in the Doo-doo informed me that it was 9:00 p.m. as I clambered in. Then
an APB flashed across my brain.  I’d completely forgotten about Vinnie and
Marie — and more importantly, their dinners.

I
was in a hurry, so I caught every red light back, of course.  When I finally
arrived home, I walked into the front hall and was relieved to see light from
the basement.  In my panic I forgot I always left the basement lights on for
Vinnie so he can find his litter box easily and not explore alternative
venues.  Like the rest of the house.

I
turned on the hall lights.   Out came Vinnie, chastising me with, “Brrrllll! 
Gete!” for partying first and mommying second.  He was right.

I
got out two cans of Finicky Fare and went into our supper time routine.  
“Okay, which do you want?” I asked, holding the cans out to him.  “‘Sardines
with Aspic Yick’ or ‘Gizzards in Goop’?” I asked.  Vinnie pushed his face
against the Sardines with Aspic Yick.  “Aspic it is, sir,” I said.  “Aspica to
you, you spica to me. Har, har.”   I know it’s weird but Vinnie thinks it’s
punny.

I
emptied the can into Vinnie’s dish, fending him off while he stood up and
pounded his front paws on the counter at me.  If I come home some night to find
him banging a fork and knife in each paw on the counter, it really won’t
surprise me.  I put the dish down in front of him and turned on the rest of the
downstairs lights before I went upstairs to check on Marie.

Marie
greeted me by screaming, “Beee-yoooo!”

“Hello
to you too,” I said, patting her on the head and scratching behind her ears. 
After that I gave her fresh seeds and water.  “I’ll come up for you in a bit
and then you can watch TV downstairs.” I know it sounds simple but all Marie
wants is to sit on my lap and watch a little TV– her one vice.  She could have
it.  After I got Vinnie safely stashed behind closed doors, that is.

I
came back downstairs and turned on the TV and poured myself what was left of
the cranberry juice.  I contemplated the contents of my fridge and found a
surprise dinner and note from Vito.  I set the Tupperware dinner next to the
microwave.  Vinnie finished his dinner and did his after dinner fetish-washing
as I microwaved my ungourmet feast of pirogues and ham.  The microwave binged
and I took my meal, such as it was, into the living room, turned on the local
news and chewed.

“Yet
another fire has engulfed the new Buy-A-Lots store at Fruitville Pike,” the
burly anchorman announced.  “Police are not ruling out arson.”

A
commercial came on, and I thought about Howard and Myron and work and Monday. I
couldn’t take more bad news, so I turned the TV off.  I looked at my dinner.  I
couldn’t take any more bad tastes, either.  I wandered into the kitchen, dumped
the dinner and pawed through my cupboards.  I found a bag of mini-marshmallows,
graham crackers and chocolate chips.  I opened up a trusty recipe for s’more
pie and improvised.  While that was baking, I defrosted some frozen chicken
breasts in the microwave, chopped an onion and set up a pot to make some
Thai-like curry.  My timer binged; I took out the s’more pie and set it on a
baking rack on the counter to cool.  Meanwhile, all the ingredients for the
curry were in the stockpot and starting to simmer, so I opened the cupboard door
to inspect my spices.

That
was when Vinnie decided to hop up on the counter and loop his tail around the
glass bottle of hot sauce in the cupboard.  It smashed with a clatter on the
counter, splashing hot sauce across my face – and directly in both eyes.  “Shit!
Shit! Shit!”  I yelled.  Blinded, I staggered toward the kitchen sink, tripping
over Vinnie and stubbing my toe hard against the fridge.  He hissed back at me,
and I heard a loud plop.  There was no point in looking: I couldn’t.  I held my
head under the kitchen faucet and rinsed my eyes and my face, as well as most
of the counter and a lot of the floor.

When
I was able to open my eyes, I wished I hadn’t.  My s’more pie lay upside down
on the kitchen floor next to Vinnie, who was attempting to lick off the melted
marshmallow goop on  the back of his tail.

I
moved the stockpot off the heat and cleaned up what I could of the splattered
hot sauce.  Then I pulled some marshmallow gunk off of Vinnie.

A
couple of hours later, my kitchen was still dirty, Vinnie remained sticky, and
I felt guilty.  I was a closet late-night binge cooker.  “You won’t tell
anyone, will you, Vinnie?” I asked him.  Vinnie thwacked his tail and sauntered
off with a pot holder stuck to him, and I went upstairs to bed, resolving never
again to cook alone
.

