Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel

by Ann B. Ross

  In just a few minutes, Ida Lee walked out onto the porch. “Yes, ma’am?” she said to Mildred, then with a smile turned to me. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Murdoch.”

  I responded, thinking to myself what a perfectly mannered and highly capable woman she was. She was small in size and stature, with a lovely complexion that looked tanned all year round. She had been trained at one of those housekeeping schools in New York, so she was a professional in every sense of the word. I sometimes wondered how she put up with Mildred—and Abbotsville itself—when she could work anywhere and for almost anyone she wanted to.

  When Mildred explained what I was doing, Ida Lee was most pleasant and cooperative, going back into the kitchen to get her recipe box.

  “Look for my boeuf bourguignon first,” Mildred said, as Ida Lee sat on an ottoman and began to look through the cards. “That’s my favorite company dish.”

  Ida Lee nodded in agreement, even though I figured that the recipe was hers, and not Mildred’s at all. Pulling out the card, she handed it to me. “It’s a little complicated to make,” she said, “so Mrs. Pickens might have trouble with it. Tell her to call me if she does, because it’s worth the effort.”

  “Hmm,” I said thoughtfully, glancing over the recipe as if I understood the first thing about the directions. “Maybe we should start with something simpler. But, listen,” I said, girding—so to speak—my loins. “I have to admit that I’m here to ask for a little more than your recipes.” And I went on to tell them of James’s mishap and Mr. Pickens’s call to duty, and to remind them of how much baby-tending Hazel Marie had to do, as well as of her ineptness in a kitchen. They were both dismayed to hear about James and both expressed commiseration for Hazel Marie.

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” I said, “because I have a huge favor to ask. Would you—both of you—consider spending a couple of hours this week showing Hazel Marie how to fix one of your main dish recipes? Now, I know,” I went on quickly, “that it’ll be mostly on Ida Lee to show her how to do it, but, Mildred, I thought that you and I could watch from the sidelines and offer encouragement.” I trailed off as I watched their faces to see how they were taking the suggestion. “Or something.”

  “Why, I’d be glad to,” Ida Lee said, her face brightening at the thought. “If it’s all right with Mrs. Allen, of course.”

  “Oh, I think it’d be fun,” Mildred said. “Except, Julia, for one thing, and I know you won’t approve. But if you want me to do any cooking, I’m taking a bottle of wine. Somebody told me once that no woman should go into a kitchen without a glass of wine in hand.”

  Far be it from me to criticize Mildred for having a glass of wine. I was much more disturbed at the thought of Mildred demonstrating her cooking skills, of which she had fewer than Hazel Marie.

  So I said, “I expect you and I will just be in the way if we try to help. Why don’t we take some handwork to do while we watch? I have a needlepoint piece I’ve been trying to finish for ages. We’ll sit at the kitchen table and supervise, and maybe offer a little entertainment.”

  “What, Julia?” Mildred asked, laughing. “You mean sing or something?”

  “No, I mean entertaining talk. Like, for instance, what’s going on with Thurlow and Helen Stroud? Have you heard anything lately?”

  “Have I ever! Just wait till you hear.”

  “No, don’t tell me now. Save it for, well, when? What’s a good day to do this?”

  We discussed that for a while, and finally decided on the Saturday coming. That would give Hazel Marie a few days to find a babysitter and also give James time to be on his feet, hopefully. It occurred to me that Mildred and I could possibly be the babies’ caretakers, but I decided I’d already pushed my luck with Mildred about as far as it was likely to go.

  Ida Lee held out another index card to me. “Here’s a recipe for beef stroganoff. It’s a lovely dish and easier than the boeuf bourguignon.”

  “That does look good,” I said, scanning the ingredients. “I think you served this at your dinner party at Thanksgiving last year, didn’t you, Mildred?”

  “Yes, I believe I did,” Mildred said. “I think people get enough turkey at home over the holidays, so I like to serve something different.”

  Ida Lee was still looking through her recipe box. “Do you think she’d like one for deviled crab? I have a simple one that makes an attractive entrée.”

