Thursday, November 17, 2016

"Let's Cook!"--Entry 7

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* * *
            So now Lottie was in the ground. On a lovely spring day, the air ringing with flocks of tweeting birds and scented with the aroma of freshly mown grass on the groomed grounds of St. Ann’s cemetery, Anderson Hot watched Lottie Hot laid to rest. It was appalling to Hot. The visceral wrench upon the lowering of the casket was the final straw. Nauseated, Lot had to remain seated until most of the crowd had dispersed. The whole post-death process was unspeakably macabre and grotesque to Hot, and he had had enough. But still it wasn’t over. Upon arriving home there were throngs to meet and comfort--friends of Lottie who never had two words to say to Hot were suddenly embracing him. Crying over him and assuring him that “whatever he needed” they were ready and able to provide. Swarms of people, all of whom moshed on the appearance of the deceased’s parents, unleashing another storm of mother-in-law tears. So many tears from so many people and somehow Maggie’s wailing grew lustier and increasingly theatrical as the onslaught of guests swelled.
            Emily, arriving just in time for the funeral, looked spooked by the proceedings and couldn’t stop hugging and clinging to her dad and siblings. She was accompanied by a tall, well-dressed guy whom Hot assumed was her next heartbreak and who hung back by the kitchen while the uproar of visitors swelled. Margot collected her dad, sister and brother and installed them by the front door. This was sensible because it formed a kind of greeting line, so that the Hot family could receive each guest one at a time, accept their condolences and move things along in an orderly fashion.
            Margot had a lot of her mother in her. It made it easy for Hot, who could respond to each individual with a tragic smile and a quick nod of the head without uttering a word.
            “Dad! Dad! Mr. Bellini was talking to you,” Margot cried.
            “Oh, sorry,” said Hot, who had allowed himself to zone out as the line moved along and a rhythm established. “Yes Marco.”
            “We’re going to name something after Lottie. I’m not sure what yet but we’re thinking the Borough Hall or possibly a new scholarship in her name. This town will never forget everything Lottie Hot has done through the years--such a legacy!” said Marco Bellini as tears streaked down his cheeks. That exhortation was overheard by the masses and the room spontaneously burst into applause. 
            Hot nodded. Lottie Hot was the FDR of West Stemper. The Gandhi of West Stemper. The Abraham Lincoln of West Stemper. How was the town going to survive without its mighty pillar? How was he, Anderson Hot, going to survive without his own mighty pillar? His boredom and sadness was gradually replaced by a surging tide of helplessness. Each of his kids asked the same thing over the past two days: “Daddy, what are you going to do without mom?” Hot understood. The question was not rhetorical. What was Hot going to do?
            “Cmon, Emily, let’s get some food.” He took his daughter’s hand and weaved through the masses to the dining room where he considered the enormous spread donated by the neighbors, various guests, and assorted well-wishers.
            “Okay, Dad. But please don’t criticize…”
            “I’ll try.”  But it was hard. It was the usual. Creamy mayonnaise-y potato salad with over-cooked Yukon Gold potatoes, zero-spicing, and a weird granular mouth feel; an assortment of flavorless canned olives and pickles; gloppy lasagna with mushy noodles, Ragu spaghetti sauce, and packaged mozzarella; a shrimp ring with soggy undersized shrimp and spicy catsup for sauce; shiny dinner rolls the texture of Styrofoam; an overcooked roast beef as tough as a puppy’s chew toy; a store-bought platter of aging, curling vegetables, some with a curious white glaze indicating excessive refrigeration and meant to be dipped in a white concoction that Hot surmised as Miracle Whip masquerading as a ranch-style dressing. There were bowls with M & M’s, salty salty salty assorted nuts, hummus with a slightly rancid aftertaste paired with water crackers that had lost their snap; unspeakably soggy rice pudding, runny chocolate pudding, sliced turkey breast with a thin layer of slime, pale tomato slices, and lots of French’s mustard.  A fatty meatloaf of underdone chuck and pocked with balls of semi-cooked white bread to extend…the chuck. No hint of herbs, spices, eggs or even bread crumbs. And there was the macaroni and cheese--how do you blow macaroni and cheese? thought Hot. But there it was. Undercooked elbows, totally un-sharp store brand cheddar, too much skim milk…and that’s how it went.
            “Nothing to eat,” said Hot.
            “Dad, you promised,” said Emily. “It was very considerate of everyone to pitch in with the food. We have very generous friends. Look, at least take some meatloaf and a few carrots.”
            Hot looked stricken. The mere suggestion from Emily led to involuntary intestinal contractions, but he carefully perused the spread to find something relatively less offensive to satisfy the urgings of his daughter. The fact that he wasn’t especially hungry was beside the point.
