Recipes for Disaster

by Josie Brown

  When it didn’t, she still kept silent about her illness. To do otherwise would have shattered the image she had of herself as the ideal wife, perfect mother and consummate homemaker. The thought that she would be the cause of our devastating distress—that she could not be there to comfort us—was more than she could bear.

  She had her wish. She fell into a coma before I knew the real cause of her “women’s problems,” as she called her fatigue and headaches.

  She was right about one thing: we broke into a million little pieces.

  Dad crawled into one bottle after another, and lost his liver for the love of Scotch.

  I tried to replace her in his heart, but I couldn’t. I found myself by learning to be a crack shot—and by losing my heart for the love of Carl.

  I don’t know what the boxes hold, but even now I’m not ready to open them. What good comes from looking backward? Things are never as we remember.

  Just knowing the ghost of my mother can be summoned from dusty corners of a few old cardboard moving boxes has me tearing up. But instead of crying, I do what my mother would have done. I force my lips into a smile and exclaim, “Of course, Jack and Jeff will be glad to help you, Aunt Phyllis. The boxes can be stored in the garage, no problem.”

  Then I shoo Trisha toward the stairs, with the request that she call Mary to dinner.

  I know how to hide my true self from others.

  I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

  Chapter 5

  Whistle-Stopping

  Back in the days when political candidates traveled by train, small towns were called whistle-stops. Politicians would use the stop to deliver a quick campaign speech, often from the back of the train, before heading to the next stop. Sometimes they’d stop in several towns in one day, giving the same speech, over and over again.

  Today, to accomplish the same goal, they hop on the private jets of their biggest investors to get to the region in question. Then, with a cavalcade of gas-guzzling limos, hummers, or SUVs, they hit many events in neighborhoods that are demographically aligned with their policies.

  In other words, places where they will be welcomed.

  To walk into a place where you can face confrontation—and perhaps change a mind or two—is not a photo op; it is a crapshoot that few politicians are willing to take.

  If you want a meal for your family that’s a real crowd pleaser, this tried-and-true dish, originating from Spain, is perfect. It has been pleasing people all over the world for generations:

  Picadillo

  (From Gayle Morell, Coconut Creek, Florida)

  Ingredients

  1 lb. of ground beef

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  Cumin, to taste

  Adobo to taste

  Mexican chili powder to taste

  1 large onion, chopped

  4 garlic cloves, minced

  2 (14-oz) cans diced tomatoes including juice (recommended: Original Rotel)

  1/2 cup pimiento-stuffed green olives, coarsely chopped

  2 cups rice

  1 cup water

  Directions

  1: Make rice, by the directions.

  2: Add olive oil to a pan and when it gets hot, add the onion and garlic.

  3: When the onion is translucent, add the ground beef.

  4: Add cumin, Adobo, and Mexican chili powder.

  5: Cook until the meat is no longer pink. Drain any excess fat.

  6: Add tomatoes and olives and allow to sit on low to medium heat until most of the liquid has been absorbed, but some remains to keep the meat moist.

  7: Serve over rice.

  The signs all over UCLA’s auditorium read: NO MORE MIDDLE EAST OCCUPATION!

  Senator Franklin Percy is standing close enough to Jack that, through my ear bud, I can hear him murmur, “Great! Love that these kids are thinkers! Now, if they’ll come to the polls, I’ll give them what they want. The US has been in too many needless wars.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Abu’s whisper also comes in loud and clear.

  I’m surprised, too. Considering the senator’s background, the last thing you’d expect is that he’s more dove than hawk. Instead of supporting interminable wars in tribal countries that take too many lives and scar our soldiers for a lifetime, he rails against them. “If we truly want to protect America, start here, at home. Do it from our shores,” he reasons.

  His demand is met with a cacophony of applause.

  Throughout the various events in Senator Franklin Percy’s California whistle-stop campaign, the candidate never loses the twinkle in his piercing blue eyes, let alone his tight smile or his vise-like grip. His wave is more like a military salute, as are his close-cropped white hair and squared shoulders beneath shoulder-padded suit jackets.

  From the senator’s body language, I can tell he has taken to Jack, whose cover puts him front and center throughout the day. Granted, Jack is incognito: his hair is grayed, he wears a mustache, and glasses with video feedback to Arnie and Emma, who are manning a van with the insignia “KKKL-TV” with credentials that identify them as cameraman and producer, respectively.

  The missus—Addie Franks Percy—is a thin, wan woman whose smile shifts between faint (if she’s pleased) and benign (if she isn’t). The senator’s staff basically ignores her. The one aide who accompanies her only nudges her into the spotlight when the need calls for it.

  My ID calls me out as the station’s roving reporter, Brenda Stark. I’ve been equipped with a red wig, blue contact lenses, and the typical bland jacket-over-sheath ensemble that is considered just fashionable enough for couch potatoes to find me sexy, but not so hot haute couture that I stand out in the press corps, let alone the bevy of fawning acolytes, the hordes of protestors shouting against his mortgage lending bills, or the curious-but-undecideds.