  “If it’s simple, I’ll take it.”

  After looking over the directions for the deviled crab, I said, “Well, this would be simple enough for Lillian, but I don’t know about Hazel Marie. She might get stuck on the white sauce.”

  I began writing them down, though, carefully checking each one to be sure I hadn’t overlooked an ingredient. Hazel Marie was going to have a hard enough time replicating the dishes without using a flawed recipe.

  Mildred bestirred herself. “Give her a salad one, too, Ida Lee. I like the one you make with cottage cheese, and cottage cheese is good for anybody who’s dieting.”

  As Ida Lee began looking for that card, Mildred went on, “Oh, I know! Hazel Marie has to have the recipe for biscuit tortoni. That may be my favorite dessert. Well, maybe black-bottom rum pie is my most favorite, but biscuit tortoni is a close second.”

  “This sounds wonderful,” I said, reading the card Ida Lee handed to me. “I really appreciate this, Ida Lee, and I know Mr. Pickens and Lloyd will, too.”

  “I’ll be thinking about some others she might like,” Ida Lee said.

  By this time I had more recipes than Hazel Marie could manage and not enough actual plans. “We need to make a decision here. Ida Lee, if it’s all right with you, I think the beef stroganoff would be the best one to start with. So if you’ll write out a grocery list—and include everything you’ll need, because I don’t know how equipped her kitchen is—I’ll buy the ingredients and have them at her house.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mildred said. “We’ll do the shopping and bring everything we need with us. We would’ve sent a dish anyway, once we heard of James’s injury, so the only difference is the change of venue.”

  I thanked her with heartfelt gratitude, although I knew that all those wes she’d mentioned really meant Ida Lee.

  I finished copying the recipes, confirmed Saturday morning for the lesson, and, thanking them both again, prepared to leave. Ida Lee walked me to the door, but on the way, she said in a low voice, “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but hear what Mrs. Allen was saying earlier, because I was dusting in the living room. I just want you to know that I serve her low-fat salad dressing and try to cut down on her calories any other way I can. Just please don’t tell her.”

  “Of course I won’t. And, Ida Lee, I know that you look after her as much as she’ll let you. And in this case, what she doesn’t know not only won’t hurt her, it’ll help her.”

  (Hazel Marie, these are Ida Lee’s recipes, but we’re pretending they’re Mildred’s.)

  Mildred’s Beef Stroganoff

  2 tablespoons butter or margarine

  1 garlic clove, peeled and split

  1 bay leaf

  2 pounds round steak, chuck, or sirloin, cut into cubes

  2 medium onions, sliced

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon paprika

  11/2 cups water

  1/3 cup tomato juice

  21/2 tablespoons flour

  2 cups sour cream

  1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  1 cup canned mushrooms, drained (or 1/2 pound fresh, sautéed in butter)

  In a Dutch oven, heat the butter and add the garlic and bay leaf. Add the meat and onions and brown. Add the salt, paprika, and water. Cover the Dutch oven and simmer until the meat is tender (about 1 hour).

  Mix the tomato juice, flour, sour cream, and Worcestershire sauce in a bowl and add to the meat mixture. Add the mushrooms. Heat un
til hot, remove the bay leaf, and serve over noodles or rice.

  Serves 6.

  (You won’t go wrong with this next one, Hazel Marie. It’s one of Sam’s favorites.)

  Mildred’s Biscuit Tortoni

  1 cup sugar

  3 tablespoons water

  3 eggs

  1 pint whipping cream, whipped

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 tablespoon sweet sherry

  2 dozen stale macaroons, finely crumbled

  Cook the sugar and water in a small saucepan until the sugar is dissolved and a syrup forms. Separate the eggs and beat the yolks and whites in separate bowls. Then beat the syrup into the whipped egg whites. Fold in the beaten egg yolks and the whipped cream. Season with the vanilla and sherry.

  In a loaf pan, layer the mixture with the macaroon crumbs, starting and ending with macaroons. Freeze overnight. When ready to serve, run a sharp knife along the edges and dip the pan quickly in hot water. Turn out and slice. This is a lovely, light dessert for a ladies’ luncheon, but men like it, too.