CHAPTER 2

(Saturday)

Well
before my
alarm
went off, I woke with a throbbing foot and head, and the realization that I
couldn’t see.  “Don’t panic,” I told myself.  “It’s probably left-over hot
sauce.”

I
made it to the bathroom sink without tripping over Vinnie, and splashed water
on my face.  Then, carefully, I pried my eyelids apart.  Eeech!  My eyes were
so bloodshot the whites of my eyes weren’t white anymore.  They were completely
red.  And the hot sauce had also apparently made an equal impression on my
face, too.  My entire face looked like a giant sunburned blotch.

Vinnie
darted under the bed with a concerned, “Grrlll?” and watched me from his hiding
spot.  Apparently he didn’t recognize me, either.

“C’mon,”
I said, with a scratch of my fingers on the sheets.  He emerged and hopped onto
the bed for his snuggle.  I petted him and discovered a wad of tissues glued to
his tail.  Well, at least he’d gotten rid of the potholder.   Vinnie purred,
stood up and put both his paws on top of my shoulders: his own special kitty
hug.  He started to clean my face with his sandpapery tongue, which would have
been very sweet if it hadn’t felt a lot like being exfoliated by a Brillo pad.

“Thanks,
Vin. I love you too.”

He
stopped sanding my face and I headed to the shower. As I limped into the
bathroom, I glanced in the mirror.  Vinnie’s kisses had removed a layer of the
blotch, and part of my face along with it.  I looked like a sunburned baby’s
bottom.

When
I finished, I got out and reached over Vinnie to grab a towel while he sat
vigil on the bath mat. Vinnie doesn’t approve of showers – particularly the
water I drip on him when I get out – and he muttered something that bordered on
rude as I stepped out.

I
dragged a brush through my hair and tried to ignore my lobster face in the
mirror. I put my hair up in a wet pony tail, threw on my favorite Barnstormers
T-shirt and oldest jean shorts, and felt a lot more ready for the day and hash
slinging.  And some seriously high octane coffee.  And jelly doughnuts.  I
sighed.  I knew there were no jelly doughnuts in my Jackson Pollack a la Vinnie
stained kitchen.

I
headed downstairs and deliberately averted my eyes from the myriad hot sauce
splatters.  Instead I headed straight to my new BFF, Mr. Coffee.  I threw in
some water and high-test coffee grounds and waited. Upstairs, Marie shrieked. 
I sighed.  I trudged back upstairs, and gave her fresh seeds and water.  I
stroked her little pinhead and pulled out some of the ‘done’ casings from her
new feathers coming in.

“Sorry
about missing your programs last night.  There wasn’t much on, anyway,” I said.

“Bee-you!”
she replied cheerily.  It doesn’t take much to make Marie happy.

I
trotted back downstairs to set out Vinnie’s bowl of Kitty Cookies.  Then it was
my turn: extra-strength coffee and Extra Strength Tylenol. It was 6:00 a.m.  I
slugged myself into the living room and watched the end of an old movie and
started to feel better.  I dozed.  I know I dozed because the knocking at my
front door woke me up.

“Sorry
to come by so early, Toots,” Vito apologized.  “But I figured you were up
because of the lights on and on account of the breakfast and all.”

“Mrgmph,”
I mumbled.

“Anyways,
would ya mind if I got my clean shirt box from yous now?  I gotta couple of
errands to make before breakfast,” he said.  Pre-dawn dry cleaning? I was too
tired to ask, but I’d remember to file it away for later.

“Ummm…
sure,” I said.

“Thanks,
Cookie,” he whispered.

“Why
are you whispering?” I whispered back.

“I
figured Vinnie and Marie was asleep.”

Oh. 
“No, they’re up and fed.”

“Geez,
you get up early on a weekend,” Vito said.  “Umm… where’s the box, Mina?”

“Backseat
of the Doo-doo.  Garage…”  I mumbled, and lay back down on the sofa.

I
heard Vito trudge through the garage and collect his precious dry-cleaning
shirt box.  He came back into the foyer and I felt him watching me prone on the
sofa.

“Hey,
smells like you got coffee brewing already?” he asked.

“Yup. 
High-octane.  Help yourself.”  I gazed over at TV and closed my eyes again.

