Callie continued looking at the wall. “That was so long ago, and so much has changed since then.”
“All your friends are still here, Callie. I’m still here. Maybe if you’d lighten up a little, you’d find you still have friends.”
A small grin broke through on Callie’s face, something Mollie had not seen there for many years. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Mollie. What I do know is, I have to get back to work. I have a lot to do before I can harvest my apples next week, and I’d better get to it.”
“I have an idea about that. You said you needed workers to pick your apples. I’ll bet Jolene and her kids would be willing to pitch in. You wouldn’t have to pay them much if you let them stay in that overseer’s cottage behind your house. I think they’d be happy to clean it up and make it livable again.”
Callie stared at Mollie for a moment until the idea sank in. She brought out the handkerchief and blew into it. “You know what? It might be nice to have some young people on the farm again. Why don’t you talk to them about it and let me know? I really have to go now.” She stood up and started toward the door.
“There’s one more thing, Callie.”
Callie turned back. “What’s that?”
“Lilburn and I are having some people over to our house for Thanksgiving dinner next week. We’d love to have you join us.”
In a small voice, Callie said “I’d…I’d like that. Thank you, Mollie.”
As soon as Callie was gone, Mollie called her husband and told him what had happened. She hesitated a second, then said, “I invited her for Thanksgiving dinner with us.”
“That’s fine, Mollie, but I suppose I should scratch Wally Perkins off my list of people to invite.”
“That’s probably a good idea. She might give him another black eye. Anyway, since my tree-sitting nights are over, I’ll be home for dinner tonight at the regular time.”
“That’s great news. I even have a surprise for you. I decided what I’m going to enter in the Thanksgiving Cookoff next week, and made up a sample batch. I want you to taste it and tell me what you think. After all, you’re the one who suggested it.”
“Me? What did I suggest?”
“Don’t you remember? Apples, pumpkin, and chicken. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it as a baked casserole dish, and it turned out great.”
Mollie laughed. She knew if anyone could make that combination into a winning recipe, it was her Lilburn.
Spiced Molasses Pancakes
Lisa Wagner
In a large bowl, combine:
1 1/2 cups oat flour (use a coffee grinder, 1/2 cup at a time, to grind quick or rolled oats)
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1 1/2 tsp. ground flaxseeds (use a coffee grinder)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tsp. of your favorite cinnamon/ginger spice blend
Next, add:
1 cup rice milk
1/2 cup applesauce OR carrot puree OR pumpkin puree (not canned)
1/4 cup molasses
2 Tbsp. light olive oil
2 Tbsp. apple cider vinegar
Directions:
Stir well, then spoon batter onto ungreased, preheated skillet or 350F electric griddle.
These pancakes are delicious with 1 cup peeled and chopped apples added to the batter, or along with fresh fruit. For the holidays, whip up a batch of “Lisa’s Cranberry Chutney.” The recipe can be found in The Killer Wore Cranberry: Room for Thirds.
Yields 12 pancakes
Serves 4, 3 pancakes each
Turkey Underfoot
KM Rockwood
When I came into the house to get out of the freezing wind, the aroma of a bird cooking greeted me. My nose tickled and my whiskers twitched.
I paused in the big old kitchen to watch as Carol peeked into the oven. That bird took up almost all the space. It was huge!
I wound around her legs and softly meowed my approval. When would we be eating?
My people must have gotten it on their last foraging trip. That venture was so successful, John and Carol both had to make several trips to the car to bring everything in.
Why did they insist upon heating their meat up until it underwent such changes in texture and taste? I mean, I understood they often had to heat it up, since they kept things in that big box that made everything cold. Why they did that was a mystery. Who wants to eat cold meat?
Cold milk, now that’s an entirely different thing. I love a saucer of cold milk!
Carol pushed me away. Fair enough. Judging by all the things scattered around the kitchen, she had a lot more work to do.
The counters were covered with all kinds of food. I jumped up on one end to check everything out. Lots of food fit mainly for rabbits, although there was some cheese. And a pumpkin pie among the desserts. As long as it’s got a lot of milk in it, I am certainly not above nibbling a bit out of the middle of a good pumpkin pie.
Most of the time, though, I don’t understand omnivores. If there’s good meat available, why would anyone want to eat veggies? Birds are my all-time favorite, but fish is pretty good, too, and I won’t turn my nose up at a good serving of quadruped.
But for now, maybe just a bit of pumpkin pie…
Carol saw me as I licked the center of the pie.
“Shoo, Misty.” She snapped a dish towel in my direction.
I leapt down and dashed under the table. The pie needed to cool down a bit anyhow. And the bird wasn’t done yet. Despite the warmth from all that cooking, the kitchen was a bit chilly and drafty. The whole house was. It was a marvelous old Victorian house, with nooks and corners all over. Mice liked to live there, but I made sure they didn’t last long. The doors and windows were warped and didn’t fit all that well, letting in wonderful scents from outside, but they let in cold air, too.
I strolled into the front parlor and climbed into my comfy chair where I knew I could curl up and be cozy. The gas fireplace next to the chair wasn’t lit, but perhaps one of the humans would take care of that later. Inhaling the wonderful scents coming from the kitchen, I wrapped my tail around my front legs, closed my eyes, and purred.
