Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

Summoning everyone to sit, Tom and I served up sauté pans hot from the oven. Each one brimmed with creamy frittata-style eggs topped with a sunburst of chili, grated Cheddar, and sour cream. Tom had even made one without chili for Julian. When I took a bite of the spicy concoction, I nearly swooned.

Huevos Palacios

1 cup Boulder Chili (recipe follows) 4 large eggs ź cup whipping cream ˝ teaspoon salt ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter ˝ cup sour cream 1 cup grated Cheddar cheese 1 medium tomato, peeled, seed pockets removed, and chopped 2 scallions, chopped

Make the chili and allow it to cool. Lightly beat the eggs with the cream, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter over medium-low heat in a medium-sized, ovenproof nonstick frying pan. When the pan is hot, pour in the egg mixture. Cook over low heat until the edges begin to congeal. With a heatproof rubber spatula, gently push the edges of cooked egg into the center of the pan, using a minimum number of strokes. Tilt the pan so that the uncooked portion of egg flows out into the bottom of the pan, making an almost-even overall layer of egg. Preheat the broiler. Mix the sour cream with the grated Cheddar and set aside. When the eggs are about halfway done (i.e., when they are about half liquid and half solid), spoon on the chili in 3 spoke-like lines that bisect the eggs to make 6 equal sections. (The eggs will look like a pie.) Scatter the chopped tomato and scallions between the lines of chili. Carefully spoon the sour cream-cheese mixture on top of the chili spokes. Do not worry if some spreads off the chili. Place the pan 6 inches from the hot broiler and broil, watching carefully, between 5 and 7 minutes, or until the eggs are done and the cheese has melted and puffed slightly. Serve immediately.

Makes 4 large servings

Boulder Chili:

1 ˝ pounds lean ground beef 1 large onion, chopped 2 large or 3 small cloves garlic, pressed 5 tablespoons tomato paste 1 tablespoon prepared powdered chile mix (recommended brand: Fernandez) 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard 1 ˝ teaspoons salt 1 cup plum tomatoes, chopped (about a 14 1/2-ounce can) 1 tablespoon Italian herb seasoning 1 15-oz. can chili beans in chili gravy, undrained 2 to 4 tablespoons water 2 tablespoons red burgundy wine

Sauté the beef, onion, and garlic over medium heat until the beef is just browned and the onion and garlic are tender. Turn the heat down to low and add the tomato paste, chile mix, mustard, salt, tomatoes, herb seasoning, and beans. Pour 2 tablespoons water and the wine into the chili bean can and scrape down the sides, then pour into the beef mixture. If the mixture is too thick, add the extra water. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until bubbly.

“Good show,” mumbled Eliot Hyde, as he chewed. Julian, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch, too, murmured compliments as we wolfed the food down. When we finished, Sukie insisted she was cleaning the kitchen.

I pulled Tom outside the kitchen door. “Boyd phoned last night,” I murmured. “The guy who stole our computers was shot to death. Boyd wants you to be careful. He doesn’t want you going out without a police escort. And you’re supposed to give him a ring today.” Tom nodded once, instantly somber, and said he was going upstairs to make calls.

“You’re coming with me, Arch?” Michaela asked when I reentered the kitchen. I nodded that it was fine. Michaela added that the police had not allowed her to start setting up early for the luncheon, after all. So we would have to attend to the space heaters and serving tables, in addition to everything else. I told her that was no problem. Tom wouldn’t have reached the upstairs phone yet, I knew, so I quickly called the sheriffs department from the kitchen, to check on the status of the crime scene by the chapel. A deputy informed me that the crime lab van had finished Tuesday, but they’d kept a guard these past three days and nights because investigators hadn’t quite finished. He put me on hold, then came back and assured me the guard and police ribbons would be gone by eight.