“Thanks!”
Vito smiled and waddled into the kitchen. Then he screamed, “HOLY GEEZ, WHO GOT
WHACKED?”

Oh. 
I guess I hadn’t really noticed the full effect of the attack of hot sauce a la
Manson Family Mountain Lion.  I felt Vito walk through the living room from
behind closed eyes and heard him stop in the dining room. “And Holy Pirogues,
what happened to the carpet?” he asked.

“Hot
sauce.”

“Geez.
You weren’t cooking alone, were you?”

I
shrugged.  “Vinnie was here,” I said.

Vito
sighed.  “You know, if you put salt on it right away, sometimes it takes the
stain out.  But now it’s dried.  I could mix up some salt water and we could
try spraying it on,” he said.  He came into the living room and hovered over
the sofa.  “You want I should try?”

I
opened my eyes and stared at Vito staring at me.

“Did
you have a make-up malfunction or something, Toots?” he asked.  I explained
about the hot sauce eye wash.  “Wow, are your blue eyes red.  But they’re very
patriotic looking and all.  Hey, if you want, I can make your apologies to
Evelyn?”

Gosh. 
“Naw, it’s okay, I’ll manage,” I said.  Besides, I figured if I didn’t cook for
a couple hundred people soon, there was no telling what would happen if I
cooked at home alone again.

Vito
puffed up. “Well if that’s the case, yous can’t drive like this.  I’ll make
some calls and do my runs after the Breakfast Wars.” He smiled at me
conspiratorially.   “Anything you want, kid?  We got about a half hour. I can
make a run?” he asked.  I shook my head.  “How about some jelly donuts?”

That
made me perk up.  “Well, if you happen to have a spare jelly doughnut at home,
I wouldn’t mind it,” I said. 

Vito
grinned from ear to ear.  “I don’t,” he said, “but I made a run for Abe Cooper
just yesterday night.  I’ll ask him.”

“Vito
– it’s not even six-thirty!!”

“Hey,
it’s okay.  He has early golf games; he’s definitely up by now.  Besides, I
have a key,” Vito said. Vito had a key to Abe’s place too?

“I’ll
be right back!” he said, and huffed himself out the front door.  And locked it for
me, since he had his key and all.  I sighed.  My home life was confusing at
best.  Even if I did change the locks I bet that Vito would still find a spare
somehow.  Sometimes that made me worry about Vinnie, in case Vito let him out
by accident.  And our arrangement also had me wondering about my future sex
life.  That is, if I ever got one.

Vinnie
stuck his head out from under the sofa and nuzzled my hand.  “Brllll???”

“Yeah,
he’s alright.  He means well, anyway,” I said.

The
local TV woman began to broadcast the end of the world again, so I pushed up
from the sofa and headed back into the kitchen.  I was halfway done with my
coffee when Vito let himself back in.

“Ta
da!” he sang.  He pulled an enormous grin, and this time I noticed the spaces
where his teeth ought to have been actually had, umm… teeth.

“Huh?”

“Jelly
doughnuts! Raspberry, even!”

I
smiled.  “Thanks, Vito.” He kept smiling so I kept looking closer.  Besides,
I’m nosey. “Gee, Vito, your smile seems a lot brighter today,” I lied.

“Naw,
it’s just there’s more of it,” he beamed.  “I thought I lost my bridge, but I
found it cleaning out the car yesterday.” He smiled a Game Show Host grin at
me.

“Oh,
that’s great,” I said.  “Thanks for the donut. I’m just gonna gulp this quick
and then finish getting myself together.”

“Sure,
sure, sure, Toots!” He nodded and left, leaving me wishing I didn’t have an
image in my mind of him – or anyone else – coming across a mouthful of dentures
alongside Buddy Burger wrappers, tissues or other standard-issue car trash.
Yechhhh.

 
I bit into the jelly donut then washed it down with the super leaded coffee. 
“Grrlll???” Vinnie purred at me, rubbing his arched back just above my knee. 
He stuck to my shorts.

It
was a little before 7:00 a.m., so I figured I better go get Vito.  As I headed
toward the door, Vinnie chattered amiably from behind me.

