Chopping Spree gbcm-11

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Burgundy Sauce (recipe follows)Preheat the oven to 300°F.In a large bowl, mix the cornflake crumbs, cornstarch, onion, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. In another bowl, mix together the cream and egg. Pour this mixture over the crumb mixture and stir gently. Allow this mixture to sit until the liquid is absorbed.Gently mix in the ground beef until thoroughly combined. Using a 1 tablespoon (or slightly larger) ice-cream scoop, measure out the beef mixture into 36 scoops onto 2 plates covered with wax paper. Gently roll the scoops between your fingers to form balls. In a large frying pan, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat until the oil shimmers. Carefully place the balls into the hot oil and sauté, turning once, until the outside is browned. (Do not cook the meatballs all the way through; they will be finished in the oven.) Using tongs, place the browned meatballs onto a rimmed, buttered baking sheet, or better yet, a baking sheet that has been lined with a silicone (Sil-Pat) sheet. (Do not discard the drippings in the pan.)Place the meatballs in the oven while you make the sauce. (If the sauce is to be prepared later, bake the meatballs for about 10 minutes, or until just cooked through and no longer pink. Cool them and place them in a container that can be covered.)After 10 minutes, test the doneness of the meatballs by slicing one in half. The interior should no longer be pink. Do not overbake the meatballs. Remove the meatballs from the oven as soon as they are done and set them aside until you are ready to reheat them in the reserved sauce. (Do not heat the meatballs in the sauce until you are ready to serve the dish. The meatballs are delicate and will fall apart if cooked too long in the sauce.)Burgundy Sauce:

  ¼ cup melted fat (strained pan drippings plus enough melted unsalted butter to make ¼ cup)

  ¼ cup all-purpose flour

  1½ teaspoons sugar, or to taste

  Freshly ground black pepper

  2 cups homemade beef stock or 1 tablespoon beef bouillon powder dissolved in 2 cups hot water

  1 cup high-quality Burgundy wineStrain the fat from the pan (reserve the browned bits) into a glass measuring cup. Add melted unsalted butter to make ¼ cup.Keeping the heat low, return the fat to the pan and whisk in the flour. Keeping the heat between low and medium-low, whisk and cook this mixture until it bubbles. (This should not take more than a couple of minutes.) Whisk in the sugar and pepper, then slowly add the stock, whisking continuously to avoid lumps. Finally, whisk in the wine.Allow the mixture to come to a slow simmer and cook for about 5 minutes. Taste and correct the seasoning. If the sauce tastes bitter, add a bit more sugar and allow the sauce to simmer another 10 minutes. If the dish is not to be served immediately, cool the sauce and chill, covered, until ready to heat and serve.Just before serving, lower the meatballs into the hot sauce and bring the mixture to a simmer. Taste a meatball with sauce to be sure the dish is heated all the way through. If the dish is to be served as an appetizer, provide small bowls or dishes and spoons. If the dish is to be served as a main course, serve over hot egg noodles.Makes 36 meatballs in sauceVariation:You may use crème fraîche instead of heavy cream in the meatball recipe. ème fraîche must be prepared 2 days ahead.Crème Fraîche:

  ¼ cup active-culture buttermilk (do not use buttermilk powder)

  2 cups heavy creamUsing a glass container, mix the buttermilk into the cream, cover with plastic wrap, and allow to sit at room temperature until the mixture is the thickness of commercial sour cream, usually about 2 days. It can be refrigerated, covered, for up to 3 days. Since the recipe only calls for ⅔ cup, the rest of the crème fraîche can be used for dips and sauces.

  Diamond Lovers’ Hot Crab Dip

  2 shallots, peeled and finely chopped

  6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter, divided

  5 canned artichoke bottoms, drained, patted dry, and trimmed to remove any hard, rough spots

  24 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature

  1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

  ⅓ cup crème fraîche or commercial sour cream

  1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

  1 pound pasteurized crab, flaked and picked over to remove any stray bits of cartilage

  2 cups fresh bread crumbs, preferably made from homemade bread (brioche is best)