Last, I put in a quick call to Party Rental to make sure the long-promised dining tables were indeed being delivered that morning. I was told they’d arrive no earlier than eight, no later than eight-fifteen. Sweetly, I asked: If the tables weren’t there by eight-thirty, would they give me a refund, so I could call another company? The guy hung up on me.

It was going to be one of those days.

-22-

As Julian and I packed up our equipment, the president of Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church Women phoned. She said the church-owned plates, glasses, and silverware would be delivered to Hyde Chapel at nine-thirty, and would somebody besides the police be there to receive them? I assured her of our catering team’s presence.

I sighed. The tables, the dinnerware, our equipment, the set-up, the food, the cops. Maybe the first thing I should do at Hyde Chapel was pray. Dear God, my mind supplied, can You please get me through this lunch? Thanks.

Outside, the ground boasted five inches of new snow, which formed a thick, sugary crust on the rocks surrounding the moat. Chickadees fluttered up and down ladders of pine branches and spilled showers of flakes. Everything was silent; the glittering blanket of snow seemed to muffle all sound. Instead of enjoying the winter splendor, though, I worried what the new white stuff would do to our lunch attendance. Eliot, now dressed in Gatsby-esque tweeds, vest, and white satin scarf, insisted on driving ahead of us in his Jaguar. When we arrived ten minutes later in Hyde Chapel’s parking lot, two sheriff’s department cars were sending plumes of exhaust into the icy air. One of the deputies talked to Eliot for a few minutes, after which Eliot, his countenance subdued, trudged over and said he’d open up the chapel.

I’d been in Hyde Chapel for christenings and weddings. But I had not seen it since the money from Henry VIII’s letter had allowed for a complete refurbishment. The stone walls had been cleaned to a sparkling silver. The multicolored slate floor tiles set off the flat marble stones of the labyrinth’s winding path, which gave the floor an eerie, pure-white patterned centerpiece. Most spectacular were the stained-glass windows. When the just-risen sun shone through them, the effect was like being inside a lighted jewelry box. The ambience was serene, until honking erupted from the parking lot.

“Hey, boss?” asked Julian as he stuck his head outside the carved wooden doors. “The tables are here!” he called. “Where do you want ‘em?”

“I’ll show them, thanks.”

While Eliot and I directed Party Rental, Julian placed champagne bottles in tubs he filled with ice, then ferried in wrapped trays of hors d’oeuvres. Things were going well until he brought out the electrified hot platters: Their cords refused to stretch to the outlets in the stone wall. Looking on, Eliot had become agitated at the prospect of the table people scratching his precious slate floors. Promising to oversee the last table setup, he pointed toward the left side of the chapel and told me there were more extension cords in the storage area.

I skirted the labyrinth and hustled to an unmarked door, which opened into an enormous storeroom that smelled of Sukie’s favorite antiseptic cleaner. Flipping on the light revealed yet more evidence of la Suisse at work: Paint, glass cleaner, wood polish, tools, brushes, a ladder, and every other imaginable odd and end was laid out on shelves - alphabetically. The fancy folding wooden chairs Eliot had bought were stacked along one wall. I found Extension Cords after Choir Cushions and before Fans, then zipped back to the newly opened tables.

After seeing Party Rental off, Eliot had set up the space heaters and serving tables. Now he was busy with his slide machine and screen. He helped me unwind the cords to the outlets, at which point Julian and I plugged everything in. Mercifully, no fuses blew. We then taped down all the cords, a trick to keep even the most inebriated guest from tripping and doing a face-plant on the floor. We were so busy we didn’t hear two women banging on the wooden doors to be let in. They were emissaries from the Episcopal Church Women, there to set the tables. When they finished and I let them out, I was the one .Who reclosed the door. I was sure of this, just as I was sure Eliot had told me we had the only key to the chapel, retrieved from the lockbox outside. So… when Buddy and Chardé Lauderdale slithered unannounced and unadmitted into the chapel at ten after nine, I was more than a bit surprised.