1 tsp. lemon juice
In a saucepan, mix the brown sugar, cornstarch, salt, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Stir in the apple cider and raisins. Bring to a rapid boil over high heat, stirring slowly and constantly. Cook until the mixture is thick and clear, about three minutes.
Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice.
Makes about 11/2 cups sauce.
Cowboy Beef Stew
I cut this recipe out of a magazine ages ago. The recipe was dog-eared and yellowed, so I rewrote it when I was making it (times fifty!) for the Silver Bullet’s Tuesday Special last week.
Total recipe time: 21/4 to 3 hours
1 package (12 to 14 oz.) dried bean soup mix with seasoning packet (not quick cooking)
21/2 pounds beef for stew, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
2 cans (14.5 oz. each) diced tomatoes with green peppers and onion
1 can (14 to 14.5 oz.) beef broth
3 cups frozen diced or hash brown potatoes
Salt and pepper to taste
Soak the beans in water overnight in the refrigerator, according to the package directions. Reserve the seasoning packet.
Coat the beef with the seasoning packet. In a large stockpot over medium heat, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil until hot. Brown 1/3 of the beef in the hot oil. Remove from the stockpot. Repeat two more times. Add additional oil as needed. Pour off the drippings, and return the beef to the stockpot.
Drain the beans and discard the water. Add the beans, tomatoes, and beef broth to the stockpot. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer 13/4 to 2 hours, until the beef is fork tender.
Stir in the potatoes. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat, and continue simmering, uncovered, for 5 to 7 minutes, or until the potatoes are tender. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Makes 6 servings.
Read on for a sneak peek at what’s cooking
in the next Comfort Food Mystery,
MACARONI AND FREEZE
Available in July 2015 from Obsidian.
I just loved wintry Sunday mornings in my Silver Bullet Diner.
It was organized chaos as families filed in after church, workers came in for breakfast after their shifts, and snowplow drivers came in to get warm, refill their coffee, and get something to eat.
Speaking of coffee, as I was refilling my mug behind the counter, I paused to listen to the chatter of my customers and the clatter of silverware on plates—more of my favorite things.
The smell of bacon frying and bread toasting permeated the air along with the strong aroma of coffee brewing. Mmm . . .
Arriving customers shrugged out of their winter regalia and helped their children out of theirs. They stuffed mittens, hats, and whatnot into the pockets of their coats and hung them on the pegs near the front door. If they were lucky enough to find a red vinyl booth right off, they shuffled over to claim it as their own by hanging everything from the brass treble hooks screwed into the frame.
Heads were hunched over my big plastic menus, and fingers were pointing to the colorful pictures as my morning-shift waitresses walked around with pots of coffee—regular and decaf—and exchanged friendly banter.
Because Sandy Harbor was such a small town, most everyone knew one another. Joking, shouting, and table hopping were common, much to the confusion of my waitresses. There were plans being made for ice fishing, shopping trips to Syracuse or Watertown, and discussions about dairy cows and buying hay if there was a shortage.
Weather was always a big topic. I tuned in to a conversation between Guy Eastman, who owned a zillion cows and grew the best butter and sugar corn during the season, and Dave Cross, who was our area plumber and fishing guide.
Dave stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “My bunions tell me that we are going to have one hell of a blizzard. This is going to be bad for so early in November.”
“My right elbow was aching this morning, so I think you’re right, but my left knee was calm, so you might be wrong,” replied Guy. “My hammer toe was throbbing and so was this blister I got from my new work boots. I wonder if that means anything.”
Dave shrugged. “My right knee was creaking this morning. That’s usually a sign of frost, but we’re beyond frost. Maybe it’s warning me about more sleet coming.”
“Creaking? Both of my knees were creaking when I walked in here—it’s my bursitis and arthritis. Oh, and I had pain shooting up and down my right leg. That tells me that we’re in for a couple feet of snow soon.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Guy! That’s not a snow predictor—that’s your sciatica.”