  ½ cup finely chopped fresh parsley

  Corn chips and crackersPreheat the oven to 350°F. Butter an attractive 2-quart au gratin dish, preferably a dark-colored one. Set aside.Place the shallots in a miniature food processor and blend until juicy, less than a minute. Over medium-low heat, melt 1 tablespoon butter, add the shallots, and sauté just until the shallots begin to turn golden brown. Remove from the heat and set aside.Chop the artichoke bottoms into ½-inch dice. Set aside until you are ready to assemble the dip.In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the cream cheese until very smooth. Add the mustard, crème fraîche, and cheese and beat on low speed just until combined. Stir in the crab, shallots, and artichoke bottoms until well combined. Turn the crab mixture into the prepared au gratin dish.In a medium-sized sauté pan, melt the remaining 5 tablespoons butter and stir in the bread crumbs. Cook and stir just until the butter is absorbed and the crumbs are beginning to turn golden. Remove from the heat, stir in the chopped parsley, and distribute this mixture over the top of the crab dip.Place the dip in the oven and bake for about 30 minutes, until the topping is golden brown and a small spoonful of dip scooped up from the center tastes very hot. Serve immediately with a choice of chips and crackers.Makes 24 or more servings

  “What else are we doing for Shane? Calculators from sardines? Whole mushrooms in the shape of digital cameras?”

  “Just finish the meatballs, would you, Liz?”

  She emerged with the metal container that held our meticulously rolled and browned mixture of lean ground beef, heavy cream, freshly grated nutmeg, and other goodies. While she stirred the high-priced Burgundy into the meatball sauce, I arranged fat shrimp, thin noodles, fragrant chopped cilantro, and shredded carrot, broccolini, and black mushrooms into the shrimp rolls. Before we started on our last dishes—the crab dip and cheese trays—we treated ourselves to eight leftover shrimp and the last four leftover truffles. It wasn’t a meal Elk Park Prep would highlight in their nutrition class. But so what? We were caterers.

  An hour later, we entered the last stage of prep: cleaning our pots, pans, and tools, going over our checklists, and packing up our vehicles. When Liz still had her corporate job, her last financial gasp had been to buy—on credit—a silver Toyota van. It was a great car, and roomy, and Liz and I were halfway through packing it when a battered green Subaru screeched to a halt outside the house.

  “What the—” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, darn it,” muttered Liz. She shot me a baleful glance. “It’s my kids.”

  A boy of perhaps seventeen, dark-haired and gangly, jumped out of the passenger side while a smartly dressed, beautifully bobbed young woman of about twenty extracted herself from the driver side and slammed her door shut.

  “Mom!” shrieked the girl, whom I took to be Kim, Liz’s super-bright daughter, an honor student at C.U. “I have to have the van to get back to Boulder! Or the Subaru! You can’t let Teddy take a car to school today! Come on, Mom!”

  “Kim,” Liz began, “I thought you were getting a ride—”

  Kim’s dark hair bounced pertly as she strode up the driveway. “Mom!” she cried again. “You know perfectly well I can’t get all my stuff into a friend’s car! Why do you always side with Teddy? He’s a terrible driver, anyway. And he’s in trouble. You said so yourself. He shouldn’t be going shopping after school, when I need to get back.”

  “Kim,” Liz tried again, her voice low, “please stop shouting in front of Goldy’s neighbors.”

  “Mom!” Teddy pleaded, his shoulders slumped, his face screwed into a look of anxiety. Teddy, I knew, was something of a screwup, although I was not aware of the details. “I don’t have a ride to school today, and I’ve got stuff to do later, and I’m really, really late as it is—”

  “Teddy, you’re not supposed to—”


  “Please let me have the Subaru,” Teddy begged, “because I know it needs an oil change. Give Kim the van, let me have the Subaru until tonight. I’ll get the oil changed, then pick you up at the mall. What time will you be finished? I can meet you at the—”

  “Mom!” Kim was livid. “Why are you listening to him and not listening to me? I need the van! Now!”

  Liz’s blue eyes shot me a look of such hopelessness that my heart twisted in my chest. “Is there any way we can get everything into your van?” Liz beseeched me.

  “Of course!” I said without hesitation. “Besides, I’d love your company.”

  She blushed, then asked if she and her kids could move the stuff over, so I wouldn’t be bothered. I took this as a signal that she couldn’t stand being embarrassed another moment. I nodded and mumbled that I had work to do inside.