When
I came out, Vito was waiting in a folding mesh porch chair, wearing mirrored
sunglasses.  “I figured you wanted your privacy,” he said.  I shrugged, and we
plodded down our attached lawns and got into his Lincoln Town car. The car
smelled great – like Easter.  I turned around and saw three large pans covered
tightly with foil and remembered about the hams.  “By the way, it was nice of
you to leave me dinner last night,” I fibbed, determined to act Lancastrian.

“Sure
thing, Toots.”

We
drove off toward the Breakfast Wars.

When
we were on Duke Street, Vito banged his forehead on the steering wheel. 
“Stupido!” he muttered. 

“What’s
the matter?” I asked politely.  I didn’t really want to know, but I figured it
was probably the Lancaster way to feign interest if someone bangs themselves
upside the head on their steering wheel.

“Nothin’,
nothin’, nothin’, Toots,” Vito said automatically.

We
pulled into an alley off of Duke Street that leads to the parking lot where
lawyers pay a premium Monday through Friday, but parishioners and soldiers of
the Breakfast Wars park for free on weekends.  We got out of the car and I
followed Vito, who was lugging his box o’ dry cleaning, to the kitchen
entrance. Inside, I strained to see in the dark, following down the steps
behind him. Compared to the 90-degree muggy air in the parking lot, the
stairway down to the kitchen felt cool.  But it was still pretty early.  The
afternoon promised temperatures of over 100 degrees and a humidity index over
90. The kitchen promised worse.

Luckily
when I entered, the kitchen – with only the oven going – was a balmy 102
degrees.  And once I got the egg pans going, Hell would feel like a tropical
paradise.

Evelyn
greeted us at the bottom of the stairs bearing her standard issue meat cleaver.
Aunt Muriel stood behind her, furrowing her brow.  “You’re a little late,
dears,” Evelyn said. I mumbled an apology without looking at her. Then she
turned her deathly gaze toward Vito.  “I expected you a bit earlier.”

“Hey,
Evie, it’s not our fault,” Vito said.  “Just look at Mina’s face and her eyes. 
And she stubbed her toe.  She shouldn’t really even be here.”

I
stood flamingo-style and stared at them.  Evelyn and Aunt Muriel peered at my
pink face and red eyes.  “Oh dear!” they both commented.

“Well,
put on some sunglasses!” Evelyn said, and Aunt Muriel handed me her pair of
bling-studded shades.   Vito and I looked at each other and shrugged.  Typical
Evelyn.  She’d got the volunteer by the throat and she wasn’t letting go.

I
put on Aunt Muriel’s shades.  Vito patted me on the shoulder, and I limped over
to work with Ernie while Vito went to his usual station of utensil bundling. 
It was funny to think that a guy with such big pudgy hands could be so nimble
fingered.  But Vito made tucking plastic forks, knives and spoons in a napkin a
form of Episcopalian Origami.

“Here
you go, kid,” Ernie said, holding out a spatula to me.

Ernie’s
about 73 years old and always calls dibs on the egg whipping.  He cracks a
couple dozen eggs or so, whips them up, then passes them to me.  I throw the
mess in a couple of pans to scramble. Once my batches are done, someone else
schleps them over to the serving counter and throws them in chafing dishes. 
When the doors open at 9:00 a.m., people line up.  The honest truth is for some
people this will be their only decent meal – maybe their only meal – of the
day.   It makes my culinary crazies feel almost worthwhile.

Ernie
started cracking eggs while I melted butter and oil in the frying pans.  I
reached into my back pocket and dug out an orange bandana, folded it and tied
it around my forehead. I’d figured out long ago that sweat dripping from my
forehead into frying pans wasn’t too hygienic.

“Sunburn?”
Ernie asked me.

“Hot
sauce,” I replied, lowering Aunt Muriel’s shades.

“Really?”
Ernie arched his eyebrows.  But something was wrong.  I stared at Ernie and his
rumpled forehead trying to figure out what was missing.  He saw my stare, and
started chuckling. “Oh yeah, heh.  Got a little too close to the grill
yesterday and WHOOMPF!  My eyebrows fell out cinders.”

“Gee,
that’s too bad. But they’ll grow back in,” I said.

“Yeah,
sure.  Hey, maybe they’ll grow back in red, like they were when I was 20.  You
think?” Ernie winked at me.  “Hey, better yet,” he whispered, “maybe I could
color them in with a marker like Evelyn, huh?” Ernie nudged me in the ribs and
we both grinned.  “See, when you smile you look almost human!” he beamed.