Sneaky Pie's Cookbook for Mystery Lovers
Page 1
Books by Rita Mae Brown
with Sneaky Pie Brown
WISH YOU WERE HERE
REST IN PIECES
MURDER AT MONTICELLO
PAY DIRT
MURDER, SHE MEOWED
MURDER ON THE PROWL
CAT ON THE SCENT
Books by Rita Mae Brown
THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK
SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN
THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER
RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE
IN HER DAY
SIX OF ONE
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
SUDDEN DEATH
HIGH HEARTS
STARTING FROM SCRATCH:
A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL
BINGO
VENUS ENVY
DOLLEY:
A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR
RIDING SHOTGUN
RITA WILL:
MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CAT CUISINE is very simple: meat, fish, and fowl. We are obligate carnivores, which means we must eat meat to stay healthy. Not that one has to eat as much as my sidekick Pewter, whose butt is so big you could show a movie on it. A kitty should know his or her limits.
I’ve included my favorite recipes plus a few for humans, dogs, and even a couple for horses.
Personally, I enjoy eating with humans but I refuse to eat with dogs. All that gobbling and swallowing chunks of food whole just turns my stomach. Then you spend the rest of the day listening to the symphony played by their intestines. Cats are ever so elegant compared to dogs.
I have personally tested each cat recipe, Tucker has tested the dog recipes and my veterinarian, Christopher Middleton, has checked them out, too. I’ve noted serving sizes only on those recipes for humans. The servings for cats, dogs, and a few others will vary from animal to animal. Tell your human to consider these treats. I’m assuming your regular diet has the protein and carbohydrates you need plus a touch of fat for the winter.
You’ll find no recipes for mouse tartare, mole souffléé, or batwing soup. If I included them and your humans read this, the poor souls would faint dead away. You know how squeamish they are. Imagine telling them how to bite off a mouses’s head? Get the smelling salts!
I hope you enjoy these and I wish you bon appétit and good health.
Yours in Catitude,
Sneaky Pie
RECIPES
Mrs. Hogendobber’s Orange Cinnamon Buns
New Year’s Tuna
Sunday Salmon Dinner
Just Right Chicken
Chicken Corn Soup
Sardine Sandwich
Dog Bait
Big Dog’s Delight
Goat’s Milk for Orphaned Kittens and Puppies
Mom’s Birthday Cake
Deviled Eggs
Mother’s Fried Chicken
Rabbit Food
Nelson County Apple Crisp
Buckingham Mayonnaise
Christmas Goose
Juts’s Mortgage Mincemeat
Dog Cookies
The Dog’s Dinner
Salmon Pie
Veal Kidney
Molasses Mash
Sneaky’s Favorite Oysters
Pewter’s Favorite Crab
Horse Cookies
Human
MRS. HOGENDOBBER’S ORANGE CINNAMON BUNS
Makes 24
1 (¼—ounce) package active dry yeast
¼ cup worm water
1 cup milk, scalded
¼ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup (½ stick) unsalted butter or margarine
1 teaspoon salt
3 ½ cups all—purpose flour
1 large egg
¼ cup (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted
½ cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ cup raisins (optional)
TOPPING
⅔ cup brown sugar
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter or margarine
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
⅓ cup orange marmalade
Stir the yeast into the warm water and allow to soften (about 5 minutes).
Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, combine the milk, granulated sugar, ¼ cup butter, and salt. Set aside to cool.
Once the milk and sugar mixture has cooled, add 1 ½ cups flour and beat well. Beat in the softened yeast and egg. Gradually stir in the remaining flour to form a soft, sticky dough.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead the dough briefly to form a smooth ball. Place the kneaded dough in a greased bowl, turning the dough several times to grease the surface. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and let rise until doubled in volume, 1 ½ to 2 hours.
While the dough is rising, combine all the ingredients for the topping in a small saucepan. Heat slowly over low heat, stirring often, until the brown sugar has dissolved. Pour the warm topping mixture into two 8 × 8 × 2-inch pans and set aside.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide in half. Form half into a ball and let rest while rolling the other half into a 12 × 8-inch rectangle.
Brush the rolled dough with half the melted butter, sprinkle with ¼ cup brown sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, and ¼ cup raisins, if using. Roll lengthwise into a tube and pinch the edges together to seal. Cut the roll crosswise into twelve 1-inch slices.
Roll the other ball into a 12 × 8-inch rectangle and repeat step 7.
Place the slices, cut sides down, on top of the topping mixture in the prepared pans. Cover; let rise about 35 to 40 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350°G F.
10. Remove the cover from the pans and bake the buns about 30 minutes, or until brown on top. Cool 2 to 3 minutes, invert on plates, and remove the pans.
