Рита Браун: Sneaky Pie's Cookbook For Mystery Lovers

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 after 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.