  Serves 8.

  Chapter 6

  “Well, that’s one day filled,” I announced as I stepped into the kitchen at home. “Lillian, both Mildred and Ida Lee are excited about this. They’re even looking forward to it. Can you believe it?”

  “Believe what?” Sam asked, as I turned and saw him sitting at the table.

  “Oh, you’re up. Did you get enough sleep?” I put my folder on the table and sat beside him.

  “I’m feeling a whole lot better,” he said, putting his hand on mine. He looked a whole lot better, too. “I’m hoping the twins kept James awake today so he’ll sleep tonight. But tell me what’ve you been up to.”

  So I told him, and he thought it was an inspired idea. “You know what it reminds me of?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. “The way Tom Sawyer got his fence painted, remember? And your timing is perfect. Pickens is leaving this afternoon instead of tomorrow, so he can be back here Saturday for the weekend. Won’t he be surprised to have Ida Lee’s fancy beef dish for supper?”

  I beamed at the thought, then immediately began to worry about who I could get to be the next cook in Hazel Marie’s kitchen.

  “I’m going on over,” Sam said, rising from the table. “Lillian, if you’re sending something, I’ll take it with me.”

  “It’s awfully early, Sam,” I said, having hoped to have a few more minutes with him before he left for the night.

  “I know, but with Pickens leaving, Hazel Marie will need the help. I just spoke to her on the phone and both babies were screaming and James was clanging his bell.” Sam laughed. “I told her a bell wasn’t a good idea, but she was afraid he’d need something. Anyway,” he went on as he picked up the foil-wrapped Pyrex dish that Lillian had prepared, “this just needs heating up?”

  “Yessir,” Lillian said, handing him a full sack. “They’s some rolls in here and a can of peas. They need to be heated, too.”

  Just as Sam kissed me and headed out, with me vacillating over whether or not to go with him, the front doorbell rang.

  “Who could be calling this near suppertime?” I mumbled as I hurried through the dining room to the front door.

  “Julia!” LuAnne Conover cried as she rushed in. “I just heard about James. How bad is it? What’s Hazel Marie going to do? I heard he broke both arms and a foot! My goodness, he’ll be laid up for months.” She didn’t break stride until she reached the Duncan Phyfe sofa in the living room where she immediately sat, expecting me to follow.

  “No, no, LuAnne. Where did you hear that? He only broke his wrist and sprained an ankle.” I sat down beside her.

  “Well, it’s all over town that he’s lucky not to have broken his neck. I mean, going headfirst over that little landing at the top of his stairs—it’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself.”

  “Wait, LuAnne, wait. He didn’t go headfirst over anything. He tripped over his feet on his way down the stairs. I declare, I don’t know how such rumors get started.”

  “I heard it at Velma’s when I was getting color and then again in the drugstore. But it’s just a wrist and an ankle? That’s not so bad, then.”

  “Well, it’s bad enough. It’s his right wrist and he has a cast that covers most of his fingers. LuAnne,” I said, leaning toward her with a pitiful note in my voice, “the poor thing can’t use that hand at all, and you know he’s right-handed. I don’t know what in the world Hazel Marie’s going to do. She’s taking care of him, and with two babies in diapers and beginning to teethe . . .” I sighed.

  “Oh,” LuAnne said, her eyes widening as she realized Hazel Marie’s critical situation. “He’s not able to cook, is he?”

  I lowered my eyes and shook my head. Sorrowfully. “We’re doing all we can to help. Lillian is so generous with her time, but she can’t be on her feet that much. Corns, you know. But,” I said, lifting my head with a hopeful look, “Mildred and Ida Lee are going over Saturday morning, and Ida Lee is going to give Hazel Marie a cooking lesson. They’re going to make beef stroganoff, so she’ll learn how to do it and have something for supper that evening, too.”

