Let's Cook!--Entry #3

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Sure, there was an unreality to burying your wife. For Hot, it was like sticking his finger in an electrical socket. Repeatedly. ZZZZZTTT.  ZZZZZTTT. On the floor, instant coffee on the floor and blood coming out of her head. ZZZZZTTT. Zombie walk through the house, around the yard, calling her name and no reply. ZZZZZTTT. Finally, after triple-dosing Nyquil and sleeping through the night only to wake up and no one in bed beside him. ZZZZZTTT. Making coffee for two when there was only one. ZZZZZTTT. Coming home from a run and black cars in front of your house and shocked and vexed faces when you finally walked through the door. ZZZZ. ZZZZ. ZZZZ.

Then there was Amazing Grace sung by the combined Middle School and High School choirs during the service. Teary testimonials from Pastor Pastorius, Lottie’s favorite minister, and eulogies from the deputy mayor, chief of police, head of the Chamber of Commerce, her sister Pat, and many people Hot hadn’t recognized. Shaking hands and accepting condolences. After an hour of that the ZZZZZTTT subsided into a muffled NNNNNNN. But then at the cemetery, the coffin was lowered and Hot was designated to toss in the first shovelful of dirt.

It was back to ZZZZZTTT. He suddenly went light-headed and fortunately Marco was in back of him and caught the fainting man.

“Thanks Marco. Sorry. This is…surreal.”

“No problem. This is tough on all of us. Your wife was a great lady,” said the large sobbing man.

But the surrealism. The lightheadedness. Those were not what Hot considered grief. A sudden death like that was not yet about grief—that would come later. No, it was about…no Lottie! Suddenly he was adrift on still water. And the people. All these people!

“Lottie was the best mayor this town ever had and she will be sorely missed.” A line repeated so often by so many that Hot began to wonder what he missed. The political stuff sure kept her busy with meetings and phone calls and social events. He assumed that it was all just an absorbing hobby for a woman who required constant stimulation and the company of many others. But based on the gratitude of so many teary-eyed associates and constituents, Hot was moved himself by what was clearly a sincere outpouring of grief and appreciation. Certainly it was a lot better than the usual “Sorry for your loss” and “My thoughts and prayers” mumbles that generally passed as comfort words at such gatherings.

            Hot’s instinct when confronted with the harsh and unusual was to cast his mind adrift in his own private place and let Lottie lead the way through the thicket of human complexity interaction. He was uncomfortable in crowds, which enervated him. Lottie drew energy from crowds, especially if speeches were to be made. But now Hot himself was the center of attention and he knew he had to resist the urge to withdraw and fade to the flank. He shook their hands and looked them in the eye and just endured the social pain and discomfort.

            There were two viewings the previous night, the first consisting mainly of townsfolk and the kids and Hot stood next to Lottie’s open casket and did a lot of nodding and agreeing with the many who came to pay tribute. The line of well-wishers extended to the street and it took three patrolmen and sundry volunteers to manage the traffic flow. Hot was able to establish a rhythm: the handshake, a hug in some instances, an expression of thanks and, in between mourners, he would sneak a quick glance at the perfectly quaffed remains of his wife. They did an excellent job of revitalizing the smooth, strong lines of her face. The long patrician nose, rosy lips and her skin a glowing alabaster made her seem several years younger than her 55 years. She had on the same bright red dress she wore last January when she was sworn in for her fourth term. (“She coulda’ been mayor for life if she wanted,” more than one well-wisher insisted.) She still exuded a certain power, even in repose, those broad shoulders and ample bosom suggested strength and command. The magic behind Lottie’s success, however, was not so much intimidation, which was always latent, but of confidence. As with the voters of West Stemper, Hot felt that he could do worse than follow the lead of his wife. She always seemed to know what to do, whether it was weighing the wisdom behind certain zoning proposals or choosing an appropriate rub for the evening’s pork chops. Many people loved Lottie because with her in charge, they didn’t have to think or worry. She’d do all the thinking for them and she was almost always right.

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Let's Cook! Entry #2

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Here's the next installment.

CHAPTER TWO

MAC AND CHEESE…WITH A KICK

1 box uncooked macaroni (1 lb.)

1/2 cup or 1 stick butter

1/2 cup flour

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp white pepper (can use black, but it will be visible with black specks)

1 1/2 tsp ground mustard

1 1/2 tsp onion powder

3 1/2 cups milk

2 roasted red bell peppers, seeded, skinned, cored

2 Tablespoons Frank’s Hot Sauce

2 1/2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese

1 ½ cups Italian seasoned breadcrumbs

           

All eyes were on Anderson Hot when he emerged through the front door, perspiration streaming down his face, eyes wide with confusion. Eyes taking in the crowd of 20 or more, mostly family and friends. A few enemies. All dressed well in somber suits and subdued tones, many with the same expression of confusion as Hot. Daughter Margot was the first to speak.

