Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

LOWFAT FETTUCCINE

ALFREDO WITH

ASPARAGUS

2 tablespoons finely chopped red onion

2½ cups diagonally sliced asparagus with tight tips (tough ends of stalks removed)

1 teaspoon (about 2 cloves) mashed and chopped baked garlic (see note)

⅓ cup nonfat dry milk

1½ cups skim milk or more as needed

1½ tablespoons Wondra instant-blending flour

2 tablespoons light process cream cheese product ( not nonfat)

⅔ cup grated parmesan cheese 9 ounces cholesterol-free fettuccine

½ cup chopped arugulaHeat a medium-size nonstick sauté pan. Remove from the heat and spray with vegetable oil spray. Add the onion and sauté over medium heat until limp, about 5 or 10 minutes. Add the asparagus and the garlic, cover the pan, and turn off the heat. (The steam from the onion will cook the asparagus.)In a large skillet, combine the dry milk and skim milk and whisk until blended. Add the flour, stir, and cook over medium-high heat until thickened. In a small bowl, add 2 tablespoons of the hot sauce to the cream cheese and stir until smooth. Return this mixture to the hot sauce. Add the Parmesan and stir until melted. Keep hot. If the mixture becomes too thick, thin it out with small amounts of skim milk. The consistency should be like cream, not gravy.Cook the fettuccine in boiling water according to the package directions until it is al dente; drain. Add the hot pasta and the garlic and the vegetables to the sauce in the skillet. Stir and cook over medium-low heat until heated through. Serve garnished with chopped arugula. Serves 4Note : To bake the garlic, preheat the oven to 350°. Place a whole head of garlic in a small baking pan. Drizzle one teaspoon of olive oil over the head of garlic; add ¼ cup water to the pan. Bake the garlic, loosely covered with aluminum foil, for 45 to 60 minutes or until the cloves are soft. The cloves will slip right out of their skins to be mashed, chopped, or served whole. The whole garlic cloves can be served as a side dish with any roast meat; the mashed garlic cloves are also delicious mixed with hot homemade mashed potatoes.

It was the bleach water, and the warning to go home, that made me realize I had to figure out what was going on with the murder of Claire Satterfield, no matter what Tom said. Instead of Frances Markasian being at my side when the chlorine came sailing through the air, it could have been Julian.

It could have been Arch.

Whoever had tried to warn me off would stop at nothing, it seemed. So I was in this thing until the bitter end.

With that decided, I grated the pungent Parmesan cheese into golden strands. Then I rummaged through my cabinets for something that would be like cream and decided on mixing nonfat dry milk into skim milk. It didn’t sound as good as whipping cream, it certainly didn’t look as good as whipping cream, and I wasn’t sure if it would taste anything like, that favorite—and marvelously fattening—ingredient of food service people. But the mixture didn’t have any fat in it, so it was definitely worth a shot. For Marla. I also retrieved a package of lowfat cream cheese from my refrigerator—one of the remnants of the Mignon banquet vegetable dip saga—and decided to blend some of that into the sauce, for richness. Or simulated richness, I thought dutifully, as I slowly poured the dry milk mixture over the flour and began to whisk vigorously.

As I stirred I tried to reflect. What could I deduce from my latest visit to the mall? I was becoming quite an expert on that place: the location of the covered catwalk around the entrance, called a “blind” by the security people who liked to lurk there, the intricacies of hidden cameras trained and focused on customer transactions, the not-so-obsolete one-way mirrors. I glanced out my window. The pale leaves of the aspen trees in my backyard shuddered in the wind. The saxophone music lilting through the open windows made me think of Dusty—poor, eager, friendly Dusty, expelled from Elk Park Prep, losing a potential boyfriend in the form of Julian, losing another friend in the form of Claire, stepped on by ambitious fellow sales associate Harriet. And living in a house built by Habitat for Humanity, which was certainly a long way from the Aqua Bella mansion she’d yearned for aloud when we were sipping coffee on the mall’s garage roof. But looking back on her exchange with Reggie Hotchkiss, it seemed to me that she’d been radiant, teasing, even flirtatious, before they’d argued. If it really was an argument, and not just more of a tease. In that relationship, Dusty was the sought-after one. Dusty was the one with information. Or so, perhaps, Reggie Hotchkiss had made it appear.

And then I thought of Harriet, perfectly coiffed, ambitious, keeping her distance from the inquisitive Reggie, even attempting to prevent Dusty from talking to him. Harriet had been working at that Mignon counter a lot longer than Dusty had, why didn’t Reggie Hotchkiss ask her questions? Perhaps he had, or he’d tried to, yet she was loyal to the company. She certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize her commissions by telling secrets to the rival Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Or would she?

And what about the Braithwaites? Charlie was obsessed by more than science, that much was clear. Had he dropped the improbably hued rose near Claire’s body? Why was Babs hanging out—literally—above the cosmetics counter, when I was hauled away by Stan White, Nick Gentileschi’s henchman? Did Babs know what was going on between Charlie and Claire, if anything?

I scooped out some of the thickened cream sauce into the dollops of cream cheese, whisked them together, then stirred the mixture back into the sauce. While this was heating I sautéed the red onion and then added the smashed cloves of baked garlic and the asparagus, covered the pan, and put it aside. The water was boiling. I dropped in the ribbons of pasta, decided to serve it with a salad of fresh raspberries and lightly steamed baby peas, and turned my attention to dessert.

If we were going to have pasta with vegetables, then we could handle a dark, rich dessert. I decided on the fudge soufflé that I’d stumbled upon in my attempt to make Nonfat Chocolate Torte. When chocolate chips and skim milk were heating in the top of a double boiler, I beat egg whites with sugar, salt, and vanilla until they were fluffed and opaque. Then I swirled the chocolate and egg white mixtures together and put the resulting dark cloud of chocolate back in the double boiler to cook while we ate dinner. Next I stirred the shredded Parmesan into the fettuccine, vegetables, and sauce, heated this until the luscious-looking concoction was just bubbling, and called the boys. I looked at my watch: six forty-five. Amazing. Not that Arch would appreciate my culinary speed and skill, however.

I put a call in to Tom and again got his voice mail. I told him we were eating the most delectable goodies for dinner that he could possibly imagine, and the later he got home, the less likely it was that he would get some. Mean, I knew, but tactics were tactics.

And delectable the meal was. The cheesy, thickened cream sauce coated every delicate strand of fettuccine and crunchy bite of asparagus. The salad was light and refreshingly tart. Arch ate hungrily. Julian consumed nearly nothing. When I asked if they wanted fudge soufflé for dessert, he merely shrugged. As I began to clear the dishes, I again suggested to Julian that he go to bed instead of trying to help dean up or work on the Braithwaites’ party. He wouldn’t be much help on the Fourth if he was too exhausted to do anything. To my surprise, he assented and trudged up to his bunk. Arch, ecstatic that he’d get a double portion of dessert, gleefully sneaked away with it to the television room.