The doorbell rang. What a nuisance! How did these people know when Carol was preparing a feast like this? They always showed up. And while they did bring gifts, usually it was things like a bottle of wine or candy that don’t really contribute much to a meal. Sometimes flowers, with their sickly sweet odor, which even the dimmest of the humans didn’t try to eat.
A small group of people burst through the front door and paused in the entry hall, yelling and arguing. Both the parlor and the dining room have glass-paned doors, which are usually open, and someone slammed into one so hard I thought the glass was going to shatter.
“He almost ran me over!” Uncle George shouted, waving his cane in the air. “He should have seen me!”
The old man started to topple over, but Carol caught his arm and guided him into the parlor.
“Well, I’m sorry,” cousin Philip said. “You shouldn’t walk behind the car when I’m trying to park.”
“Ha. Young whippersnappers.” Uncle George shook off Carol’s guiding hand and tottered into the parlor. There were plenty of places to sit, but he was headed toward my chair!
It is the most comfortable one, but it’s, well, mine. I sleep there all the time. He could choose another one.
But he kept coming.
I sat up in alarm and pressed myself against the chair’s back. He turned around and his enormous hindquarters descended onto the seat. I sprang to the top of the chair’s back. I almost got squashed. What was he thinking?
He leaned forward on his cane, glowering at Philip. “You young folks need to learn to respect your elders. I’m half-tempted to take you out of the will entirely.”
“You can’t do that.” Philip brushed something—cat hair?—off the sleeve of his jacket. “You can’t change the way Grandpa left thin
gs. You only have a life estate. I looked it up. It means you can use everything, but when you’re gone, it’ll be distributed the way Grandpa wanted.”
“Huh. I’ll ‘life estate’ you. I’ll live to be a hundred and twenty.”
“Good luck with that,” Philip muttered under his breath.
Uncle George’s face had turned red, and spit was spraying out of his mouth. “And I’ll spend every last cent!” he roared.
Philip smirked. “Grandpa was smart. He set it up so you can’t do that.”
Regina was standing at the sideboard where they kept various disgusting drinks. What’s the matter with plain old water? Or that nice saucer of cold milk?
She had taken out a little bottle of white pills and was crushing a few of them with a spoon. She swept the crumbles into a glass, then filled the glass with amber liquid and stirred it.
“Here, Uncle George.” She walked around in front of him and handed him the glass and another one of the pills from the bottle, this one not crushed. “Take your pill and have a nice drink. It’s Thanksgiving, and family shouldn’t fight.”
“Ha.” Uncle George took the glass but ignored the pill. “I’ll fight if I damn well feel like it. This young man almost killed me out there with that car!”
“You’ll be much happier if you take one of your pills.” Regina held it out to him. “The doctor says it’s not good for your heart for you to get excited. This will calm you down.”
Uncle George reached for the pill.
“We’ll all be a lot happier if the old coot takes his tranquilizer,” Philip muttered.
“Why, you…” Uncle George threw the pill at Philip, who ducked. It ricocheted off his head.
Regina turned to Philip. “Must you always start things?”
Philip headed toward the kitchen. “Wasn’t me that started it.”
Uncle George was about to take a sip from the glass, but he lowered it and glared at Philip. “No? Who tried to run who over with the car?”
“Go on to the kitchen,” Regina said to Philip. “You’re going to ruin everything.”
“Well, I already tried my best,” he said.
“And it didn’t work. Sometimes your best isn’t good enough,” Regina shot back.
“Let’s see you do any better.
She sat down on the sofa, near Uncle George. “Don’t worry, I will.”
To Uncle George she said, “How’s your drink?”
He sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. “Smells funny.”
Of course it smelled funny. The stuff in those bottles always does.
“That’s because you just came in from outside. It takes your nose a little while to warm up so you can smell things right.”
“Ha.” He put the glass down on the floor by his foot.
Carol came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Would you like something to eat, Uncle George?” She looked at him anxiously.
“Like what?” Uncle George pulled his enormous bulk around so he could see her.
His foot hit the full glass. It overturned and spilled across the patterned rug.
“Oh, my.” Carol’s hands flew to her cheeks. “On my hand-loomed Oriental rug! Let me get something to clean it up.”
“What do you mean, your Oriental rug?” Uncle George shouted behind her. “This house and everything in it is part of my life estate. So the rug’s mine. I could kick you and that no-good husband of yours out any time. Don’t think I might not do that!”
“Actually, Uncle George,” John said as Carol hurried away, “that rug isn’t part of the estate. Carol and I bought it for the parlor about three years ago.”
Uncle George snorted. “I’d like to see how that ludicrous claim would hold up in court! You’d have to have a receipt for it.”
A tight smile showed on John’s face. “Don’t worry. We do.”
“And don’t you call me Uncle George. Bad enough I have all these nieces and nephews who bother me all the time, without any of their spouses claiming that status.”