  Thus far, though, the mission has been uneventful. Granted, there were more protesters at the port of Long Beach than the VA hospital, but in both locations, they were kept at a distance, thanks to some sleight of hand by his savvy advance team.

  The UCLA students have turned out to be a rowdier bunch than the Percy campaign anticipated. Percy’s core message—to rebuild the US economy by providing the American people high-paying technology job opportunities in both the public and private sectors—should be just what they want to hear. Apparently no one presumed that students paying for a fairly high tuition in a sluggish economy would turn up their nose at this message.

  “Greed is not good,” is chanted in response to the senator’s contention that protecting our financial institutions, at all costs is good for "your parents’ investments in their homes, and in your education.”

  “When my parents lost their jobs, they lost their home, too,” one yells from the back of the auditorium.

  “Our tuition costs are sky high,” yells another. “We pay more, and classes are cut because professors are being laid off. It’s time our country put its money where its mouth is—make education free for all!”

  Gracious condescension is the last thing a politician will find in a room filled with students who grew up honing their critical thinking skills. And yet, Senator Percy takes it all in stride.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Percy agrees. “The Pentagon’s seven-trillion-dollar budget is out of control. It’s a black hole! Past presidents have found it impossible to audit. And yet, with the money we would save there, we’d have exactly that—the best educational system in the country. How badly do you want it? Only you can make change happen. You’ll have to go to the polls to create the change you want.”

  “Awesome,” murmurs the reporter to my right: some guy named Chuck Kessler who writes a blog called Truth Be Known. He points his iPhone in the direction of the protestor in order to capture the kid’s angst up-close and personal, and jostles Arnie to do the same.

  “What’s wrong with you guys?” He chides us. “Even in the Yahooville you hail from, this should lead the seven o’clock news.”

  Arnie
nods vigorously, then swings into action, pointing the camera and zooming in. I think he’s forgotten the real reason we’re here. At the very least, I hope he’s scanning the crowd for anyone who may look suspicious.

  His eyes roll over me. “Hey, Eye Candy! Make like a reporter and feed your camera man some color.”

  I’m about to tell him to make like a guy with two eyes and get the hell out of my face before he loses one of them to my fist when I notice a man, inching his way toward the stage. He’s older than the average student, approximately thirty years of age. Of course, in this day and age of impacted classes, part-time students with chokehold loans and ongoing rounds of teacher layoffs, maybe it’s taken him a decade to get his undergrad degree.

  The man is tall, with olive skin and high cheekbones on a round face. His eyes are a startling blue. He wears a loose-fitting jacket over a button-down shirt and sweater vest. He waits patiently in the line in front of the microphone for those who want to ask the candidate a question.

  Thus far, Percy has done a great job spinning his record, changing any question to something he’d prefer to answer, or staring down a heckler. Finally, it’s the man’s turn at the mike. He purses his lips and flexes his hands nervously. Yes, he’s nervous. But why?

  “Something’s not right with him,” I murmur into my mic to my mission team.

  “Tracking,” Abu answers, to indicate that he’s within reach of the man, should he turn out to be the shooter.

  Emma, who must have taken a facial recognition scan for assessment, responds “No criminal record. He’s not on a watch list, either.”

  This has me breathing easier. On the other hand, a professional assassin might be hiding in plain sight, but wouldn’t be standing in line to take a pot shot at his target. Still, you never know. “Do a cross-reference with the student and staff ID files,” I suggest.

  Finally the man reaches the microphone. Despite Percy’s genial welcome and a brisk prod to speak up, the man sighs and stares down at his feet.

  The crowd is getting uncomfortable, and I am, too.

  Slowly, he reaches under his jacket and pulls something out—

  At the same time Jack steps in front of Senator Percy, Abu comes at the man from one side, and I come at him from the other—

  But he’s not holding a gun.

  It is a black and white photo: worn and frayed, obviously taken a couple of decades ago. He holds it up for the senator to see, then holds it up for the crowd. It shows a woman. She holds an infant in her arms, but she is frowning and tearful.

  The man declares, “This is Carmen Diego de la Gregorio, a woman you raped thirty years ago, while you and the others under your command burned down my village in Panama during the United States’ inglorious invasion of my country—the so-called ‘Operation Just Cause.’” He pauses for a moment: “Senator Percy, I am the baby she holds in her arms. I am your son.”

  The room is shocked into silence, as is the senator.

  But yes, the resemblance is there—in the broad shoulders, and the square-cut jaw.

  In those startling blue eyes.

  “I am the result of my mother’s shame—and yours,” the man continues. “Her shame over her rape caused her to kill herself, not soon after this picture was taken. I was put in an orphanage, where I … I too was subjected to atrocities. On the other hand, you came home a war hero.” The man’s bright blue eyes glimmer with tears yet to be shed. “Instead, you are a war criminal. You do not deserve to be the president of the United States.”

  Chuck nudges Arnie again. “Man, there’s your money shot! Why isn’t your camera rolling?”

  Even if ours isn’t, every other news camera is capturing Percy’s shock and shame—not to mention all the cell phones in the room.

  Percy doesn’t deny the accusation. Nor does he signal the always-present but innocuous Acme security detail that has travelled with him here to Los Angeles.

