Chapter 2
I helped Blue onto the floor of my patrol cart and taped my picture of Daniel Evans to the console. Not that I needed the picture to remind me of that sweet face. I did it more as a memorial to yet another child who had potentially fallen victim to kidnapping or some other form of mayhem. Then I unplugged my cart, took my seat behind the wheel, and pulled away from the curb.
It was a beautiful day for a drive. The sun was out and the air was fresh from a recent rain. There was a crisp breeze that chased the last few leaves along the sidewalks. The city road crew, which would include Keith Regan, was out hanging red bows and garlands on the lampposts. The autumn holiday spirit was in the air. Unfortunately I didn’t have far to drive before I ran across my first parking violator, a pink Cadillac belonging to Mary Elizabeth Todd, Alex’s maiden aunt. Rather than issue the citation on the spot, I parked my patrol cart and stepped into the Bagel Bin to confront the perpetrator face-to-face.
“Hello, Officer Boston,” Mrs. Gambino, the owner of the store, said as the bell over the door chimed.
“Hello, Chloe,” Mary Elizabeth said, obviously aware of why I had entered the store.
“Hello, Mrs. Gambino. Hello, Mary Elizabeth,” I replied. “Mary Elizabeth, I’m going to have to ask you to move your car.”
“Oh, can’t it wait a minute or two? I’m getting an order of lox, cream cheese, and bagels for my bridge club.”
“You’re parked in front of a fire hydrant.”
“Is that bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad. What if a fire were to break out? How would the trucks make it to the fire hydrant?”
“I’d move my car for them if a fire were to break out,” she assured me.
I sighed.
“That’s not good enough, Mary Elizabeth. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist that you move your car now. If I don’t, everyone will say I am playing favorites.”
I didn’t like having to get tough with the old woman, but rules were rules.
“Oh alright, I’ll move it,” Mary Elizabeth conceded, stomping to the door. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Gambino.”
Mary Elizabeth paused a moment to glare at me before leaving.
“Your order will be waiting,” Mrs. Gambino called as Mary Elizabeth exited her shop. “Along with one fresh orange.”
“Why the orange?” I asked, as I turned to scan the baskets full of lovely bread.
“Because it’s the holidays,” Mrs. Gambino said, as if that explained everything. “Oranges have always meant the holidays to me.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“You know that I’m from Italy?”
“I assumed it from your accent, but didn’t know.”
“I was there during the war. I was only a child at the time, but I still remember. Things weren’t very nice then. But there were always the oranges.”
Then Mrs. Gambino began to tell me her story…
The Story of the Blood Oranges
I grew up in Pisa, Italy, almost in the shadow of the famous leaning tower the tourists all love. My parents were not rich, but they were not poor either. My father was an accountant with a prestigious bank in the center of town. But still, that didn’t mean we ate tiramisu every night. Later in the war, there were some nights we didn’t eat at all.
I was a happy child in those early days, playing tag with my friends in the streets, going to school, and exploring the open air market for unattainable riches that someday I might be able to buy. One of the special treats of the year came during the holidays, when my parents would buy fresh blood oranges from Sicily. We never had enough money to buy as many as I wanted to eat, but the coming of the oranges every year meant the beginning of the holidays.
I was eight years old when the second Great War began. El Duce aligned himself with his fascist cronies, on the wrong side of the war, and that spelled the beginning of the bad times. As happens in war, the orange supply dried up and we were forced into an austerity program, finding it difficult to simply find enough food to stay alive. My aunt and uncle lost their home. They and their children came to live with us. Those were hard times. They got even harder when Italy surrendered and the Nazis arrived.
We hated them. Marching down the center of the street in their jackboots, at first we jeered them and threw stones at them. But soon the Nazis grasped my town and its people in an iron fist, strangling the life out of us, and never letting up. Our young men were shot. The people began to starve, but still my family was lucky enough to stay alive.
It was the autumn of 1943; that’s when things were at their bleakest. My father had lost his job when the bank closed. We had no money and more nights than not, we went without food or wood for the fire since we did not dare to scavenge. The Nazis were digging in, preparing to defend against the Allied invasion. Then there were the bombings. Still, the family huddled together and weathered the storm.
Come Christmas day, the family had absolutely no hope of presents, so there was no reason for me and my two brothers and the cousins to get out of bed early. We had gone to midnight mass the night before. Still, my father woke us with the rising of the sun and hustled us downstairs. Hanging over the fireplace were three stockings, just like we’d read about in the book of Christmas stories from England. There was one for each of us. We rushed to our gifts, recognizing whose was whose by the fact that our own socks had been used. I pulled down my stocking and dumped a small pile of candy on the floor. But what was this at the bottom of the stocking? Could it be? It was. A fat, juicy blood orange. Where my father had gotten it and with what money I did not know. Each of my brothers and cousins and I received one.
Rather than eat them all at once, we decided to cut my orange into equal pieces, to include our parents, and save the others for later. Of course, the other oranges didn’t last the day, but we enjoyed them like we enjoyed no other present before or since.