  Poor Liz, I thought, as I packed up the last boxes in the kitchen. She’d had her kids early, then been deserted by her husband. After the corporate job crashed and burned, she’d been left without resources. I’d kill to get this job with you, she’d told me two weeks ago, as her long, slender hands had offered me a foil cup of her signature Grand Marnier crème brûlée. I’d taken only one bite and informed her that she was hired! She’d managed to balance her schedule, money, and offspring problems—until today.

  But we worked things out. Kim took the van; Teddy roared away triumphantly in the Subaru. An hour later, crisis over, Liz and I were on our way.

  My van zipped up Aspen Meadow’s Main Street and around the curve of the lake, where ruffled dark water skirted a membrane of ice. April in the high country brings freezing temperatures, lots of snow, and only an occasional glimpse of the warmth to come. Chugging toward the interstate, we passed snowy meadows pocked with dun-colored grass. Stands of white-barked aspen looked as if they were wrapped in green mist, the first sign of emerging lime-colored leaves.

  Driving by Flicker Ridge, I was forced to slow by the entries to two new upscale housing developments. Trucks, tractors, and front-end loaders rumbled across denuded meadows, where a sign now screamed that there were ONLY 3 SITES LEFT!, next to a handpainted offer, Topsoil $70/load, which lay beside a large, beautifully lettered sign announcing the presence of Ace Custom Construction. Trucks labeled Ace and We Got Dirt hauled loads of soil in and out of a fenced-off area. Melting snow still chilled the air, but the building of the new crop of trophy homes, each set on a mere quarter of an acre, was clearly well under way. I turned up the van’s heat.

  As we descended to the Mile High City, the air turned soft and warm. At my request, Liz cracked a window. Our winter in Aspen Meadow began in October and ended in May, two months longer than Denver and environs. By the time we arrived at the turnoff for Westside Mall, forty miles east of home, we had emerged into a gentle spring.

  Not that arriving at the shopping center gave you a prospect of flowers, shrubs, or leafy trees. If anything, the mall’s grand new stone entrance, flanked with sloping hillocks of dirt, gave the place the look of a military outpost. Barry had told me the mall landscaping had been postponed because of the construction delays.

  As I slowed to make the turn onto Doughnut Drive, the road that encircled the mall, I remembered something else Barry had told me: We’re giving shoppers entertainment and discounts these days, to make up for the mess. Tonight’s Red Tag Shoe Sale at Prince & Grogan was the discount magnet. The catered jewelry-leasing party was the entertainment. The mess was just the mess.

  I slowed the van and glanced in the direction of the construction, where a line of workers were putting in a winding sidewalk that would soon be dotted with inviting benches, restaurants, boutiques, and coffee kiosks. All this, Barry had told me, was more entertainment. Shoppers want picturesque spots to sit, watch the folks go by, and eat food samples, he’d said. Shoppers don’t live in a storybook village. But they want to pretend they do.

  And, he’d added, they were under severe pressure from the mall owner, Pennybaker International, to get the new village done. Malls Are Getting Mauled was the message from industry insiders. Suburban folks with money in their pockets were tired of concrete parking lots leading to blank walls enclosing identical sets of stores. They wanted to see and be seen as they strolled past trees, bushes, and sculptures. They wanted to go to the bank, the dry cleaner, and the bookstore, and then have lunch at an Italian restaurant overlooking a fountain. This was exactly what all the mall owners and execs, including Barry, were trying to offer. And at some point, all those shoppers would also need to purchase dresses, cosmetics, pots, pans, and shoes, which they could do inside the mall itself, a mere fifty steps away. The best way to promote Westside, Barry had told me, was to tack a fairy-tale village onto its back end.

  At least Barry wasn’t bringing in Snow White and the Dwarfs, I reflected, as my van chugged along Doughnut Drive. The new road was perfectly named. A twelve-foot-high berm of unlandscaped soil circled the outer perimeter. At the eight-foot chain-link fence surrounding the construction area, I slowed again, then stopped at the gate. Barry was not there to meet us. Liz gave me a questioning look.

  Beyond the fence, acres of flattened dirt—what would eventually become the mall’s new parking lot—sloped down to the roped-off area. There, a worker wearing a bright orange hard hat chugged around in a front-end loader, moving rocks from one enormous pile to another. The rest of the crew, clad in yellow hard hats, were clustered next to a hot dog vendor by the construction company trailer.

