Slim to None (14 page)

I stare at him, my eyes as wide as silver dollar pancakes. Which sound pretty damned satisfying right about now. Buckwheat pancakes with homemade maple syrup. Like the ones we relished at a B&B in New Hampshire last winter. Warm and cozy by the crackling fire.

"You know I didn’t do that. You did it."

"Shucks, Abbie. I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about. But if you don’t drop it now, I’ll be happy to tell everyone that you obviously cannot face the fact that I was chosen as the better critic to take over the reviewing post and were so distraught about it you planted a series of freakishly ugly pictures of yourself on my phone to try to frame me."

"Frame you? Freakishly ugly? You, you, you—"

Just then his phone rings. "Yves? Oh, absolutely! Yes. Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Certainly. You can count on me, Yves. In a blank envelope. I’ll get it from you that night. Uh-huh, afterward. Great."

He snaps his phone shut. "Gee, Abbie, love to talk but gotta run!"

He pushes me out the office and shuts the door behind me before I can stop him.

Left to stew in my juices, I decide I have to plot my revenge. I know he’s got something up his sleeve. Something involving Yves Champignons. Something that has a stench about it, no doubt.

The Best Pasta Salad Ever

ingredients

1 lb. pasta—I like to combine things like orecchiette, rotini, farfalle, campagnelle, and conchiglie

1/2 red pepper, sliced lengthwise into thin strips

1/2 orange pepper, sliced lengthwise into thin strips

1/2 red onion, sliced lengthwise into thin strips

2 tbl. Olive oil (more as needed)

1/3 lb. button mushrooms, sliced thin

3/4 c. broccoli florets

1 large zucchini, cut into thirds and sliced lengthwise into smaller strips

1/2 lb. fresh asparagus (or can use tips)

1/2 lb. sugar snap peas or snow peas

1 basket cherry or grape tomatoes, halved (ideally use orange heirloom cherry tomatoes in season)

1 6 oz. jar marinated artichoke hearts, not drained

salt & pepper to taste

(see remaining ingredients for dressing, etc, below)

to prepare

Add oil as necessary while cooking vegetables.

Saute peppers and onions in olive oil till beginning to soften, add mushrooms, when softened set aside in large bowl.

Stir fry broccoli till bright green on medium high (couple of minutes), adding zucchini after a couple of minutes, cook till tender but still crisp. Add to other veggies in bowl.

Stir fry asparagus till bright green, add to bowl.

Add tomatoes and artichokes to bowl.

Season with salt and pepper.

for dressing

Combine in food processor:

1/2 c. fresh parsley

1 c. fresh basil (or 2 tbl. Dried)

2 cloves garlic

2 tbl. Oil

Pulse till blended

Then stream in:

1/2 c. olive or canola oil

1/2 c. red wine vinegar or balsamic vinegar

1 tsp. each salt and pepper

Next sauté 1/2 c. pine nuts or almond slivers in butter till lightly browned, drain on paper towel.

Toss together: pasta, veggies, pine nuts, 1/2 c. parmiggiano reggiano, grated, and dressing, taking caution to use only as much dressing as needed to marry ingredients.

Serve immediately.

Take One Fat Critic, Stir in Sneaky Replacement, Let Stew in Juices

After the fiasco of yesterday, I’ve decided to start the day anew with a different diet. Nothing like a clean slate to get things going in the right direction. In fact perhaps each day should be a different diet. Variety is the spice of life. And I do love spices. Usually, though, the spices are mixed in with fattening sauces and calorie-packed carbs.

Today I am trying the Letter M diet. Last night I was reading about the Alphabet Diet and technically they tell you to start with the Letter A but I wanted to be a little experimental so started in the middle instead. So far today I’ve had macaroni, macadamia nuts (protein—which puts me in the passing lane of the superhighway to weight loss, they say), mulberry muffins (two M’s in one), a modest serving of mahi mahi with glazed mandarin oranges, and malted milk balls (which I couldn’t help, really, because these days it seems that whenever I eat something salty I just have to follow it up with something sweet. Since I already ate my Godiva chocolate bar while reading my diet books, the only sweet thing lying around was a carton of malted milk balls that William must have bought at the movies and not finished). I feel fairly proud that I haven’t had any M&Ms.

I could get used to this alphabet diet.

I’m a little bit bored today and can’t figure out what to do. I don’t want to call Jess, because we have bigger fish to fry than to chit-chat about my issues. I’m so upset with her right now that fried fish doesn’t even sound good to me. Although once in Calabria, William and I had the most perfect fried sardines, silvery melt-in-your-mouth crisp and not at all fishy. God, what I would do to have a platter of them, along with a helping of ‘nduja, the region’s famously spicy pepperoncini salami spread, smeared across a fresh loaf of crusty bread. And an earthen pitcher of
vino rosso
, made by the
contadini locali.