I should think of this at Christmas, but somehow those oranges have come to belong to Thanksgiving. Maybe because of the heartfelt prayers of thanks my brothers and I gave that day.
* * *
I blinked back a tear.
“Why, Mrs. Gambino. That’s a touching story. Do your brothers still remember the oranges?”
“I’m afraid that my brothers didn’t survive to the end of the war. They were killed fighting against the Nazi occupation,” Mrs. Gambino said with vitriol behind the words.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure that makes the memory of your all being together that Christmas all the more special.”
“Yes, it does,” Mrs. Gambino admitted with a smile, her anger dying as quickly as it had come.
Just then, Mary Elizabeth returned to interrupt the awkward silence.
“I had to park three blocks away to find an empty spot,” she complained as soon as she’d entered the store.
“I hope you parked in a legal parking spot this time,” I teased.
“I’m sure it will pass your exacting standards,” Mary Elizabeth replied.
I opted to leave without further comment but was stopped by the voice of Mrs. Gambino as I opened the door.
“Chloe,” she called.
“Yes?”
“You forgot your orange,” she said, coming around the counter to hand me a beautiful blood orange.
Wishing the two of them happy holidays, I exited the shop and climbed back into my electric cruiser. It was beginning to drizzle. Blue wagged her tail, happy at my return. I rode with a smile on my face, determined to enjoy my orange and the rest of my good fortune the remainder of the day.
The rest of my afternoon passed without incident. I did receive a minor scare when Jacky MacKay began running beside my cart calling for Blue. I warned him to stand aside so that I could pull to the curb and he and my dog had a happy reunion, primarily involving hugs, laughter, and lots of dog drool. With little regard for me, now that pumpkin season was over, Jacky eventually wandered off, having gotten his doggie love fix, casting me only a las
t second wave over his shoulder.
That evening Alex and I were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying hot, after-dinner beverages. I wished that I still had my blood orange, not necessarily to eat, just to look at and hold. Unfortunately, I had eaten it for lunch while with Blue at the park. Still, just the thought of the orange got me thinking about friends, family, and the holidays. Not to be morbid, but how could we know that this Thanksgiving might not be the last time we would all be together?
“Maybe we should have people over for Thanksgiving instead of going out,” I commented to Alex.
He looked up from the computer manual he’d been devouring and fixed me with a piercing glare.
“I thought you wanted it to be just the two of us this year.”
“Yeah well, I already messed that up. I invited Jeffrey to join us.”
“Alright, but we can still avoid the hassle of all the cooking and guests by going out.”
“I suppose,” I replied, feeling somewhat depressed by our hasty decision.
Before our discussion degenerated into an argument about me always changing my mind and that being a woman’s prerogative, the phone rang. I walked to the kitchen counter to answer it.
“Hello, Chloe,” a pleasantly familiar voice said.
“Hello, Mr. Jackman. What can I do for you?”
“Look, I’m sorry about calling so late this year. I know it’s the eleventh hour, but I just wanted to finalize the cooking arrangements for Thanksgiving.”
Uh oh. I tried to figure out fast how I was going to break the news to him gently. In the meantime, I decided to stall.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Well, I assumed that I would be roasting the turkey. I just need to know how many guests you are expecting to determine the size.”
So much for stalling. Now I was on the spot.
“Actually, there are only four of us confirmed this year, including you,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said, and then there was silence.
“Hardly seems worth the effort of all that cooking,” I pointed out. “In fact, Alex and I were thinking of going out to Arturo’s.”
This time there was a longer silence.
“We could do that. Still, I’d be up for cooking if you are,” he finally replied hopefully.
I knew that I couldn’t break his heart.
“You’d have to handle most of the cooking,” I warned. “You know how useless I can be in the kitchen unless I’m making pastry.”
“Done!” he said quickly before I could change my mind. “Oh, and Chloe.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be bringing a date.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Mrs. Graves,” he replied, and even over the phone line I could tell he was blushing.
“Nice,” I replied with a smile in my voice. “I just hope you can handle all this cooking on such late notice.”
“Oh, I’ve always been great at throwing together last minute meals. In fact, this rather reminds me of my first Thanksgiving in Nam.”
This time it was my turn to go silent.
“You’ve never talked before about your experiences in Vietnam,” I commented tentatively.
“Most of my experiences there I’d rather forget. All but this one.”
I glanced over at Alex who was absorbed with his reading.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
And he did…
The Story of Thanksgiving in Vietnam
I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home in Vietnam, out in the bush on patrol. I had only been in the country for three months but was thought of by many as an old-timer. There’s no doubt that I considered myself a survivor after having walked away from some of the fire fights that I had been in. To this day I don’t know why I lived and so many others died.
The jungles over there were thick and tangled, nothing like the pristine woods back here at home. And the heat and humidity was oppressive, causing you to sweat buckets. You had to keep hydrated otherwise the heat alone would kill you long before Charlie got a chance. And you had to try to keep your feet dry and free from sores, otherwise the fungus and disease would set in. After all, your feet were your best friends and your foremost tools of survival.
