Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  I backed quickly toward the door, shaking with disgust. An orange was sitting on the counter, the shape still round, the color still bright, and it looked so normal that I reached for it as I went by. I stifled a scream as it collapsed in on itself like a fetid water balloon and began to drip through my fingers. Nothing here had escaped unscathed.

  I grabbed a towel, wiped my hands, and went running from the kitchen, slamming the door behind me and stumbling frantically down the stairs as if I were fleeing a fire. Thinking I might be leaving for the last time, I detoured down the hall for my coat before continuing my plunge toward fresh air.

  Outside, I turned, looking back at the mansion, almost expecting to see rotting food oozing from the windows. But the grand old house stared stonily back. The air was cold and damp, and I stood shivering in the thin light of late afternoon, embarrassed by my panic. I punched Mr. Pickwick’s number into my phone, and as I began to describe the scene to his secretary, my fingers could still feel the way that rotten orange had evaporated beneath them.

  “I’ll get a cleaning crew there as soon as possible.” Ruby’s voice was matter-of-fact—just another day at Pickwick Publications. “I’ll try to get them to start tonight. But don’t go back to the mansion until you hear from me.”

  It was a bleak, damp evening, the kind of cold that creeps beneath your skin and into your bones, making you feel you’ll never be warm again. The sun had set, leaving dull pewter in its wake. I walked uptown in the growing dark, thinking I might find a friendly face at The Pig. Thursday would be there, and maybe even Jake.

  To my surprise, I found Richard sitting at the bar. Thursday was standing on the other side, and as I watched she leaned intently toward him, looking into his eyes until their foreheads were almost touching, her ash-blond bangs mingling with his blue-black hair. So they were together! I wondered when that had happened.

  She pulled back when she saw me, smiled, gestured to the stool next to Richard’s, and plunked a plate of chicken-liver toasts onto the bar. She’s famous for them, but looking at that gloriously decadent mush made my stomach lurch. I pushed it away. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Are you all right?” Her eyes really were beautiful. “What’s happened? If you’ve lost your appetite, something must be very wrong.”

  Richard put his hand on my arm. “You look like you’ve been walking with ghosts.”

  As I began to describe the scene, Richard pushed the plate farther down the bar. “Take any pictures?” he asked eagerly.

  “God, no.”

  “You should have. It sounds amazing!”

  “Please! I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.” I could feel the bile rising again.

  “I have to see it.” He shrugged into his jacket and grabbed the camera he always carried. “Come!” He pulled me off the stool. “We need to get there before the cleaning crew ruins everything.”

  He hustled me out the door, issuing one of those piercing whistles that bring taxis screeching to a halt. We were on our way downtown before I had managed to get my arms into my coat sleeves.

  Back at the mansion, we raced up the stairs to the third floor, taking them three at a time. Richard gagged and covered his nose and mouth with his scarf. Then he opened the door.

  His face was unreadable while he walked through the kitchen. He put the camera to his eye. “God,” he sighed, “I’ve never seen anything like this. There must be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of rotting food here. Do you know what you’d have to do to replicate this?”

  “You couldn’t.” And I couldn’t bear to spend another minute there. “I’ll be downstairs.” I’m not sure he heard me go.

  I waited a long time. The grandfather clock ticked loudly; even with the lightbulbs replaced, there was something spooky about the mansion at night, and I was glad when Richard returned, cradling his camera. “It was even more extraordinary than I’d hoped.” He was walking back and forth, barely seeing me, and I knew that in his mind he was still upstairs in the kitchen, still envisioning the room. He seemed radiant, as if he had walked through an energy field, gathering electricity. I could almost smell the ozone.

  “What are you going to do with the pictures?”

  “I’m not sure.” His voice was pensive. “I won’t know what I’ve got until I develop them.”

  “Do you ever shoot digital?”

  “I’m old school. I like watching the images struggle up through the developer. I like to get my hands on them, make physical changes. It’s much more satisfying than working on a computer. You knew I started out as a photographer, didn’t you?”

  I looked at him, surprised. Richard seemed so confident that I’d assumed creative director was his dream job, that he’d worked his way up to what he’d always wanted. I’d never thought to ask if he had other aspirations. “How did you end up working in magazines?” It was so odd, thinking of him yearning to do something else.

  He gave me a bemused smile. “You have any idea how hard it is to make a living as an artist? I had to work my way through college, and then I got a magazine job to pay off my student loans. I was only going to do it for a little while.… ” He gave me another lopsided grin. “I think Young Arthur actually did me a favor, pushing me out the door. And, thanks to you, I might have stumbled onto something here.”

  His hands were moving, framing the pictures he was seeing in his head. “I could never have imagined anything quite like that kitchen. That’s why I knew I needed to see it. It was so disgusting that you wanted to puke—well, you know that—and at the same time so exotic, so beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” I was incredulous. “You found that beautiful? It was a nightmare!”

  “Not to me. It was like landing on another planet. I just hope I did it justice. I can’t thank you enough.”

