Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

There was a muffled banging on the front door.

“It’s me, it’s me! Hallo! I got here! Where am I, the Himalayas? Let me in, I gotta use the facilities!”

Julian heaved the muffin tins into the oven, flipped on the full wattage of his smile, and strode in the direction of the banging. Leaving him to play host, I closed the box of vegetables and turned back to the dieters’ delight. There is a reason why weight-loss cookbooks have you serve everything dripping with hot mustard, streaked with Tabasco sauce, or speckled with chopped peppers or red pepper flakes. They want to convince you you’re actually eating something. Forget your appetite, see if this doesn’t make fire come out of your ears! Of course no one can consume much of these spicy lowcal concoctions. Why willingly engage in electroshock therapy for the mouth?

In any event, I had my own Macho Jalapeño Theory of Lowfat. Men heartily dislike diet food, but will eagerly engage in I-can-eat-hotter-stuff-than-you contests. No wonder diet experts recommend spicy foodstuffs when women are trying to wean their menfolk from their beloved meat and potatoes. On the other hand, nobody cared about my philosophy, and I was defying my own jalapñeo theory today by offering classic cuisine to the Mignon Cosmetics people. But the recipes they had supplied left much to be desired. So now I was having second thoughts. I groaned again.

I decided to stash two dozen individual peach cobblers and an equivalent number of chocolate-chip-dotted brownies into zippered bags underneath the corn rolls made with— -forgive me, Escoffier —nonfat sour cream. After giving me instructions about the banquet, Harriet Wells had had the guts—skinny, washboard-ab guts—to give me her lowfat muffin recipe. I had ignored it because it called for okra. The emergency supply of brownies and cobblers was an insurance policy, I reflected, in case someone came up to me today and demanded real, honest-to-goodness comfort food.

“This is Goldy!” a smiling Julian announced as he held the door open for Claire Satterfield to step haltingly into my kitchen.

For someone who had thumped so vigorously to herald her arrival, Claire, suddenly demure, sidestepped uncertainly toward the counter. Although I’d heard a great deal about her, I’d never actually met this wonder. So I was unprepared for what I saw. Claire Satterfield was surely the most gorgeous creature on the planet. Or at least, she was the loveliest female I had ever seen. About four inches taller than Julian, the girl was svelte yet shapely, in a way reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Her black hair was arranged in long, shiny ringlets that brushed her tanned shoulders. Bangs framed a striking face that featured breathtaking cheekbones. With her dewy skin, irresistible face, and glossy hair, this vision resembled a landlocked mermaid. She gave me a frightened glance and mutely opened her mouth.

HOISIN TURKEY WITH

ROASTED PINE NUTS IN

LETTUCE CUPS

½ cup pine nuts

1 pound ground turkey

1 teaspoon cornstarch

7 ounces hoisin sauce

2½ cups cooked wild rice

8 iceberg lettuce leavesPreheat the oven to 400°. On a rimmed cookie sheet, toast the pine nuts for 5 to 10 minutes or until golden brown. Set aside.In a large skillet, sauté the ground turkey over medium-high heat, stirring, until it changes color and is cooked through. Drain well and return to the pan. Stir in the cornstarch and hoisin sauce. Heat and stir over medium heat until bubbly. Add the pine nuts and the rice and stir until heated through.Spoon ⅓ cup of the hot turkey mixture onto each lettuce leaf. Serves 8 as an appetizer

GRAND MARNIER

CRANBERRY MUFFINS

1¼ cups orange juice

¼ cup Grand Marnier liqueur

¼ cup canola oil

2 cups chopped cranberries

2½ cups all-purpose flour

1 cup whole-wheat flour

½ cups sugar

2 tablespoons baking powder

1½ teaspoon salt

1½ tablespoons chopped orange zest

4 egg whitesPreheat the oven to 400°. Combine the orange juice, the Grand Marnier, and the oil; set aside while you prepare the batter. In a large bowl, combine the all-purpose flour, whole-wheat flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and orange zest. In another large bowl, beat the egg whites until frothy. Combine the juice mixture with the beaten egg whites. Add the egg mixture and the cranberries to the flour mixture, stirring just until moist. Using a ¼-cup measure, divide the batter among 24 muffin cups that have been fitted with paper liners. Bake for 25 minutes or until golden brown and puffed. Makes 24

“And this is Claire,” added Julian, blushing. Blushing, I imagined, with lust.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and meant it Claire had been the one who had recommended me to the Mignon folks as their banquet caterer. Even though the food preparation for the event had been a mixed blessing, I very much wanted Julian to be happy. My young friend had made several false starts in the social-life department, including one with a Mignon sales associate who lived down the street. But now he had settled on Claire. Actually, he had not so much settled as fallen for her, the way a Rocky Mountain skier can plummet into an oncoming avalanche and try to swim with the wave. And I had enjoyed watching this loveswept delirium. Despite Julian’s planned departure this fall for Cornell, I fantasized about becoming the catering-trainer-landlady-of-the-groom after he got his degree. To my amazement, I had become something of a marriage booster. Maybe I’d even cater their reception.

“Pleased t’meet you,” Claire said demurely. The Australian accent hung heavily over her high, babyish voice, a voice that did not go with her sophisticated image.

While Julian and Claire conversed in low tones, I whisked together the sherry and miso for the grilled vegetable dressing. Sometimes you can put unusual ingredients together, and they work. That was certainly true for me. At age thirty-two, I had remarried just over two months ago. My new relationship was as good as my first marriage—begun at age nineteen and ended at twenty-seven—had been dreadful. So I’d decided the first time around had been an aberration. Marriage was great, I’d proclaimed. Just like stopping smoking, everyone should do it. This analogy had not gone over in a big way with my new husband, Tom Schulz. In fact, while he was trying to refurbish my hopeless garden, Tom wore a custom-made T-shirt that read: BETTER THAN A CIGARETTE.

I set aside the salad and smiled. Now that Tom and I were wed and Julian and Claire were enjoying each other’s company, the idea of romantic harmony sweeping our little household was extremely appealing. Certainly more attractive than an endless buffet table of food without fat….

“I need to talk to you about parking,” Claire announced loudly and without preamble. It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.

“Parking?” I echoed. I heaved a vat of chilled asparagus soup out of the walk-in refrigerator. “I’ll be parking by the nightclub.”

“The nightclub?” Julian sounded confused. While he was good with the cooking for these affairs, and he was a whiz in the classroom, the logistic details of catered events frequently escaped him.

I said, “This luncheon buffet is at the Hot Tin Roof Club.” Julian frowned, still not understanding. I explained, “It’s unusual to have a nightclub in a mall, but that was the only bid the mall owners got for the old Xerxes’ Magic Shop. Anyway, the Hot Tin Roof Club is geared to upper-crust single types. Since it’s not nighttime,” I continued with unswerving logic as I turned to Claire, “there shouldn’t be a parking problem.”