A big laugh started in my stomach and was making its way to the surface. I was in trouble. I had just taken a big gulp of coffee and was just about to spray it all over my pretty diner if I couldn’t swallow both the coffee and the laugh at the same time. Leaning over, I opened one of the cooler doors below the counter, and made like I was looking for something until I could tamp down the laugh and the liquid.
These were the sights, sounds, and smells of my diner this Sunday morning in mid-November and really most every morning.
But both Guy and Dave were right, according to our local weather person, Heather “Flip a Coin” Flipelli, the daughter of the station manager, who had no weather training and who was too young to have weather predictors like bunions and sciatica. Too bad she didn’t have them—maybe she’d have done better predicting the weather.
Heather was currently closed-captioned on an ancient TV hanging from the rafters at the end of the counter. I shivered when I saw that she was wearing a sleeveless tank top and a denim miniskirt. Heather noted, with a toss of her shiny black ponytail, that it was sleeting outside—a combination of rain and heavy snow and whatever else Lake Ontario was throwing at little Sandy Harbor, New York. Heather named it a “weather event” and identified it as a “lake-effect polar vortex,” but I, Trixie Matkowski, called it another “Massive Weather Mess.”
“It’s supposed to turn into a blizzard,” said Huey Mobley, new to the scene and who had missed out on the bunion conversation. Huey was delivering the Sunday edition of the Sandy Harbor Lure, our local newspaper, and stocking the paper box. “And this base of sleet will be slippery and icy. It says so right here in the Lure.”
And the Lure was sacred in this area.
“Your friendly Department of Public Works has the icy conditions under control, Huey.” Snowplow driver Karen Metonti set her fork down on her plate, which had supported a stack of blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon, and raised her coffee mug in salute. “My hopper is loaded with sand and salt, and I’m ready to go at it again just as soon as I refill my coffee.”
“It’s on me, Karen,” I said, bobbing to the surface of the counter. “And help yourself to a couple of donuts for the road on your way out.”
“Thanks, Trixie. It’s going to be a long day or two,” Karen said, zipping up her padded orange jumpsuit. She slipped on sheepskin mittens and a hat, which were so stuffed with fur that they looked like they lodged a whole sheep. Then she clomped out in snowmobile boots, stopping to have Nancy refill her coffee and slip a couple of donuts into a white bakery bag.
After spotting several fruit hand pies that my Amish friend Sarah Stolfus had made revolving in slow circles in the pastry carousel, I walked toward them as if in a trance.
“Beatrix Matkowski, don’t you dare eat one of those hand pies, particularly not the cherry one. You just started another diet this morning,” I mumbled to myself. Maybe myself would listen, since I hated to be called Beatrix.
With my coffee cup leading the way and before the hand pie could jump into my hand, I zoomed past the carousel and hustled back to my usual spot in the kitchen between the steam table and the huge black stove.
I’d been here since midnight. My shift would end at eight o’clock—in about ten minute
s. I enjoyed working the graveyard stint because customers who came in to eat then were an interesting group. We had loners who relished the camaraderie in the diner, loners who just wanted to be left alone, and customers who were full of energy and thrived in the night. Most every shift, I had customers who simply ran out of steam, maybe after their work shift, and would snooze in a booth.
But they all had wanted something to eat—something warm and comforting—and that was my specialty.
Right now, I had four different kinds of soup on the stove in huger-than-huge pots: chicken noodle, broccoli and cheese, New England clam chowder, and bean soup. That was quite a variety, but there were a lot of people who worked out in the elements who needed thawing out, and that meant soup—lots and lots of comforting soup.
It also meant chili, mac and cheese, meat loaf . . . I could go on and on, but first I want to get a batter started for chocolate chip cookies.
I looked at the clock on the wall. Juanita Holgado, my morning cook, should be arriving momentarily. She loved to bake, so she could finish them for me. I was dead on my feet and yawning.
Maybe it was the weather. But thank goodness I didn’t have any bunions or other body parts that could predict the weather. I usually took my chance on “Flip a Coin” Flipelli.