  I stared at him, regretful, even a bit ashamed that I could not see the world as he did. Part of me wanted to run back and take a look before it was too late. But the need to escape was even stronger.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  Under Milkweed

  IT TOOK THEM TWO DAYS TO CLEAN THE KITCHEN, BUT IT FELT LIKE forever. The whole time, the word “mangel-wurzel” kept popping into my head, like a tune you can’t forget. It was such a ridiculous word, and I couldn’t wait to find out if the next group of Lulu’s letters would be filed under “Civil War.”

  As soon as Ruby called to tell me the kitchen had been “sanitized,” I raced back to the Timbers Mansion. It was midafternoon, but I couldn’t wait to test my theory.

  The air smelled as fresh as clean laundry, and as I climbed the stairs I saw that they’d been swept, the banisters dusted. The ugly dumpsters still loitered in the empty halls, but most of the litter had been removed, taking with it the haunted feeling. I inhaled deeply.

  I’d been planning to go right to the library, but when I dropped my coat in the office, the phone rang.

  “Oh, Billie.” Mrs. Cloverly’s voice radiated relief. “I’m so happy to have found you! I’ve been calling and calling, and you never answer. Are you all right? I was afraid that something terrible had happened.”

  It was touching, really, and so I let her ramble on. She’d tried making homemade pasta, with predictable results; the recipe didn’t work with powdered eggs.

  When she finally finished complaining, I ran upstairs. Three days ago the idea had made some sense, but now the whole thing seemed so absurd that I was surprised when I found “Civil War,” a fat file, neatly shelved between “Citrus Fruit” and “Clams.”

  The first letter was an impassioned ode to the rutabaga from a reader in Oshkosh. “During the Civil War,” she had written, “people understood that it has remarkable sweetness when roasted. But why,” she wanted to know, “are people intent on overlooking this versatile vegetable?”

  “Maybe because it tastes terrible,” I muttered, putting the letter aside. The next reader wrote in praise of sorghum as a sweetener, and a third had discovered six wonderful ways to sweeten food
with apple juice. The letters were spare and sensible, testimonials from a frugal nation caught up in a great social experiment. Left behind, these women were fighting the only way they knew—converting their pots and pans into battleships and bullets, sacrificing their cooking fat for ammunition. And Lulu was right there, doing her bit.

  MARCH 16, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  The garlic got me. I thought Mother had forgotten all about me saying I’d eaten some at school, but wouldn’t you know that she mentioned it to Miss Dickson on the night we presented the school play on the Civil War. (It was meant to be patriotic.)

  “Spaghetti?” From across the auditorium, you could have heard Miss Dickson’s voice rise to a screech in that horrid way it does. “Spaghetti? Surely you don’t think Jennings Middle School would serve enemy food in our cafeteria?”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed and she gave me a look. Then she dug her fingers into my arm so hard that I had black-and-blues in the morning. “We’ll discuss this later,” she said. The “discussion” was very unpleasant. And that is all I am going to say on that subject.

  Instead, I want to thank you for suggesting the bees. What a good idea! Mrs. Cappuzzelli keeps bees, and she’s not afraid of them at all. If a tiny little old lady can face down a hive of bees, well, I guess I can too. Bees for victory; think of the sugar I will be saving!

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  Enemy food? Spaghetti? It was a shocking idea. Everyone knows that Japanese American citizens were interned during the war, but I’d never heard about prejudice against Italian Americans. My first instinct was to call Sal, but, remembering how insulted Sammy had been when I asked about the war, I thought better of it.

  Where was Sammy, anyway? He’d been so excited about Lulu, but ten days had passed since then and he hadn’t come back. All his things were still in his office too. I called his apartment and then his cell, but all I got was “Kindly leave a message, and I shall return it with all possible dispatch. Please do not neglect to honor me with your telephone number.”

  I called Jake to see if he’d heard anything. “Don’t worry about Sammy.” He sounded distracted. “I bet he’s stretched out on a tropical beach right this minute, discovering the next luxury destination.”

  “Yeah,” I said, relieved. “I should have thought of that. How’re you?”

  “Not so hot,” he admitted. “I still can’t believe it’s over. I think I might go away after the holidays.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I’d be happy to watch Sherman while you’re gone. I could even bring him in to work. It’d be like old times.” I’d love having the big yellow dog with me at the mansion, and for a moment I thought Jake was going to say yes. But then he cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Thanks, but there’s no need. Talk soon.”

  Did his voice sound slightly strange? It was probably just me; everything felt off. I’d been calling Sammy’s house every day, but there was never an answer. I couldn’t believe that he would have gone away without a word to anyone. I called Richard, but he was as unconcerned as Jake. “Sammy can take care of himself. He’s probably doing something for one of the big travel books. Want me to call around and find out?”

  “Would you?” I knew I was being a pest, but it was only a couple of phone calls.

  Feeling slightly better, I went back to Lulu’s letters. I was still thinking about Sammy, still thinking how much more fun it would be if I were sharing this with him.