“Dad, I can’t believe you were out running. How could you forget that Mom’s funeral was this morning? Last night you said you’d be ready.”

Hot nodded. “Sorry.” Frozen to the spot—what was he thinking? He meant to do three and still there would’ve been plenty of time for a shower and shave, but then he found himself five miles later just cruising and cruising and he couldn’t stop. And the next thing he noticed…

“Look, it’s okay, just go up for a quick shower and change and we’ll be there in plenty of time. We all understand, everyone is off their game. Let me call the church and let them know we’re a little behind—no biggie Andy.” That was Marco Bellini, the deputy mayor, which, given the circumstances, would be more accurately described as the former deputy mayor. While Hot was not wild about being called “Andy,” Marco was a stand-up guy and Lottie’s best friend in the world—been with the administration for all four terms and could be counted on whatever the circumstances. A large man with jet black Italian curls plastered across his forehead and an open face with large brown eyes, Marco owned the local Italian deli that was Hot’s go-to source for certain hard-to-find imported ingredients. Marco’s distended gut and scarlet face were testament to an abiding love of Italian cuisine—copious quantities of Italian cuisine.

“Well go, Dad,” said Phillip. As usual, Hot’s eldest son was impatient with his dad and eager to get the whole mess over with so he could catch the next flight back to Pittsburgh with that strange new girl he had brought with him.

Hot headed to the stairs and, as he ascended, stopped to apologize to the assembled mourners and dignitaries, his track clothes matted to his sweat-soaked body. With a mix of shame and embarrassment, he said, “I’m very sorry for this. I’m out of sorts, as you can imagine—I depended on Lottie for a lot. I…oh, well I’ll be back down in a few minutes. If you all want to get going to the church, I’ll be along.”

Let's Cook: Entry #1.

So let's dive right in.  Here's how Let's Cook begins.

PROLOGUE

         Running, running in the woods. He was no nature boy. He was no boy at all, though he often thought and felt like he did 40 years ago at the age of 13. He liked running in the streets best because there’s so much more to look at. Houses of all shapes and sizes and stages of repair. Cars and busses, road construction, not to mention the vying between runners and cars and bikes sharing the same narrow strip of asphalt. Smells of seared pork, savory potatoes, and fried eggs mixed with the hovering stink of skunk roadkill. The woods just gives you the woods. Relative quiet, trees, bushes, tweeting birds, nervous deer, wildflowers and gurgling brooks. But also trail bikes, babbling hikers, other runners shouldering past on single track trails. What a bother…and boring.

            Soft dirt and leaves were the attraction of trails, less wear and tear on the legs. On 53-year-old knees. On surgically repaired knees.

            As a runner he was close to Nature and its atrocities. Too cold winters and too hot summers. Chilling rain and icy snow and blasting winds that buffet a body just doing its best to stay in shape and fend off the ravages of time. Nature. The force that fostered aging and the entropy that eventually led to the Universal Stasis.

            But running was the good time for Anderson Hot. The time he can be alone and enjoy the company of his favorite person. A time not to think or plan or speak or care. Just a time to enjoy motion and doing it well. One foot in front of the other in rapid succession. His running is like a low frequency hum—an amplifier on standby. Arm swing controlling his cadence, hands held loosely and never crossing the axis of his sternum. Chugging up hills, short mincing steps up a dirt bluff in Hartshorne Woods or managing the decline of Cooper Ave. with lengthening strides to exploit the vagaries of gravity—another Nature adversary.

            At his age, Anderson Hot’s personal records are behind him. He’ll never again break 7 minutes per mile in his five-mile races and the day grows closer when sub-four-hour marathons will be in his past. But speed was not the point and it’s not why he runs.

            No the running is something he can do well, do alone, do as a defiant act against Nature. Today Nature was kind; no breeze, temps in the low sixties and a cloud cover stifling the sun’s glare. And he felt good, once he sneezed the dirt out of his nostrils and shook the usual stiffness and creakiness from his joints in the first mile. He glided in his too-short shorts and 25-year-old rust-stained singlet and he felt like a specimen. An Olympian. His motor hummed at a cruising rpm, and his brain squeezed out all thoughts and concerns of his present life and mortal predicament. It was just about the next bend, the next path, the next street, the next hill, and the contentment of escaping within the physical body where the autonomic systems wield control.