WHAT A CHARACTER Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber is. She’s a devout member of The Church of the Holy Light. She quotes scripture better than TV preachers. She sings in the choir. She fudges about her age but is finally brought up short by her fiftieth high school reunion. She helps out at the Crozet post office, where she is good friends with the much younger Mary Minor Harristeen, the postmistress. Widowed, Mrs. H. hasn’t much money. She often brings in treats she’s baked and Harry, as well as others, encourage her to sell her baked goods.
She finally does go next door to the convenience market and the proprietor says he’ll give it a go. Well, her items are a hit, but none so much as these orange cinnamon buns. The success gives Mrs. H. what she calls “pin money.”
I adore Mrs. H. because in my very first mystery, Wish You Were Here, she doesn’t much care for cats and dogs. Mrs. Murphy, with help from Tucker, wins her over—but of course!
Cat
NEW YEAR’S TUNA
1 (6—ounce) can tuna packed in oil—unless you’re fat, then use a can of tuna packed in water
½ pint half—and—half (Again, if you’re a fat cat change that to an equal amount of 2% milk.)
Mix the ingredients together until mushy. Humans won’t like it so you’ll have it all to yourself. And although we all deserve a great big treat on New Year’s Eve, this is probably enough for you and a feline friend.
Serve precisely at twelve o’clock midnight for a prosperous New Year.
AS YOU KNOW, I live in the South, which means that each New Year’s Eve the humans are boiling black-eyed peas. The first food of the New Year they put in their mouths has to be black-eyed peas. You won’t catch me eating a black-eyed pea or any other pea for that matter.
Most New Years around here are pretty much the same. Mother intends to stay awake until midnight. She places pots and pans by the door with a giant spoon, the idea being that af
ter her mouthful of black-eyed peas, she goes outside and bangs the pots. The horses hate it, of course.
Out here in the country, people shoot rifles in the air, set off firecrackers, and make a great deal of noise. In the icy January air, with no leaves on the trees to muffle sound, those sounds carry. There’s a lot of stall banging and loud complaints from the stable on New Year’s Eve.
The New Year’s Eve I remember best occurred when Pewter and I were kittens. The Corgi wasn’t born yet. Mom waited until December 31 to buy a truck. Her first new truck. Pewter and I ran outside to admire the Ford F150 4 × 4. The metallic royal blue exterior seemed deeper against the white snow. The interior was a handsome beige. Naturally, our human was over the moon.
A mile and a half down our road lived a simpleminded neighbor two years older than God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human that old before or since. No one called him by his last name because his uncle had been governor of Virginia back in the forties and a governor couldn’t have a simpleminded nephew. As he was a short, energetic man, everyone just called him Banty.
Banty lived alone since his family had long been dead. He adored my mother because she spoke to him as though he was just like everyone else. Now, why he wanted to be just like anyone else mystifies me because the truth about Virginians is that one out of four is mentally ill. Think of your three best friends. If they’re all right, then it’s you! Mother’s mother told her that and it’s the God’s honest truth—not that anyone from Virginia will admit it.
Anyway, Banty desperately wanted to be like everyone else. He’d visit and bring us fresh-grown catnip. What money his family had put aside for him had been exhausted decades ago—no one had ever expected him to live to such an advanced age. He cut his own wood for his wood-burning stove and his cookstove. He raised chickens and sold eggs. He also had goats for milk and he’d learned to make goat’s milk soap, and a fine soap it was.
This particular New Year’s Eve the evening temperature skidded into the teens. The day had been warmer, the low forties, and the snow melted a bit, which meant on top of the snow rested a treacherous layer of ice.
Mom had parked her new truck by the front door so she could look at it constantly. Before sunset she hopped into her old truck one last time, a worn 1972 Ford, and drove it down to the dealer. He would carry her home.
Banty, with a goat on a leash, a gift for Mom, walked up to the front door and knocked, but Mom wasn’t home. We meowed. He opened the door a crack, thought better of it, and closed the door. The night was so bitter, he didn’t want to leave the nanny goat tied to a fence. And if he turned the goat out in a pasture it would follow him home. So he opened the door of the brand-new truck and the goat jumped right in. Perfect. He slipped and slid down the driveway, walking the mile and a half back to his little house in the hollow.
Mom showed up in the driveway about an hour after that. She hopped out of the passenger seat and waved goodbye to the Ford dealer.
We watched from the picture window as she admired her truck. She took a step closer. Stopped. Then moved as fast as we’d ever seen Mom move. Remarkable, really, given the ice. She opened the door to behold her present from Banty, and the fact that her truck now had no interior. The nanny goat even ate hunks out of the dash.
Mom lifted the goat out of the truck, sat down on the front steps, and cried. Finally she pulled herself together, walking the goat down to the garden shed. She couldn’t put the nanny in with the horses because the scent of a goat will drive them crazy until they become accustomed to it. If you live in the city you might not know it but goats stink to high heaven.
She emptied out the garden shed, brought hay and straw up from the barn, falling down a couple of times in the process. It was getting colder and colder—so cold that the inside of your nose hurt when you breathed. Still, she was out there for over an hour.
