Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Brauuugh!” I hollered. Don’t be too angry with him? I was going to kill him with my bare hands. “Julian!” I roared. “How the hell could you do this to me? How could you let him do this to me?”

“Let him do what?” Julian bounded over and picked up the note. As he was reading it, the maid appeared in the kitchen.

“The mistress would like to see the two of you when you have a minute,” she announced.

Well, that was just great. I looked at all the food—the new food—that had to be prepared.

The maid cleared her throat. “The mistress—”

“Right now?” I demanded. “Does she have to see me this very minute?” I didn’t have a speech ready yet.

“Yes,” replied the maid. “First bedroom at the top of the stairs.”

My stomach made an unexpected growl, no doubt caused by hunger, apprehension at seeing “the mistress,” and worry about preparing the accursed risotto. Julian, reading my mind, told me to go ahead. He’d read the recipe and start setting us up. No wonder he’d given me that guilty look at the house, and packed all the boxes so efficiently into the van while I was taking a shower.

“You and I are going to have a talk,” I told him. “I won’t be long.” I marched out of the kitchen. I had my teeth clenched so lightly and was moving so fast, I failed to see that the next surface after the tiled kitchen floor was a slick green marble foyer. I avoided breaking my derrière by springing for the winding staircase. I landed facedown on the fourth stair up, and saw from very close range that the stairs were carpeted with a thick white wool weave, the kind you see either in ads or in houses without children. I stood up and walked more cautiously past two large silk screens showing carp floating in an ocean of gold. Again I felt my jaw clench with anger, and I averted my eyes. Carp made me think of bodies of water, and thinking of bodies of water made me think of shrimp, and thinking of shrimp in general and shrimp risotto in particular renewed a fury that was rapidly becoming volcanic. When I came to the top of the stairs, I took a deep breath and sat down facing the upstairs hallway. Relax , I told myself. Think about something else. How much you love preparing labor-intensive Italian food, for example .

When that didn’t work, I took a few deep yoga breaths. I should go see Babs , I thought. Maybe I can get her to tell me something I don’t know about Claire. Or about Claire and her husband .

But I wasn’t ready. I let air out of my lungs and stared at two portraits hanging on the opposite wall. The one on the left was of Babs, flatteringly painted with a somewhat slimmer face than the actuality. But the artist had been right on target with wide pink brushstrokes that had frozen Babs’s girlish-insecure smile permanently into place. The other painting showed a bespectacled Charles looking somber and resigned, even a trifle defeated. Here, too, however, the painter had found the single feature, that which spoke volumes about the personality he sought to capture. In the painting, Charles’s long, unruly pale hair said, I want to be wild , so that the effect he conveyed was a cross between a college professor and Harpo Marx.

From behind a door just down the hall I heard laughing and light rock music. I felt a surge of impatience. I had work to do. Oh, man, did I ever have work to do. But I had to go in and tell “the mistress” what was going on. My knuckles rapped on the cold white wood.

There was a giggled “Come on in!” and I pushed the door open with dread. Sometimes—especially in the summer, for reasons I did not understand—clients started the party early by beginning to indulge in alcoholic beverages long before their guests arrived. The results ranged from enthusiastically kissing someone else’s spouse to falling into their own swimming pools.

I walked tentatively into the spacious boudoir. Suddenly I felt like Alice, miniaturized in Wonderland, except that I had landed not in water but in the middle of a giant wedding bouquet. Roses, roses, and more roses were everywhere; they filled every available space. White roses, red roses, pink roses, and yellow roses were bunched in vases, arranged in baskets, gathered into bowls that bedecked every shelf, bureau, and windowsill. Lush scent filled the air. It was unnerving.

SHRIMP RISOTTO WITH

PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS

1 tablespoon dry sherry

1 ½ cups chopped portobello mushrooms

4 to 4 ½ cups lowfat chicken stock (see preceding recipe)

1 cup water

1 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning

¾ A pound (about 20 to 22) large “Easy-Peel” Shrimp

1 tablespoon olive oil

½ cup finely chopped onion

1 garlic clove, pressed

1 ¼ cups Arborio rice

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh thyme

4 cups broccoli floretsPour the sherry over the chopped mushrooms, stir, and set aside to marinate while you prepare the risotto.In a large saucepan, bring 1 cup of the chicken stock, the water, and the Old Bay Seasoning to a boil. Add the shrimp and poach for 3 to 5 minutes or until just pink. Remove and shell; set aside.Heat of teaspoons of the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed skillet. Add the onion and sauté over medium heat for 2 to 5 minutes or until it is limp. Add the garlic and rice. Cook and stir for 1 minute or until the rice just begins to change color. Continuing to stir over medium-low heat, add the remaining chicken stock ⅔ cup at a time, stirring until the liquid is absorbed. Continue the process until the rice is tender and the mixture is creamy (this can take up to 30 minutes).Heat the other teaspoon of olive oil in a small sauté pan and briefly sauté the marinated mushroom pieces over medium-high heat until they release their liquid. Remove from the heat.Steam the broccoli for 5 to 6 minutes or until it is bright green and tender.Stir the cooked shrimp, fresh thyme, and mushrooms into the cooked risotto and stir over medium-low heat until heated through. Place the broccoli around the edge of a large platter. Fill the center with the risotto.

Serves 4 to 6

I struggled for my bearings. In the midst of the bower, two figures were visible in front of a lighted bank of mirrors at the far end of the room. It took me a moment to realize that the seated person was Babs Braithwaite. With her hair full of rollers, her face covered with pasty-looking goo, and her large body swathed in a pink terry-cloth robe, she looked like a matronly alien in a science fiction movie. Standing next to her, an impeccably restored Harriet Wells wore a crisp white knee-length smock. Below the smock, her legs emerged long and ballerinalike. Harriet turned her sparkling smile on me and I saw a small bandage on her forehead. She sure didn’t look like someone who was sixty-two, much less someone who’d been surprised earlier by a dead body tumbling down on the glass counter in front of her.

“Well, come on in!” Babs called gaily into the mirror. “Have one of Harriet’s herb rolls! I don’t suppose you’d better have any Asti Spumante though. Well, we’ve got juice. Lowcal!” Babs cried impatiently, “Well, come on, Goldy, we’re not going to bite! Where’s that young fellow who works for you?”

“Getting the food set up. Aah, there’s something I need to talk to you—”

“Don’t you think your assistant deserves a snack too?” Babs’s speech was already slurred. When she talked, the facial paste moved up and down.

“Julian’s fine,” I assured her. “He really needs to work on getting things going. As do I, actually.” Call me old-fashioned, but I didn’t think it would be appropriate to bring Julian into a rose-filled boudoir where the partially clad hostess was halfway to being plastered, in more ways than one. If Julian was still intent on a career in food service, he’d have plenty of time to discover just how idiosyncratic clients could be. And just how idiosyncratic errant spouses could be.