  Instead, he turns to his wife.

  Tears are rolling down her cheeks, toward that enigmatic grimace. “We have a child after all,” she murmurs. “If he's willing to forgive you.”

  Percy holds out his hand to her. She hesitates, but takes it.

  Together, they walk toward his son.

  “Will he be tried under the War Crimes Act?” I ask Jack as we head home.

  The implosion of Senator Franklin Percy’s campaign has already spread like kudzu, strangling the twenty-four hour news cycle with innuendo, supposition and pundit pontification.

  “It depends on several things. First, a DNA test must prove conclusively that the man is indeed Percy’s son. And considering that the supposed rape took place over thirty years ago, does it fall under the War Crimes Act, which didn’t exist until 1996? Such crimes are defined by the International Criminal Court, but our country doesn’t accept its jurisdiction over our Armed Services.”

  “But Percy is retired military,” I point out.

  “Which throws another wrench in how it will be prosecuted, if at all,” he reasons. “Another question to be answered is whether the Geneva Conventions put a statute of limitations on rape. And because the man’s mother died at her own hand, Percy can’t be tried for her murder, but certainly any emotional turmoil she had over the rape and pregnancy can be laid at his feet.”

  I check my iPhone for any news updates. “CNN just confirmed that Percy has agreed to a DNA test.”

  “I thought he might. Interestingly enough, he’s not as upset as one might suspect over this.”

  “I thought it odd, too, until I heard Addie call the man ‘our child.’ She wanted him to come home with them.”

  “That won’t mitigate Percy’s actions.” Jack pulls into our driveway and turns off the car. “Of all Percy’s accomplishments, the one that eluded him was fatherhood. I know firsthand why both he and Addie are willing to accept the truth, no matter the consequences.” He takes his right hand off the wheel in order to place it over mine. “The role I play in your children’s lives filled a big hole in my life. I’ll always appreciate your decision to share them with me.”

  “You will always be their father, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Donna. I know you mean that from the bottom of your heart. But won’t a time come when we have to tell them the truth?”

  “No.” I turn away from him. “Carl is gone. We’ve made sure of that.”

  He turns my face toward him. “There are other ways in which the children may find out. Last night, all the time I’m sitting there with Trisha, working on her memento project, I’m thinking to myself, ‘When will she notice that I’m not in any of her pictures?’ If not Trisha, then maybe Jeff will wonder about it. And let’s not forget that Mary was eight when Carl disappeared. Her memories of him may be fuzzy, but someday something may trigger one that doesn’t reconcile with her life as she knows it.”

  “We’ve had that test already, Jack! Mary met Carl, and talked to him. She described him as ‘creepy.’”

  “Maybe ‘creepy’ was her way of describing a deep-seated memory of him.” He shrugs. “You and I both know that all it takes is a DNA test to shatter the myth we’re living. Percy is proof of that. Donna, I’m just suggesting that we consider why, how and when we’d break the news to the children.”

  “Jack, your presence in their lives, every day, is why you’re their father, not some chromosome test. So are the many little acts of love you do on their behalves.” I tighten my hand in his. “We better get inside. Jeff just texted me that he wants me to make six dozen of my killer peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to hand out tomorrow before the election.”

  He nods. “Trisha and I are finishing her project tonight.”

  I don’t want to hurt him anymore, but I have to ask. “Are you anywhere on her board?”

  That puts a smile on his face. “She saved the wrapper from the very first ice cream cone I bought her. I couldn’t believe it. When I asked her why, she said, ‘Because I’d never seen Mommy so happy than that day.’”

 
; I laugh. “What a perceptive young lady. If you want to keep that smile on my face, why don’t you kiss me now?”

  He does.

  She’s right, nothing makes me happier.

  Chapter 6

  Rubber Chicken Circuit

  The endless series of public dinners and luncheons politicians must attend to raise funds and make speeches is called “the rubber chicken circuit,” due to the fact that the main course is usually the domesticated fowl in question, and that more than likely the hotel which serves it, cooked it hours earlier, and then reheated it, giving it a rubbery texture.

  “Eating crow” is another political culinary term of note, and sometimes used in tandem with this one—especially in instances when a microphone is left on while the candidate is enjoying a candid moment with a trusted confidante. Saying something like, “Do you think they believed that bunch of hooey?” or exclaiming, “How ‘bout them ta-tas on that gal in the front row … ” will certainly have any politician wishing he’d kept his yap shut, as opposed to putting his foot in it.

  Juiciest Roast Chicken Ever

  (From Ally Rusu, Sausalito, California)

  Ingredients

  Large whole Chicken

  ½ Cup of Olive Oil

  1 Cup Vodka

  Salt

  Pepper

  Garlic Powder

  1/3 Onion

  Directions

  1: Preheat Oven to 350 degrees.

  2: Clean the chicken of all inside bags, and wash well.

  3: Slice the onion, in ringlets. Set aside.

  4: Put the chicken in a roasting pan and season generously, inside and out, with salt, pepper, and garlic powder.

  5: Brush olive oil on the inside of the bird’s cavity, then outside as well.

  6: Add the vodka and onions to the cavity.