All I needed to do was look outside and see the snow falling in big, wet flakes. I could barely make out the outlines of Max and Clyde, my jacks-of-all-trades when they weren’t napping on the job, through the plummeting snow. They were trying to shovel and snow-blow the sidewalks around the Silver Bullet so my patrons wouldn’t slip, twirl, and triple flip and get a low mark from the Olympic judges.
But thank goodness for Karen, the first female snowplow driver in Sandy Harbor, who let the blade down on the village’s snowplow and made a couple of swoops in my parking lot.
Karen wasn’t supposed to use village equipment to do personal things, but sometimes we close the rule book here in Sandy Harbor.
In gratitude, I was going to make sure that Karen was never without free coffee and donuts whenever she stopped into the Silver Bullet.
Deputy Sheriff Ty Brisco, a Texas transplant who lived above the bait shop next door, would accuse me of bribing a governmental official. I’d just call it being neighborly.
Ty was getting too stuffy anyway. He needed to loosen up, but maybe he had weather-predicting body parts that were giving him a hard time.
Just then, I saw Ty’s big monster of an SUV do a half spin into the parking lot. He got it under control before he ended up in a ten-foot-high snowbank, and he safely parked in a spot cleared by Karen.
I peeked from the corner of the pass-through window, waiting for Ty to walk into the diner. It wasn’t because I loved to watch the way he walked or listen to that sexy cowboy drawl of his, or because I just enjoyed bantering with him.
No way.
I wasn’t interested because I was still cementing bricks around myself due to my divorce a couple of years ago from Philadelphia deputy sheriff Doug Burnham, slimy cheater. He had found a fertile twentysomething, who gave him twins, Brittany and Tiffany, and I became last week’s birdcage liner. I wanted to get serious over another deputy like I wanted to clean the grease vent fan in the kitchen.
But I was slowly chipping away at the bricks since I bought everything on “the point,” a hump of land that jutted out into Lake Ontario, from Aunt Stella after Uncle Porky died. She had wanted to retire, and I wanted to start fresh.
Trying to be casual, I continued looking through the pass-through window, waiting for Ty to appear.
The pass-through window didn’t have any glass in it and wasn’t used for passing anything through it, but it was my window to the happenings in the front of the diner whenever I was in the back.
And right now, I was hoping to enjoy some cop-cowboy eye candy.
The door opened and there was a collective groan when snow blew into the diner and landed onto the customers near the door.
Sheesh.
Ty should have waited until the outside door had closed before he opened the inside door, but the wind grabbed it. He mumbled, “Sorry,” took his cowboy hat off, and brushed off the plastic bonnet that protected his hat.
How cute!
The plastic bonnet reminded me of my aunt Helen’s living room with her plastic-covered sofa and chairs. I used to stick to the sofa whenever I wore shorts, and my father loved to joke about the covers as he drove us all home after our visit. But Aunt Helen was proud of how the plastic kept her furniture just like new.
“When is this stuff ever going to stop falling?” Ty snapped as he unzipped his bomber jacket, shook it out, and hung it on a peg.
“August,” someone shouted.
“I believe it,” Ty said.
“Amateur,” I mumbled. It was only beginning.
I think that this was Ty’s third winter in Sandy Harbor. It was my second as owner of the Silver Bullet and the eleven housekeeping cottages (which used to be twelve, but that’s another story). I also own a big Victorian farmhouse with three floors, a bunch of rooms, and a bunch of bathrooms because my late uncle Porky loved company and loved porcelain.
I had left Philly and headed for my favorite place on earth, Sandy Harbor, New York. The planets aligned and Aunt Stella decided that the diner, cottages, and farmhouse weren’t going to be the same without her beloved Porky, and she offered to sell everything to me with the “family discount and easy payment plan.”