When John didn’t say anything, Uncle George added, “Don’t think you’re going to inherit anything yourself, if something happens to Carol. Or the marriage. In fact, I’m of a mind to see if I can’t get Carol herself stricken from the will entirely.”
Carol came in carrying a bucket of water and pushing the cart on which she keeps all her cleaning supplies. “You folks might want to move somewhere else for a little while,” she said. “This rug cleaner can be a bit stinky.”
“Let’s turn on the TV and see how the parade is coming,” John said. He got up and led several people into the back parlor.
“Close the damn door behind you if you’re turning on the TV. I don’t want to listen to that infernal racket,” Uncle George said.
Almost everyone else headed for the kitchen.
“I’m not going to move,” Uncle George said. “Just blot it up with a towel and leave it. It’s not going to hurt the rug.”
I know what horrible smells Carol makes with the contents of those bottles and spray cans, so I jumped down and sauntered into the entry hall, where I sat in a patch of light coming in through the windows on either side of the front door.
She closed the doors after me, but through the glass panes I could see into the parlor.
First she squirted something on the rug. Then she got down on her hands and knees and wiped at the spot with some paper towels.
What was she doing? Was she mousing? I hated to disillusion her, but I’d caught all the mice who’d made it inside this fall. They were very good.
Uncle George shifted in the chair—my chair—and said something I couldn’t make out.
Carol didn’t look at him, just tossed her head and reached for the bucket of water.
Uncle George brought his cane down on her back.
She yelped and jerked back, knocking over the bucket.
The water spilled everywhere, but it was quickly absorbed by the rug.
Carol jumped to her feet and glared at Uncle George.
He just sat there, pulling his cane in front of him and resting his hands on the handle. He turned his head away from Carol and closed his eyes.
Her shoulders sagging, she stood still for a few seconds. Then she grabbed the bucket, put it on the top shelf of her cleaning cart, and pulled two bottles from the lower shelves. She emptied them into the bucket.
Even with the door closed, I could hear a popping noise coming from the bucket.
Holding her nose, Carol hurried out of the parlor, pulling the door shut behind her. She went past me into the kitchen.
A foul odor wafted under the door to the parlor. I rubbed my nose with my paw and decided to go into the kitchen, where the main smell would be from that glorious, huge bird in the oven.
John burst through the parlor door, carrying the bucket in his hands. The bucket was foaming and making weird noises. John was choking.
He dashed out the front door, leaving it open behind himself, and put the bucket down on the front walk.
“Carol!” he called.
“What?” she called back, but didn’t leave the kitchen.
“Please come here!”
Slowly, she stepped into the entry hall, followed by a small crowd. “What?” she asked again.
“Carol, did you mix bleach and ammonia in that bucket!” John fairly shouted. “Don’t you know how dangerous that can be? It makes chorine gas.”
“I…I must not have been thinking,” Carol said. “Uncle George hit me with his cane, and it was all I could do to put the cleaners back on the cart and run out.”
“The bit with the cane was an accident!” Uncle George hollered from inside the parlor. “She could have killed me with those fumes!”
The blood drained from Carol’s face.
Philip and Regina looked at each other.
Everyone else murmured.
John looked from Uncle George, still sitting in my chair in the parlor, to the open front door. “Oh,” he said. He went ove
r and closed the door.
“Now it does stink too much to stay in here.” Uncle George struggled to his feet. “No thanks to you, miss.” He nodded toward Carol. “Where can I go sit?”
“How about the breakfast room?” John said. “It’s off the back hallway. Nice and sunny. It’s got a table and a few comfortable chairs.”
“Oh, all right.” Uncle George lumbered out of the parlor, swinging his cane in front of him. “And somebody bring me eggnog.”
I had steadfastly remained in my little patch of sunlight—why should I move?—and he swung the cane at me as he passed.
I hissed at him, but I got slowly to my feet and followed the people as they trooped to the back of the house.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Uncle George grumbled as he hobbled down the hallway.
“Here.” Philip pointed to the door on the right.
That led to a steep flight of stairs going down to the basement with its cold stone floor. That’s where the mice came in. And every once in a while, a snake. I pretty much left the snakes alone. Especially the huge black snake that was living down there now.
Philip put his hand on the doorknob and waited until John escorted Uncle George that far.
“Here you go.” Philip whipped the door open and put his hand on Uncle George’s shoulder, shoving him toward the yawning black doorway.
“But that’s…” Carol started to say. She didn’t finish her sentence.
Uncle George jerked back, pulling away from Philip. “Idiot. That’s not the bathroom. That’s the door to the basement.”
“Oh.” Philip shook his head. “You’re right. Sorry, Uncle George.”
“Harumph.” Uncle George turned to the door on the other side of the hall, which did lead to the bathroom.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “How about that eggnog, now?”
“I’ll get it,” Philip said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Uncle George said, poking his head out of the bathroom and glaring at Philip. “You’ve done enough for today.”
“Let me,” Regina said, turning back down the hallway, a smug smile on her face.
By the time Uncle George was settled in a chair—one that I knew was nowhere near as comfortable as mine in the parlor—Regina was back with a mug. She handed it to Uncle George.
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 5