I’m lost in thought when the doorbell rings. Cognac barks several deep, bellowing barks to alert me, in case I’ve suddenly gone deaf and can’t hear the bell on my own. Sometimes I don’t quite get why dogs have to overreact to doorbells like they do.

I peer through the peephole to see Sally, George’s wife, standing on the stoop, tapping her toe. She’s wearing a pair of pink Pappagallo flats and has on bright fuchsia and neon green Lily Pulitzer pants in a bold print, paired with a solid lime green top. Her smart hairdo is pulled back with a headband. She looks as if she just won her singles match, six love, six love, and is now about to head out to play nine. I open the door, not a little surprised.

"Sally? How’d you find my home?"

She strolls into my foyer without a formal invitation. Very un-Westchester of her—I’d have thought someone of her breeding would simply have had her footman leave a calling card.

"I knew you worked at the Sentinel so I tried to find you there. A very charming man named Barry—he said he was good friends of yours—told me I should just pop by your home instead."

Yeah, charming as in
snake
charming.
Just pop on by
. What a snake. "Barry gave you my home address?"

"He assured me it was fine."

Jesus, what did I do to deserve this vendetta from the man?

"Okay then. Mind if I ask why you’re here?"

"Look, Ms. Jennings, I won’t beat around the bush. I want you to stop your shenanigans with my husband." Her face is heating up like a toaster oven all of a sudden. She looks downright menopausal with what can only be seen as ire. So much for her Westchester cool demeanor. "I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think you’re trying to tempt George into staying here with that food of yours. I’m trying my best to bring him back to Pound Ridge and I don’t need some, some, some
food whore
to be luring him away from me."

Food whore! Me? Food whore? Why—

I stand in my foyer, thinking I should sic my dog on this woman who is accosting the very heart of who I am. Food whore! I’m a food
lover
, sure. But not a whore! Big difference between the two. But I decide to remain calm. After all, I’m sure Sally’s been under plenty of stress, what with her husband going AWOL and all.

"Look, Sally, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and presume you aren’t as rude as you’ve just led me to believe. First of all, I knew nothing about you and your family. I just happened upon your husband one night after I left a restaurant. I had all of these leftovers and I thought a hungry man living on the street on a bitterly cold night would be happier with my still-warm food than I would be. Call it the latent nurturer in me, I don’t know. I haven’t got kids, so maybe I need someone to fuss over."

Maybe I
should
have some kids like William wants and then I would have someone to fuss over.

"All I know is since you’ve worked your magic on George, he’s perfectly happy to remain here. I can’t see what else would keep him living this lifestyle, sleeping on park benches, scrounging for food and pushing around a shopping cart." To emphasize her comment she’s randomly pointing around my first floor. As if my home is decorated with park benches or something!

"My
magic
? I haven’t got any magic! My intentions were all completely honorable. I’m sure that nothing I have said or done has kept George sleeping on the streets. Have you ever thought that maybe he doesn’t see a huge
need
to go home?"

"How could he not? We have
everything
at home. And here, he’s got absolutely nothing."

I look at her in that "no duh" way, my head tipped down as I look up at her. I’m tempted to ask her if she’s daft, but I just won’t stoop to her level of attack.

"Haven’t you figured out that he doesn’t
want
anything? Isn’t that what this is all about? He said as much last week! He had everything, but it didn’t seem to do it for him. Maybe you need to figure out what it was that was lacking in his life."

"Such as?"

"Such as
relationships
? Look, Sally, I don’t know you. And I barely know your husband for that matter. I just feed the man occasionally. But certainly in the conversations I’ve been privy to, he’s made it abundantly clear that he didn’t feel wanted or needed back home. He figured he was just as well living on the streets as living in the lap of luxury. Seems to me that if someone feels so disconnected from his family that he’s willing to run away from them, well, then, maybe that’s a big fat red flag that you ought to figure out how to bring him back into the fold."

As I’m saying this something is stirring deep within my primitive brain. I’m pretty sure it’s not the lizard, though, since I’m not exactly hungry or looking to kill anyone. Something about this message hits home a little too closely.

Sally simply looks miffed at the suggestion. "I can’t even begin to figure out what you expect me to do about that. That’s George’s problem."

But I’m starting to hatch an idea. Speaking of hatching, I need to meet up with my farmer friend tomorrow—I schedule clandestine meetings with him in town where I score my stash of farm-fresh eggs for the week. I like to do this in ironic locales, like Washington Square, where other people are scoring products for their addictions as well. Just me, my dealer and a discreet exchange of cash for merchandise.