            “Oh good, so glad to see you eating,” said a large blond woman who Hot couldn’t place. “It’s the thing when these tragedies happen--people keep wanting to feed the widow, or widower, whatever the case. When my Harvey passed, people kept trying to stuff food down my throat, but I was so messed up it was weeks before my appetite returned. But it’s great to see you with a plate in your hand.”
            “I’m not really hungry,” said Hot.
            “See what I mean? That’s smart--looking like you’re eating something just to keep people off your back. And look--you got shrimp cocktail. And a homemade meatloaf. This is an amazing spread! Can I help you with your plate?”
            “No, that’s okay, I can manage. Go ahead, you help yourself. The food shouldn’t stay out for more than an hour. It’s not safe.”
            “I know. Let me get you some wine. I think someone brought some Barefoot blush. The good stuff. I found that it helped when Harvey passed. Couldn’t keep the stuff in the house the first few weeks. In fact, I guess you could say it became something of an issue. But I met some really good people at the meetings in the church.”
            “Thank you, that’s good to know. But I have to apologize. I’m not sure that I remember who you are. I know I should, but..”
            “Oh, how silly of me. I’m so sorry, Anderson. I’m Sandy Springer, Lottie’s hair colorist. Of course you wouldn’t know me. Been doing Lottie’s hair now for more than 30 years--you know she told me her mom started going gray in her twenties, so poor Lottie inherited the gene. “I’ll miss Lottie so much--such a sweet lady.”
            “So will I,” broke in an elderly gent who Hot also couldn’t place. He wore a rumpled three- piece brown suit and brown fedora with a small duck feather sticking out. “Best mayor this town ever had--and we need her now more than ever. I should know, I was the mayor of this town before passing the torch to your wonderful wife. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Hot.”
            Hot nodded and shook the man’s weak veiny hand. “We’ll all miss Lottie, me especially,” said Hot. And to his chagrin, he saw others queuing behind former Mayor Lipinski and Hot had a feeling it wasn’t to have at the buffet, but to reiterate their fond tidings regarding his dead wife, express their “sorrow for your loss,” and the well exercised “thoughts and prayers,” but Hot had had enough. People who mean well can often be the worst people of all, and three days of well-meaning people was becoming a kind of recurring purgatory for Hot. He looked past Mayor Lipinski, down at the macaroni and cheese, back at the gathering line, down at the macaroni and cheers. He put down his plate and picked up the casserole and politely excused himself. With Emily on his heels, Hot made his way to the kitchen, turned on the oven and pulled out his large Le Creuset casserole dish and dumped the contents of the mac and cheese into it.  
            “Dad?”
            “I’m fixing this.”
            “No, you’re not cooking. The mac and cheese is fine.”
            “No, it’s not. Can you grab the ground mustard?”
            “Dad, you’re not making your macaroni and cheese.”
            “No, not exactly, we don’t have any Brussel sprouts in the house and we’re out of Worcester Sauce, but I think I can rescue this.” Hot rifled open his spice drawer and pulled out the white pepper, onion powder, and dried parsley. He melted butter in a small sauce pan and measured out some milk, shredded cheddar and a couple of tablespoons of flour, whisking with a heavy hand until he whipped up a roux. He had a low flame under the casserole, to which he added the cheese sauce in hopes of softening the noodles and integrating additional flavor elements.
            “You got to go back in the living room, Dad. People are here to see you--you can’t be rude to them. You’re just trying to hide, right? Please, it will be over soon enough.” Emily’s hands were on her hips as she tried to remain stern even as her dad expertly prepared her favorite dish. Emily loved her dad through his food. He was never much for hugs and kisses and long talks at bedtime. He connected to his youngest in the kitchen and she knew she couldn’t stop him--his safe place. Their safe place since a very young age, when the first thing he taught her was how to make the perfect egg-in-the-hole-in-the-bread. At the age of seven, he schooled her on scrupulous flame management--the key to a perfectly cooked egg while simultaneously producing a golden-brown slice of bread.  Even though her mom was not a big fan of high flame and broilers for a child in the second grade.
            “I’m not hiding,” lied Hot. “If people are going to take time out of their day to pay their respects, the least we can do is provide at least a single edible dish. I need some chili sauce. Fortunately, I roasted some peppers last week, they’re in the Ball jar in the fridge if you could grab some of those, too.”
            “Maybe some garlic?” offered Emily.
            “I don’t think for this crowd.” Hot finished finished the top of the simmering dish with Italian seasoned bread crumbs and shavings of sharp provolone. He then placed it under the broiler until the top was browned and bubbling.
            “Dad, are you ready?” asked Emily. “It looks great.”
            “Yeah, my public awaits.”