  My eyes swept left and I barely escaped cursing aloud. The restyled back entrance to the mall—the one that led up to the Elite Shoppers’ Lounge—was surrounded by a lake of muddy drainage water. At the edge of this brown pond, an imposing line of enormous dump trucks obscured any view to that rear entry. Worse, the water came up to the trucks’ wheel wells. How were we supposed to transport boxes into the mall? By boat?

  As if he’d heard my worries, the man driving the loader halted abruptly and hopped onto the rocks. This had to be Victor Wilson, the excavator Barry had mentioned, who’d been promoted recently to be the new construction manager. Victor was short and chunky, with a reddish brown ponytail sticking out from his orange hard hat. He shouted in the direction of the crew, who responded by tossing their trash and slowly moving back to the equipment on the sidewalk. I was impressed. After all the delays, it looked as if Victor was really cracking the whip.

  “How are we going to unpack?” Liz asked me. “Where’s Barry? Where’s Julian?”

  I scanned the drainage lake and spied a narrow wooden walkway spanning the water, curving around the row of trucks. Maybe we wouldn’t have to don hip boots, after all.

  I pointed. “See that plankway in front of the trucks? If you can open the gate to the construction area, I’ll drive us as close as possible. With any luck, Julian will see the van.”

  “Why did Barry even say he’d meet us at the gate?” Liz asked. “That’s not normal, is it? For a mall manager to help the catering team?”

  “He’s an old friend.” I thought again of the flirtatious way she and Barry had seemed to be acting when we’d done our measuring. Then again, I’d learned in college that Barry was a seductive kind of guy. “Anyway, Liz,” I added mischievously, “maybe Barry wanted to see you.”

  “Did Barry…?” Flustered, she ran her fingers through her silver-blond hair. “Did he mention my name? The fact that I was… helping you?”

  “Liz, stop worrying. Everything will be fine. Just get the gate, OK?”

  She hopped out, swung open the construction gate, and waved me through. Once the gate was shut and she was back inside, we bumped over deep ruts to get as close as possible to the big puddle. We ended up parking fifty yards from the wooden walkway. I still couldn’t get a good view of the mall’s rear entrance. Were the trucks parked flush against the shopping center wall? Hopefully, some kind of dike had been erected behind them, providing walking space that led to the mall’s entrance.

  If Julian and Barry didn’t sho
w up to help, and Liz and I had to skirt the truck-and-water mess to get to the lounge, we were going to have a devil of a time. I mentally calculated an hour and a half to haul everything in, another ninety minutes to set up and decorate the tables, another forty-five to do the last-minute prep on the food and set out the platters. Since my watch now said two o’clock, that schedule would put us right up against six o’clock—party time.

  Liz and I heaved up the first boxes. We decided to trek down around the ruts to a foot-wide dirt path that seemed to run along the edge of the lake. The crow may fly as he may, but a smooth, longer way to the wooden plankway had to be better than negotiating hard waves of dirt. As we trod carefully on the springy plank boards, I spotted a foot-high wooden wall behind the trucks. So there was a seawall, thank goodness. Beyond it, a cement sidewalk looked dry enough for us to make it to the just-completed glass doors of the entrance. Despite the fact that I was lugging two boxes, I felt relief. Then Liz let out a little gasp.

  Barry Dean had pushed through the glass doors and was striding along the sidewalk. Liz and I stepped off the end of the plankway spanning the drainage lake and started up the sidewalk toward him. Clad in a bright green sport shirt, khaki pants, and loafers, Barry acknowledged us with a hearty wave. Tripping along behind him was a young woman wearing a black halter top, white short-shorts, and chartreuse-green platform sandals. The woman was slender-hipped and big-busted. About thirty platinum ponytails stuck out from her head. She looked like a blond plant that had sprouted.

  The young woman laid her hand on Barry’s arm to slow him. When he turned to face her, she did a little wiggle. Showing off her outfit? Demonstrating how all the pony-tails could jiggle at once? I groaned, shifted my load, and turned to check on Liz. She had stopped dead in her tracks. Luckily, she recovered quickly enough to grab her boxes before they fell.

  Plenty of fish in the sea, I wanted to tell her.

  “Honestly,” Liz murmured. She rebalanced her cargo, moved forward, and made her tone light. “That man would hit on my daughter.”