Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

The bottom fourth of Arch’s back was inked with a tattoo of a lacrosse stick.

“Mother of God!” I exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” Tom demanded, startled.

“I… he…” I croaked. “So that’s where you were yesterday, at a, at a, tattoo…” I couldn’t finish.

“Back off, Mom!” Arch yelled.

“I, I—”

“May I see it, Arch?” Tom interposed quietly. Eyeing me furiously, Arch faced me and lifted his shirt so Tom could inspect his back.

“Well, well,” said Tom. “A tattoo. Had any bleeding or swelling?”

“No.” Arch flipped down his shirt, tucked it in, and announced he’d forgotten one more thing upstairs: his anatomy class assignment.

I sank into a chair. “I’m losing my grip,” I moaned.

“Hate to tell you, Miss G., but that’s what you’re supposed to do with an almost-fifteen-year-old.” He stroked my cheek and kissed me again. “Just concentrate on the cooking. Julian’s helping you today?” he asked. “Along with Liz?”

I took two deep, yoga-style breaths. Liz Fury was good, but twenty-two-year-old Julian Teller, our one-time boarder and close family friend, was, in my opinion, the best young gourmet cook in Colorado. “They’re both helping,” I answered. Plus, I added mentally, Julian was close to Arch, and might have some ideas about dealing with adolescence. Maybe Julian had tattoos, too.

“You’re sure you’re going to be all right, Miss G.?”

I opened my eyes wide. I wasn’t sure of anything. “Tom, I’ll be fine. Julian’s leaving Boulder at one, meeting us at the mall at two.”

“OK, listen,” Arch interjected as he traipsed back into the kitchen and deftly nabbed a third energy drink. “Could you tell Julian I need a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting? For my birthday? You’ll probably be too busy to do anything, and Julian always makes me a terrific cake,” he added.

“Arch!”

“One Epiphone on sale, Mom. One.”

Tom winked at me and waved. The back door banged behind them. A moment later, Tom’s engine growled in the driveway. My heart ached. Was I a failure as a mother? If I bought the expensive guitar, would I be succumbing to acquisitiveness? If I didn’t buy it, would Arch get more tattoos?

Before I could answer these questions, however, there was a frenzied knocking at the front door. My peephole revealed Liz Fury.

“Where’s your husband going this time of day? Is everything OK?” Liz demanded.

I stepped out onto the porch. “He’s just taking Arch to school. Late start.”

“Oh.”

Liz, an early-forties single mom, was gifted with food and efficient at catering. With her tall, slender figure, attractive face set off by sapphire eyes and chopped silver-blond hair, she even looked the part. Or at least, she looked the way most people visualize an upscale caterer. She didn’t look chic just at that moment, though. In the cold April wind, her hair had all blown to one side. Her cheeks and nose were red, and she looked less like a hip caterer than a silver-haired doll with a punk haircut.

Tom and Arch zoomed away. Liz, clutching a bag, hastened past me toward the kitchen. Under her coat, it looked as if she was wearing dressier-than-usual clothes. Hmm. I’d seen Liz talking earnestly with Barry Dean while we did the lounge measurements. Maybe she was trying to impress the most eligible bachelor.

And maybe I was becoming too obsessed with other folks’ issues. I marched into the kitchen.

“What are we doing first?” Liz asked as her eyes swept the room. “Why were Tom and Arch in such a hurry?”

“Ah…I don’t know.” I truly did not know what Tom was doing today, but I’d finally learned a thing or two as a cop’s wife, among them: Regarding police work, keep your mouth shut. And anyway, I’d forgotten to ask what Tom’s plans were; I’d been sidetracked by Arch’s tattoo.

“I got that expensive Burgundy. You’re right, though, it will make a difference.” Liz banged bottles onto the counter, then hung up her coat and washed her hands. I complimented her on her outfit—shimmery white silk shirt, spotless black silk sweater, and wrinkled-silk gray pants—undoubtedly remnants of her high-flying days as a party planner and caterer for a high-flying corporation that had gone under. When her employer had declared bankruptcy, she’d tried to find work with other big-spending companies. But the new big guns in town had brought their own party planners. With no savings, Liz had ended up begging for food stamps. If I were in her position, I’d chat up single guys, too.

Without thinking, I asked, “Going somewhere after we finish tonight?”

“Well,” she replied with a smile as she tied her apron over her beautiful clothes, “maybe.” She lowered velvety lashes over her dark blue eyes. “Not that I’d ever tell my boss about my social life.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

A grin flitted across Liz’s heart-shaped mouth as she retrieved a wide frying pan and containers of reserved beef drippings and clarified butter. I packed up the first container of truffles while she whisked flour into the melted fat, set the heat to low, and pulled out the beef stock. As I covered layer after layer of chocolate, Liz slowly stirred the stock into the roux until it thickened. Leaving it to heat, she went back to the refrigerator and perused the contents.

“Goldy, what else do we have left to do?”

“Shrimp rolls. You can check the crab dip. I’ve got two pages of printout over there. Could you, ah, bring me the grilled shrimp?”

Liz brought out the vat of shrimp, then perused the printout. A moment later she dove back into the depths of the refrigerator.

She bumped around for a bit, then called, “What’d you do, work all night on the Stockham lunch?”

“Just trying to get ahead. We’ve got that party plus Barry’s lessee lunch the following day.”

Sweethearts’ Swedish Meatballs in Burgundy Sauce

⅔ cup cornflake crumbs

1 teaspoon cornstarch

1 tablespoon dried minced onion

⅛ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1¼ teaspoons salt

Freshly ground black pepper

⅔ cup heavy cream

1 egg, well beaten

1 pound lean ground beef

¼ cup olive oil, divided, for sautéing the meatballs

Burgundy Sauce (recipe follows)Preheat the oven to 300°F.In a large bowl, mix the cornflake crumbs, cornstarch, onion, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. In another bowl, mix together the cream and egg. Pour this mixture over the crumb mixture and stir gently. Allow this mixture to sit until the liquid is absorbed.Gently mix in the ground beef until thoroughly combined. Using a 1 tablespoon (or slightly larger) ice-cream scoop, measure out the beef mixture into 36 scoops onto 2 plates covered with wax paper. Gently roll the scoops between your fingers to form balls. In a large frying pan, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat until the oil shimmers. Carefully place the balls into the hot oil and sauté, turning once, until the outside is browned. (Do not cook the meatballs all the way through; they will be finished in the oven.) Using tongs, place the browned meatballs onto a rimmed, buttered baking sheet, or better yet, a baking sheet that has been lined with a silicone (Sil-Pat) sheet. (Do not discard the drippings in the pan.)Place the meatballs in the oven while you make the sauce. (If the sauce is to be prepared later, bake the meatballs for about 10 minutes, or until just cooked through and no longer pink. Cool them and place them in a container that can be covered.)After 10 minutes, test the doneness of the meatballs by slicing one in half. The interior should no longer be pink. Do not overbake the meatballs. Remove the meatballs from the oven as soon as they are done and set them aside until you are ready to reheat them in the reserved sauce. (Do not heat the meatballs in the sauce until you are ready to serve the dish. The meatballs are delicate and will fall apart if cooked too long in the sauce.) Burgundy Sauce: