When we were finished eating, Arch stood up from the table and hugged me. “Great dinner, Mom.”
This sudden display of affectionate enthusiasm made me wary. “Thanks …”
“All right,” Arch began, in a preamble-to-an-announcement tone. “Lettie’s dad is driving the two of us to school early tomorrow, since we’re writing up our theories on the physics project together. Her father is picking me up at seven A.M.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a very serious look. “When Lettie arrives, Mom, please do not ask her what she wants for Christmas. Okay?”
“No problem,” I replied. “If you want, I won’t even let her in. Does she have a thick winter jacket? So she can wait for you outside?”
My son considered this question. “I don’t know. But you can invite her into the kitchen.”
Tom smiled at me and winked. I said, “So, if Lettie is coming inside, what would she like for breakfast?”
“Will you stop?” Arch implored.
Now what did I do?
Monday morning dawned cold and dark. At six, I scooted across our chilly wood floor and checked the thermometer outside our bedroom window. It seemed stuck at seven degrees. With any luck, we’d make it into the low twenties by afternoon.
I moved through a slow yoga routine, showered, dressed, and went down to the dark kitchen. I fed and watered Jake and Scout, then convinced them to go outside and quickly return from the snow to their own space. Sitting at the oak table, I sipped a much-welcome cup of coffee and made a list of dishes to be prepared and packed up.
First I would make a salad, just in case Arthur wanted one. Then I’d be on my way to his place, to prepare the Sonora Chicken Strudel, plus the dish I was now dubbing Snowboarders’ Pork Tenderloin, Chesapeake Crab Cakes, and Julia Child’s Sole Florentine. Then I’d deliver the meatballs and lasagne to Rorry, pray for reconciliation, and hope for a nugget or two of information as well. I frowned at my list and wondered if I had any baby blankets, bibs, or other paraphernalia of Arch’s still around. Rorry Bullock wasn’t on the parole board; I could do her a favor without getting into trouble, couldn’t I?
Sonora Chicken Strudel
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3 cups seeded and chopped tomatoes
2 garlic cloves, pressed
8 ounces (2 small cans) chopped green chiles
1½ cups chopped onions
⅛ teaspoon cumin
2 cups cooked, shredded chicken
1¼ cups grated Cheddar cheese
1 cup lowfat or regular sour cream
1 teaspoon salt
½ pound phyllo dough (approximately), thawed
¼ pound (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
In a wide frying pan, heat the oil over medium-low heat until it shimmers. Reduce heat to low and add tomatoes, garlic, chiles, onions, and cumin. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is thick, about 30 minutes. Set aside to cool slightly.
Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a 9x13-inch glass pan. In a large bowl, combine the chicken, Cheddar, sour cream, and salt. Stir in the tomato mixture. Pour this mixture into the pan.
Working quickly with the phyllo, lay one sheet at a time over the chicken-tomato mixture and brush thinly but thoroughly with the melted butter. Continue until you are almost out of butter, then lay on a last piece of phyllo and brush it with the last of the melted butter. With a sharp knife, cut down through the layers of phyllo in (12 places to make 9 evenly spaced rectangular servings.
Bake 20 to 30 minutes, or until filling is hot and phyllo is puffed and golden brown. Serve immediately.
Makes 9 large servings
I was still trying to remember where I’d stowed Arch’s baby things while I creamed soft—not rock-hard—butter with brown sugar and mixed in apple cider vinegar, eggs—broken without mishap—and molasses, to make the snaps. Oh, yes: The blankets and clothes were in a box in the attic. I mixed flour and spices into the cookie dough, scooped balls of spicy dough onto a cookie sheet, and ran upstairs to find the box marked Baby Stuff. I raced down with it, placed it in the Range Rover, then rushed back to retrieve the first cookie sheet. The snaps had flattened and crinkled on top. The gingery aroma in the kitchen absolutely demanded another cup of coffee and a taste-test of the soft, dark cookies. Mm-mm. They were really more of a molasses cookie than a gingersnap, but older clients always had to worry about denture problems, Arthur had informed me, and nothing should be too crunchy. I ate another cookie to confirm the texture was perfect. Whether I called them molasses cookies or gingersnaps, I definitely should have them for breakfast more often.
Soon I had packed the stewed chicken along with the other ingredients for the strudel. Next to them, I placed the marinade components and miscellaneous items for the fish and crab dishes. Amazing how much you can accomplish when you’re enjoying what you’re doing.
Promptly at seven, Lettie’s father pulled up in his black Jeep. Lettie, a leggy fourteen-year-old with blond French braids, a sweet, lovely face, and perfect teeth, strode up our sidewalk. She wore a white blouse, red plaid kilt, black leather car coat, and ankle-high black boots. The picture of a teenage model—which she was.
“Hey, Mrs. Schulz!” she said brightly when I opened the front door. I had yet to discover how the old Southern version of hello had migrated westward, but never mind.
“Hey,” I replied congenially. “Come in.”
Lettie stepped across the threshold, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “It always smells so great in here!”
“Can I offer you a cookie? Some juice? It’s all ready—”
“That sounds—”
“Hey,” came Arch’s growled greeting from the top of the stairs.
Lettie sparkled. “Good morning, Arch.”
“How about a snack?” I ventured.
“We need to go, Mom,” Arch answered sternly. Today he wore baggy khaki pants, an oversized green sport shirt, and a sleek black vest. He’d combed his dark brown hair back with mousse; it stood in short spikes. If I hugged him a bit carelessly, my cheek would be speared. Not that I would be so thoughtless as to hug him this morning. Rule #32 when dealing with a teenage son: Never touch the coiffure.
I hustled back to the kitchen, tucked two tiny boxes of apple juice and four bagged cookies into Arch’s backpack, then handed him the pack in the foyer. I mumbled, “Treats inside.” Arch glared and shook his head: Stop talking, Mom. Lettie waved gracefully as she bounced down the sidewalk. Arch did not look back.
I rechecked the foodstuffs going to Arthur’s place, kissed Tom twice, and set out. After I crossed the Divide, the sky lightened. Approaching Killdeer, smoke from wood-fires hovered in the valley and turned the air pleasantly acrid. By nine I was pulling into the Elk Ridge Nature Trail parking lot. It was chock-full of brightly clad day-skiers. They were pulling out their skis and poles, calling to each other as steam issued from their mouths, and jouncing along merrily in their ski boots toward the bus stop.
As I wended the Rover through the lot to get to the turnoff to Arthur’s, I passed the glistening humps of snow that marked the base of the Elk Ridge trail. I felt a twinge of jealousy for the skiers. The mid-December day seemed made for skiing: the sun glittered off pristine slopes, the sky extended endlessly in a cloudless periwinkle dome, a light breeze carried fresh, sweet air off the peaks, and five inches of new powder topped an eighty-five-inch base. What more could you want?
Let’s see, I answered myself playfully as I pulled into Arthur’s driveway. How about a friendlier relationship with my son? But I doubted that was really possible with a fourteen-year-old boy. Well, what else would I like? How about a new van, and my business restored? And oh, yes, to find out what had happened to Doug Portman, and why someone had left me a pile of articles about two other Killdeer deaths from three years ago.