It seemed to always be raining and since we had to keep moving, sleep came as you could get it. In fact, there was an old soldier’s adage:
Don’t stand if you can sit.
Don’t sit if you can lie down.
If you can lie down, you might as well sleep.
In reality, we would sleep standing, sitting, or lying down. We were usually so dog tired we’d sleep any way we could get it.
And then there were the little guys in the bushes wearing pajamas that wanted me dead. That was on top of everything else.
All of this aside, our government saw it as important that every soldier in Vietnam had a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving, regardless of where they were. Ours was a couple of days late, but the shrimp cocktail, roast turkey, cornbread stuffing, giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, green beans, and desserts were flown in on a Huey along with replacement mortar rounds, M16 and M50 rounds, and Claymores. Not that we wanted to complain, but I’m sure that any one of us would have traded our Thanksgiving dinner for just one hour of peace at home with our families.
Being the only one in the platoon who had enough culinary talent to boil water without burning it, I was put in charge of preparing the meal which involved reheating the various components over open flames, which was pretty dangerous given our current position. I took over and did my best, though the turkey was a bit dry and the mashed potatoes were not as creamy as I’d have liked. The lieutenant in charge of our platoon said a prayer for the fallen after which we all dug in, listening to the sounds of sporadic gunfire.
Later, back at our firebase, the guys I shared a tent with began to razz me over the dryness of the Thanksgiving turkey the week before. I told them that given time, I could prepare a much better meal from the scraps found around camp. They wagered I couldn’t and the betting began with money being laid down on both sides of the issue.
From potatoes and milk, and a variety of local spices, I made home-style potato pancakes. Spam was turned into a tasty form of foie gras as an appetizer. I acquired rice and a strange form of green bean from the locals. I even surprised everybody by turning a pile of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) into a savory casserole. In all I prepared fourteen dishes. In the end there was no question, I had won the bet and everyone in camp shared in a wonderfully unique meal. The base commander even threatened to have me transferred to the kitchen, but by then my experience was badly needed in the field to keep the greenhorns alive.
We were hit by an NVA mortar attack the next day. For some, that belated Thanksgiving feast was their last meal, and I have always been grateful I had the chance to make it.
* * *
There was silence after he finished his story. I thought I heard him sniff on the other end of the line. I waited a respectful interval before commenting.
“Should I bring the MREs this time?” I asked tentatively.
“No,” he laughed, “there will be no more MRE casseroles coming from these hands. Once in a lifetime was enough.”
“Let me know what the menu will be so we can divvy up the shopping and cooking,” I suggested.
“Will do.” Mr. Jackman sounded energetic.
And with that, the conversation was over. I sat for a time after the line had gone dead with the phone cradled in my hand, thinking of all the men and women who had made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. Fortunately, Alex interrupted me before the tears came.
“Did I hear what I think I just heard?” he prompted.
“Yep. Thanksgiving dinner is on for our place. Are you terribly disappointed?”
“Nope. To tell you the truth, I was half expecting this to happen.”
“You’re a good husband,” I said, wrapping my arm around
his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. I didn’t want to let go.
Alex went back to reading his technical manual while I was overcome by a strong urge to whip something up. The day before I had picked up the fixings for a lemon meringue pie. I’m not a wizard in the kitchen, but the one thing I can do is bake. I was hoping that fixing the pie would get my mind off other stuff and back on the holidays.
For those of you who don’t bake, the most important part of any pie is the crust. In fact, Mom always says that you can fill a pie with dirt and if you have a decent crust, it will still taste pretty good. I prefer lemon cream to dirt, but I still wasn’t going to make the mistake of slacking off on my pie crust.
The first secret to a perfect crust is cold butter, the colder the better. I like to cut a cube of butter into squares and store it in the freezer for at least half an hour while I gather all the other ingredients and prepare my workspace. The second secret is to use cold vodka instead of cold water. The vodka interacts with the glutens in the crust differently than does water, producing a flakier crust once it’s burned off in the cooking process. Fortunately, we keep a bottle of Stoli in the freezer for emergency situations.
I won’t bore you with the entire pie making process, but I feel that it is important to outline the making of the crust so that you’ll at least have that part down pat.
Combine 1 ¼ cups of all-purpose flour, half a teaspoon of salt, and half a teaspoon of sugar together in a food processor. Pulse the food processor to mix. Then throw in the butter squares and pulse another 6-8 times until coarse with pea-size balls of butter. Add the chilled vodka one tablespoon at a time until the mixture clumps together. Pinch some of the crumbly dough and if it holds together, it’s ready. Now, form it into a round disk, sprinkle it with flour, wrap it all in cellophane, and store it in the fridge for the next hour.
That’s all there is to preparing the perfect pie crust. So, if that’s all there is to it, why does my kitchen always look like a flour bomb exploded in it every time I get done making a pie? And why do the cats need to play in it?
Beast of a Feast Page 2