  APRIL 8, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Thank you for telling me about Chef Boiardi and his efforts for the war. When I told Mother that Chef Boyardee was not only a real Italian from Piacenza, Italy, but that his factory’s in Cleveland and it’s making spaghetti for our soldiers, she felt ashamed about thinking of spaghetti as “enemy food.” Someday I’ll find the courage to tell Miss Dickson (not that I think it will make much difference).

  Today our class went into the woods to observe the migration of the thrushes. We’ve been tracking their flight path, making maps as they return from South America. Looking up at the sky, I thought I’d like to be a bird: They have no checkpoints, no passports, no boundaries. No war. “Free as a bird” makes a lot more sense to me now.

  It’s been a wet spring, and the morels were everywhere. I showed Tommy the secret spots where Father and I always used to collect them, and before we knew it we had a huge pile. That’s when Miss Dickson found us.

  She began shrieking at us to put them down, saying they could be poison.

  I know how to tell a false morel from a real one, but of course she didn’t believe me. “If your father were here, it would be a different matter,” she said, which wasn’t very kind. She knows Father is missing. She made us dump out all the morels, which seemed like a shocking waste. But at the last minute she relented and said I could keep mine since I was such an expert. I think she was hoping I’d eat them and die.

  Tonight I’m going to make creamed morels for dinner. That will be a nice treat for Mother. But I’m planning to dry the rest and put them by. May I send you some? They’d be much more useful than a silly pot holder.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  P.S. While we were foraging for morels, we found a large crop of young milkweed shoots and they looked delicious. Can you eat milkweed?

  I picked up the next letter, and the next, and then went through the entire file, but the “Civil War” file held no more letters from Lulu. I combed Lulu’s words, looking for clues to the next letter. “Spaghetti” seemed like a good prospect. Or maybe “morels”? Then my eye caught the postscript, and I wrote that down too. “Can you eat milkweed?” Not a clue, perhaps, but I was curious. I decided to check with the library ladies.

  They turned out to have a lot to say on the subject, but the pay dirt was on a blue card. “Milkweed,” the librarian had written, “played an important part in World War II. There are some illuminating letters on the subject in the ‘Foraging’ file of 1943.”

  It seemed too good to be true: another direct instruction. I went back to the secret room, thinking it couldn’t possibly be this easy. But there was, indeed, a fat file marked “Foraging,” and when I opened it up, the illuminating letters were right on top.

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  School has started, and it’s a terrible trial. I have Miss Dickson again, and I don’t foresee any good coming of it. If only she’d decide that it’s her patriotic duty to go work at the airplane factory! Teenagers all over Akron would rejoice.

  Her latest project is what Tommy calls USS Dickson. Since we can’t get kapok from Japan anymore, we’ve been collecting milkweed to make life jackets. A pound of milkweed floss will keep a sailor afloat for ten hours, and Miss Dickson wants us to collect enough to make life jackets for an entire battleship!

  Today I opened one of the pods and looked inside. I liked the recipes you sent me for milkweed shoots last spring—they taste just like asparagus—but now I’m wondering about the floss. Can you cook with it? Have you ever? Is it good?

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I’ve been called a liar twice today. And it’s all your fault.

  We’re still collecting milkweed pods, but today I did what you said and put the immature ones into a separate bag to take home. I should have known Miss Dickson was keeping her eye on me, because when the bag was almost full, she pounced. She said I was a selfish, unpatriotic girl who was trying to sabotage her milkweed project. I told her that the immature pods are useless for life jackets and that I was keeping them to cook, but she didn’t believe me. She called me a little liar and sent me to the principal’s office.

  I guess Principal Jones agreed, because he said nobody eats milkweed. Then he said he had the perfect punishment: I was going to have to prove what I said by cooking the floss and eating it. He took me down to the kitchen and handed me a pot. It’s a good
thing that I trust you.

  At first I was afraid to take a bite, but Principal Jones was watching, so I shut my eyes and took a spoonful. You were right! It’s so pleasant and chewy. I ate a second spoonful, and there must have been something about the look on my face, because Principal Jones picked up a spoon and tasted it too. “Miss Dickson owes you an apology,” he said, as we sat down to share the rest. I told him you said that it tasted just like cheese when it’s mixed with other foods, and he said that someday he would like to try that.

  I took the rest of the pods home and cooked the floss with rice. It looked so much like cheese that Mother refused to believe me when I said that there was no cheese in the pot. “I don’t know why you’re lying, Lulu,” she said, and made me go to my room. Sometimes I feel as if the war has kidnapped my mother; she’s so different than she used to be. I want the old one back.

  Milkweed is delicious, but I’m through with it.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  I folded up the letter, wishing that Sammy were here; he’d love the story of Lulu and the milkweed floss.

  OCTOBER 10, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I’m sorry to keep sharing all my problems with you, but Mother always believes the teachers, no matter how wrong they are. And I just have to tell someone.

  Today Miss Dickson sent me to the principal’s office. Again. She said the reason was rudeness and insubordination, but really she just can’t stand it when somebody has an opinion that’s different from hers! We were having a class on civics, talking about what makes America a great country. I said I thought one important reason is that we’ve all come from different places in the world and that we learn from one another.