Saturday, November 12, 2016

"Let's Cook!"--Entry 6

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“Dad? Are you okay?” Hot was startled by the interruption and saw that Phillip finally found the time to be next to him. Sure, he just flew in an hour ago, but he had spent the entire time with his sister and on his phone busy as ever. Hot got a brief hug and then was whisked off to the funeral home, where he continued to be ignored by his only son.
            “Oh, sorry son. Kinda lost in my thoughts.”
            “Stands to reason…it’s terrible. I miss Mom so much. I wasn’t ready for this. And for you, she was everything for you.”
            “I know.”
            “What are you going to to do?”
            “I don’t know.”
            “What are we going to do?”
            “I don’t know.” Hot saw that Phillip had been doing a lot of sobbing. In fact, his eyes had watered up again. Phillip and Lottie were close--much closer than he and Phillip. Well, the girls, too, were much closer to Lottie than with their dad. Hot did love them. He did. But kids couldn’t help gravitating to Lottie’s warmth and her intense interest in their affairs. Lottie connected--with her kids, with the community, with even his side of the family while his parents were alive. But expression of warmth and affection were not in Hot’s wheelhouse. He looked in his son’s eyes and wished he could reach over and embrace a suffering human being--his own blood--without it coming across as contrived and awkward. At best, he could squeeze his son’s arm and nod silently.
            “It’s the most awful thing in the world. Are you okay, Dad? Margot and I--we were just not ready for this. Mom was so alive. She was going to speak at my announcement event. It meant everything to me. Can you make it, Dad?”
            “We were married for 31 years. Then suddenly it’s over. It’s hard to say how I feel. I’m numb and there is so much to do. People everywhere. You kids.” Hot’s elbows were on his knees, his face in his hands. “I’m not ready for this, either. Why don’t you go take care of your sister; I need to think.”
            Thinking took place in front of Lottie. For once to see her silent and still. She was the person he needed now to take charge. To tell him what to do. He stood before his dead wife--thinking of his own needs. It was shameful. Hot was ashamed of himself. But he had to be ashamed of himself somewhere else, because Mr. Mondesi, who was head of the funeral home, said it was time to leave.

            Hot nodded and thanked him and promised to be ready at 9 o’clock sharp for the burial tomorrow.