            Today was his six-mile route at a moderate pace. Given recent events, his energy level was higher so he mixed in a couple of fartleks—race to that tree. To that STOP sign. To that fire hydrant. Get the pumper pumping and then slow to a jog and feel the pounding pulse in his temples. He was sweaty and alive and lost in the moment of his body. His legs were springy like when he was a lad of 13; when the idea of running six whole miles was an impossibly freakish concept. Still, Hot was not a runner’s-high type of guy. The longer he ran, the more the fuel gauge declined and euphoria was the last thing on his mind. And the fartleks, such a good idea at the time, eventually took their toll on his stamina and thus Hot was relieved as he burst from the woods and down the main drag of West Stemper and, a mile later, a right down Lawrence where he lived at number 724. There he saw two long black limousines and a curb lined with cars belonging to an array of friends and family members, a sight that snapped Anderson Hot from the world of blessed solitude.

            Yes, this was expected. And he was late for the gathering.

            What a trick—the way Nature snatched her.

CHAPTER ONE

            A warm day in April—a gift from the weather gods. Anderson Hot dug out the summer running shorts and one of his better racing singlets that was new enough that it retained some of its wicking capabilities. Per custom he hit the streets without stretching, a recommended practice he dispensed with years ago as a waste of time given his unelastic joints and muscles. This condition made other recommended practices such as yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi hazardous and a source of past muscle strains, pulls and sprains that led to protracted stretches away from his most beloved pursuit: running.

            Running was about knowing your body, and Hot knew from 25 years of running that his body could not stretch, could not deal with ice baths after long runs, could not run late in the afternoon, was at its best before first light in the morning, hated temperatures below 30 degrees and was becoming increasingly intolerant of runs above 83 degrees.

            Knowing his body saved Hot time. There was no cool down after speed work or hills because cool-downs did nothing for him—he was sore afterwards with or without cool-downs, stretching, or muscle rollers. So he did none of those things and gained a few precious minutes to his day and added an ounce of smugness to his attitude of being a successful flouter of runner orthodoxy.

            Following a long, bone-shattering freezing winter, Hot welcomed the sprouting bubbles of sweat on his fore head after the first mile, which he wiped off with a swipe with the tail of his shirt. After months of tights and sweatshirts and fleeces and long-sleeve technical shirts and hats and gloves, the chance to wear a track outfit for the first time this season lifted Hot’s mood and made this morning’s tempo run less like work.

            The downtown was empty, as it usually was at 5 a.m. when Hot generally worked out and he breezed down the center of the main drag. On either side West Stemper’s restored downtown were the usual array of drug stores, restaurants, hair salons, banks, community theatre, and so forth, but whose facades were rendered in a pleasant design replicating Ye Olde Tudor style of white stucco and implanted wood beams and faux gas lanterns dotting bricked walkways. Attractively bland and derivative, the downtown managed to attract shoppers near and far who dutifully fed the parking meters that threw off sufficient revenue to keep a reasonable lid on local property taxes.

            But that was his wife’s business. Whatever qualms Hot may have had regarding the lame aesthetics of the commercial district overhaul, it was certainly not offensive and was a point of pride to Lottie, who, heaven knows, wasn’t an easy person to please.    

            Speaking of whom, Hot remembered that she asked him last night to get her up early because she needed to polish her remarks before the Career Day crowd at West Stemper High school this morning. To that end Hot had planned the dark roast Sumatra blend in the Chemex and his special shirred fried eggs and braised asparagus side that was her favorite breakfast.  He knew it would boost her spirits—Lottie was not a morning person and she hated writing speeches. But this was about schooling the next generation. The next generation! Hot admired his wife’s discipline and sense of responsibility and supported her the best way he could—through her stomach. But this elaborate breakfast would entail an hour of prep, which meant taking the shortcut home and cutting short his planned six-miler.

                A quick right just before the ocean and down Bath Avenue and the seaside bungalows and seasonal rentals and then up a maple-lined West Park. Hot shifted into a higher gear as he mounted an assault on a slight incline, the sweat now staining his shirt and shorts in a pleasant way.  A shorter run but a hard run and he saw not a single car or another runner and for a brief period the world was his.

            Turning into his driveway he noticed an odd aroma—it was the aroma of coffee. Cheap coffee, the acrid aroma of…instant coffee. An outrage! This struck Hot as…curious. He told her the night before regarding the prospects of Sumatra dark roast. Freshly burr-ground. Dripped into a Chemex carafe.

            What was Lottie thinking?

            Hot removed his running shoes and came in through the back door, which opened into the laundry room, where he deposited his shirt and socks in a plastic bag containing the malodorous byproducts of the week’s strenuous runs. The instant coffee odor was especially strong, most likely due to the large puddle of spilled coffee on the kitchen floor. More disturbing, however, was the form of Hot’s wife lying face down in the middle of the steaming puddle, legs splayed, arms extended over her head. Narrow brooks of dark red blood streaming from her nose and ears.

            Hot withdrew, then came closer. He knelt by his wife, placed two fingers on the side of her neck. Gasped.

Then he wondered what to do.