When she reached the house her lips were blue. We loved on her and warmed her up as much as we could. She was distraught. How do you explain a situation like this to your insurance agent?
She called him at home. He said, “Happy New Year and don’t worry.”
Well, she felt somewhat better. She made Pewter and me some New Year’s Tuna. Then she cooked herself black-eyed peas for luck. And you know, that turned out to be one of the best years we ever had, although I never have learned to tolerate the nanny goat, Princess Vandal.
Cat
SUNDAY SALMON DINNER
1 (7-ounce) can norwegian salmon
1 (1.4-ounce) package dry cat food or ¾ cup if you don’t use individual packages (use a fish flowor)
1 (8-once) package soft cream cheese
Chop the salmon into small pieces.
Mix in well with the dry cat food.
Cut the cream cheese into 4 squares and roll them into balls.
Roll the cream cheese balls in the mix until thoroughly covered. (Omit the cream cheese for a fat cat.)
Serve immediately or refrigerate in a tightly sealed container.
HUMANS ARE PACK animals. Cats are not. What makes living with humans often difficult is they refuse to admit they are pack animals—each human believes, deep down, that he or she is a rugged individualist. This illusion is particularly rampant in America.
I can prove this, should you doubt it, with a few examples:
Would any cat in her right mind wear stiletto heels?
Would any cat drink spirits until she or he puked?
Would any cat smoke cigarettes, thereby blunting her or his sense of smell? As for yellow teeth, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad if you’re a Burmese cat.
Would any cat crimp her hair until it looked as though she’d stuck her paw in a light socket?
Would any cat pay taxes even if the money showed up again in her or his community?
Would any cat give up meat?
Would any cat believe she or he is at the top of the food chain? This one just cracks me up.
Would any cat swear to be monogamous in front of a room full of other cats?
Would any cat have a facelift, tint whiskers, lengthen her or his tail?
Would any cat go down a hill on two sticks in the snow?
Would any cat go to war?
I rest my case.
Cat
JUST RIGHT CHICKEN
1 small whole chicken
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter
Put the chicken in a large pot of cold water to draw the blood out. Depending on the size of the chicken, the time will vary, but leave the chicken in a covered pot for at least an hour. If you really want to be perfect, change the cold water every 15 minutes.
When the blood is out of the chicken, again fill the pot with 1 gallon of cold water, drop in the butter, and cook over medium to medium-high heat until the meat literally falls off the bones; about hours. Set the chicken and stock aside to cool naturally.
Remove the chicken from the pot, cut into small pieces, and serve at room temperature. One small chicken will be enough for several meals.
Divide the stock in half. Refrigerate half and use later to lightly sprinkle over dry cat food—chicken flavor, of course.
Use the other half of the stock to make chicken soup for humans. Our favorite is Chicken Corn Soup (recipe follows).
Human
CHICKEN CORN SOUP
Serves 4 to 6
8 cups chicken stock
1 cup white rice
2 hard-boiled eggs. peeled and sliced
2 cups white corn (the kernels from about 3 ears)
3 tablespoons coarsely chopped fresh passley (or 2 teaspoons dried)
In a large pot over high heat, bring the chicken stock to a boil. Stir in the rice, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer for 10 minutes.
Add the hard-boiled eggs, corn, and parsley. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and continue cooking until the rice is tender, 10 to 15 minutes longer.
CATS CAN EAT the soup, too, but humans like it best. Like all country recipes, you can fiddle with
it to suit yourself, but it’s real simple. Some people might prefer noodles to rice.
I like fish best of all but Pewter and Tucker like chicken. A Rhode Island Red led to Pewter’s public disgrace.
Pewter visits the chicken coop daily, dreaming of snatching a Silky or even one of the larger Rhode Island Reds. Knowing of Pewter’s murderous intent, Mom covered the top of the chicken coop with small-gauge wire mesh. Keeps the hawks out, too. They’ll swoop down and carry off a chicken so fast it will freeze your heart, especially if, like me, you’re smaller than the hawk.
Last summer Mother hosted a picnic. Wooden trestle tables were set in parallel rows. Pretty red checkered tablecloths added to the color. Forty people came. The fun of the party was that each person had to bring a covered dish. Mom supplied the barbecue and the drinks. I don’t know why parties are more fun when everyone pitches in, but they are.
The human ages ranged from two to ninety-one years old. The children played, watched the horses, and got into the chicken coop. Before I knew it, chickens were running everywhere, squawking, flapping their wings. All those insects flying in the air and crawling around on the ground were a picnic for them.
Mom knew there was no point in putting the chickens back until after the picnic because the children would let them out again by accident. So the chickens, under the guise of eating bugs, slowly began to work their way toward the picnic. They heard Mom’s voice, which they associate with food. Personally, I think chickens are dumb as a post but Mom believes her chickens are intelligent. There’s no point arguing.