We worked out the details on a Silver Bullet place mat. After the dust settled, she handed me a wad of keys and I handed her the contents of my purse, my bank accounts, and all the change I had in the ashtray of my car. Aunt Stella then took off for Boca Raton and an Alaskan cruise with her gal pals, leaving me overwhelmed with balloon payments scheduled throughout our lifetime and a diner that was open 24 HOURS A DAY, AIR-CONDITIONED, BREAKFAST SERVED ALL DAY.
I loved it here in Sandy Harbor. I loved my staff, the villagers, the closeness, and the camaraderie. If someone needed help, then help they’d get!
Nancy arrived with some orders. “Two cowboys on a raft, wheat. One dead-eye with sausage, sourdough. One pig between two sheets, sourdough. And two cows, done rare—and make them cry. And, Trixie, the two cows are taking a walk.”
Nancy loves her “Dinerese.” I’ve come to love it, too. It’s like our own special language. I got the two Western omelets frying and the wheat bread onto the Ferris wheel—that’s what I called the revolving toaster. I got the water boiling for the two dead-eyes—poached eggs—and put two orders of sourdough bread on the wheel. I cut slices of raw onions to make the cows/hamburgers “cry” and toasted their buns. When the meat was ready, I plated everything and boxed up the hamburgers for their walk.
Just then the back door opened and Juanita Holgado, my morning cook, arrived. “This weather sure is something. I need a vacation, Boss Trixie. Like, now!”
“Whenever you want a vacation, just let me know.”
Juanita shook off her coat, pulled off a brightly colored hat, and stomped the snow off her boots. Unzipping her boots, she slipped into a pair of rubber clogs.
Today, Juanita wore her chef pants with red and green peppers on them. My pants were covered in red tomatoes, my signature. The other cook, Cindy, had pizza slices on hers.
As I loaded bread onto the Ferris wheel, I thought of my alleged other cook, Bob, whom I’ve never met.
Bob served in the army with Uncle Porky and it was Uncle Porky who hired him as a cook. When I took over, Bob kept calling in sick from Atlantic City, Vegas, Connecticut, and other casinos . . . er . . . I mean specialist physicians.
Bob had only ever called in sick to Juanita, but the next time he called, I told Juanita that I wanted to talk to him. Bob was probably in Vegas right now. At least he was warm, unlike us.
Juanita was ready to start her shift, and mine was over. I grab
bed my mug of cold coffee and tossed it down the drain. I rinsed my cup off, ready to get a fresh cup in the diner.
As I was pushing open the doors, I paused. The diner patrons were completely silent, but there was relentless pounding on the roof, which sounded as if the place was going to shake apart.
“What on earth?” I said to no one in particular.
Ty answered. “It’s hail. And it’s as big as softballs.”
“Terrific. What’s next?”
Just as I said that, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. There was a collective gasp from my customers.
I hoped the Silver Bullet would hold up.
After filling my mug with coffee, I refilled everyone’s coffee at the counter. Just as I was about to do likewise for those in booths and at tables and chairs in the side room, Colleen, another waitress, took the pots (regular and decaf) away from me.
“You did your shift, Trixie. You must be tired. Go—sit down and talk to that delicious cowboy,” she said, her blond ponytail dancing as she walked.
I could barely hear her. The hail seemed to be pounding on every side of my diner.
I hoped that Clyde and Mac had taken shelter. No sense in trying to keep up with the current Massive Weather Mess.
The hail stopped, and everyone took easier breaths. The cordial din of everyone talking returned.
Both Ty and I walked over to the side window at the same time.
“Back to snow,” he said as we both looked out. “And it’s really coming down again. I’d better get going. I’m sure that some crazies are trying to drive in this.”
I sighed. Why would anyone risk their life or anyone else’s to drive in these conditions?
Ty’s radio went off. So did most everyone’s cell or radio. He listened to the static-filled device to what seemed to be Deputy Vern McCoy’s disjointed voice.
I flashed back to my days with Deputy Doug and the “let’s get together code” that he and his twentysomething-year-old chickie devised via his radio.
Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery Page 22