"What if..." I start to say, tapping my finger against my lip while I think out loud, "When we met you mentioned dinner. At your place. What if you set up a big family dinner? George mentioned your anniversary’s coming up, right?"

Sally nods her head but grimaces. "For what it’s worth."

"Stop. We’re going to think positive thoughts here. What if I can bring George back to Pound Ridge for a family anniversary dinner?"

Sally puts her hands together in a steeple as she drums her fingertips together. "I think you’re brilliant! I can assemble the kids, we can all be together. It’ll remind George of what he’s been missing. And Gretl can prepare one of her famous feasts—"

"Even for me?"

She pooches her lips together, lost in thought. "Maybe I just won’t tell her. It’ll be our little secret. But what makes you think you can get him back there?"

Hell if I know. But I can’t tell
her
that.

* * *

Cognac and I are just returning from a long walk when the phone rings. I run to grab it hoping it’s William.

"What up beyatch? How’s Operation: Crash Diet going?"

It’s Jess, obviously wanting to joke around, but I’m in no mood to elbow anyone in the ribs right now. At least not any adulterous women who tried to get me involved in their extramarital flings. Instead of laughing, I’m silent.

"That bad, huh? What’s the matter, Abs? Cat got your tongue?"

"Huh. Certainly not in the same way Dex had
your
tongue."

"Uh-oh."

"
Uh-oh
is what you say to the toddler who spills a cup of milk. I’d say you’re way past the spilt milk stage, Jess."

"Whaddya know? Who told you?"

"
You
told me, you imbecile! In plain sight of half of Manhattan, no less. Nothing like a shameless exhibition of PDA in Central Park to tell the world you’re engaged in yet another extramarital affair. Did you really think nobody would spot you? So is he married too, or are you the only betraying spouse in the equation?"

"Sheesh! If I’d have known this was going to be the Inquisition, I’d have called someone else instead. Maybe dial-a-friend or something."

"Look Jess. Of course I’m your friend. But it really doesn’t sit well with me what you’re up to. I know this isn’t the first time. But it’s the first time I feel embroiled in it, and I don’t like it."

Broiled. Asparagus. Sprinkled with a little lemon juice and dusted with just a hint of white pepper. Topped with lemony Hollandaise sauce, made orange with the sunny yolks in the eggs of a free-range hen. Well, crap. I’d better dream of the diet version of this: topped with syrupy, tangy-sweet balsamic vinegar. Not that soupy excuse for vinegar mass-produced and pawned off as authentic in the grocery stores. I mean the real stuff: aceto balsamico. Tapped from a cask in some elderly nonna’s attic off of a cobbled street in a small village in Emilia-Romagna. Aged longer than me, my husband and my dog combined. That’s the only kind of balsamic vinegar worth ingesting.

Although today
is
the Letter M day, so perhaps it would have to be topped with mustard, which just won’t be the same.

"God, Abbie. Talk about an about-face. You’ve known all along about my husband and what he’s put
me
through. I thought you were sympathetic to the cause."

"I understand about that. And I have been empathetic. But it just feels really wrong: you, your doctor.
My doctor
. Isn’t this against that vow thingy they make with the hippos—what’s it called, the hippopatic oath?"

"That’s Hippo
cratic
. And there are no hippos involved."

"Uh, Except me. I’m the big hippo who he weighed on the scale, remember? And you know exactly what I mean. Isn’t it illegal or immoral or unethical for him to
do
the clientele? Besides which, what if he’s married, too? What about his wife? What about his kids? Did you ever think about that? What might he now be putting
his
family through, thanks to you?"

"His marriage is on the skids. He told me so."

I laugh minus even a hint of humor. "Oh, ho, ho. Of course he’s going to tell you that. What do you think he’d tell you—that he loves his wife and that things are just hunky dory between them? That’s not how these things work, in case you were too busy with your heavy petting to notice."

"Heavy petting?"

"Yeah. Heavy petting. I should’ve directed the two of you over to the Tisch Zoo where petting is encouraged."

"Oh, aren’t you the punster. So funny I forgot to laugh."

"Affairs don’t happen in a happy marriage, Jess."

"And you’re the foremost expert on this? Perhaps because your own husband is so displeased with your anti-baby stance that he’s practically missing in action? Maybe you think he’s out doing it with some tramp like me?"

"I didn’t call you a tramp. And way off base to bring William into the conversation. I just don’t feel good about this. Any of it."

"Look, I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Call me once you get off your high horse, or when you take a happy pill, whichever comes first."