  “Why, what a good idea!” LuAnne exclaimed. “I was going to take a dish myself. Like I always do, you know. But to show her how to make it herself, why, it’s like what they say: Teaching a man how to fish is better than giving him a fish.” She eagerly reached toward me. “Why don’t I teach her one of my recipes? Not on the same day, of course, but another day, when she’ll need another meal. What do you think, Julia? Which one of my dishes would she like?”

  “Something easy, LuAnne,” I quickly said. “I’m hoping that fancy beef dish of Ida Lee’s won’t discourage her. Think of something that will give her some confidence. And, listen, I’ve come up with an idea that I’ve been thinking about for some time. I want to collect recipes from all her friends and put them in a book for her to have. So, if you would show her how to make one main dish, I’d like to include that in the book along with any others you want to share. But you won’t need to demonstrate those—unless you just want to. What do you think?”

  “I think,” she said, rising from the sofa, “I’m going to run home and get my recipe book. I’ll be right back so we can decide on my main dish. You don’t eat supper this early anyway, do you? Put me down for a day before they’re all taken up. How about Monday? I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  And off she went.

  “Lillian,” I said, going back to the kitchen with a big smile on my face, “this is going to be easier than I thought.”

  When LuAnne returned bearing several books, we sat again on the sofa and she began leafing through the pages.

  “Now tell me what you already have,” she said briskly. “I don’t want to go to the trouble of looking up mine if you already have them. I mean, who wants half a dozen apple pie recipes? And, besides, there are a few things Hazel Marie needs to know other than just plain old recipes.”

  I didn’t know why it all had to be done at my house and not hers, for I had offered to drive up the mountain to her condo. But I hadn’t insisted, because I figured she wanted an excuse to get out of the house, Leonard being ensconced in front of the television set all day, every day, without a word of conversation except, “What’s for supper?”

  So we sat there in my living room, LuAnne with a pad on her knee and a pen in her hand. “I’m also going to be writing down some little household hints that might come in handy—not right now, but over time, as I think of them. All you have to do is help me remember because, as you know, we’ve been doing these things so long that it’s second nature and we don’t even consciously think of them anymore.” She paused, tapped her pen against the pad, then went on. “Well, maybe not you, since you have Lillian.”

  And right there was LuAnne’s problem—she was resentful of the good fortune of her friends. It had taken me a lon
g while to figure out that it wasn’t envy, exactly, because she didn’t want Helen Stroud or Mildred Allen or me to lose what we had. Although Helen, bless her heart, no longer qualified as an enviable subject due to the follies of her now-deceased husband.

  No, LuAnne didn’t want ours, she just wanted some of her own. So the resentment was not toward us, but toward Leonard, who seemed to have moseyed or slept through his entire working life and was now doing the same in his retirement.

  “The first thing Hazel Marie needs to learn,” LuAnne said briskly, “is how to make her own mayonnaise. That’s the sign of a good cook and a careful housekeeper.”

  “Oh, LuAnne, surely not. All that dribbling in and whipping—she’d never get the hang of it. There’s good mayonnaise on the shelves and hardly anybody knows the difference anymore.”

  “Well, but there’re so many choices. Some people say that you have to have Duke’s for tomato sandwiches, which I like myself. Then others swear by salad dressing.”

  “Too sweet for me.”

  “Me, too. But, see, Julia, I know Lillian makes yours because you wouldn’t have anything else in your house.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, LuAnne. Lillian makes it only when she’s in the mood and usually only for party sandwiches. Otherwise, we use Hellmann’s.”

  “You do? Well, my goodness.” LuAnne was momentarily stopped by the thought.

  And that was the result of the problem I just mentioned. She wanted to live on the grand scale that she assumed her friends did, except they didn’t. At least, this friend didn’t. Why, one time she and I were co-hosting a circle meeting at my house and I found her in the kitchen hand-squeezing lemons into a pitcher of tea. I said, “For goodness sakes, LuAnne, don’t waste your time. There’s a bottle of ReaLemon in the refrigerator. Just pour some in and be done with it.” She looked shocked for a minute, then said, “Well, that’s what I use, but I didn’t think you did.”