Null Pointer

Quick Bites - Memories Shared

1. Honey's Waffles
2. Dan & Garlic
3. Trixie's Beef Stroganoff
4. Frayne Spit-Cooked Rabbit
5. Di's Fudge
6. Brian's Spareribs
7. Martin & The Terrible Tamale Debacle

Honey's Waffles

Honey was wide awake, but Brian was still sleeping soundly. She was also ravenous. Guess I should put my Schoolgirl Shamuses, Inc. hat on and investigate the hotel’s breakfast options.

Unsurprisingly, the options were limited, but Honey was pleased to see batter and an iron for waffles. It was probably textbook batter, but she could improvise. She measured out a cupful of batter and then went over to where the tea was and added a little honey to her cup of batter. Then she spotted the blueberries and quickly added a spoonful to the cup.

As she returned to the iron to cook her improved batter, she chose to ignore the strange looks from those who had noticed her actions. If they wanted ordinary waffles, it was their loss. She grinned to herself at the memories.

It had all started one summer when her cabin drew breakfast duty on the chores rotation. When her cabin-mates learned she had never seen the inside of a kitchen, they’d been shocked. One of the girls had given her waffle-iron duty, disdainfully informing her that it required no actual skill.

Honey had dutifully done her part for the first several days, perfecting her appointed task. Then, on Thursday—she remembered distinctly—she’d turned from making a waffle back to the bowl of batter and bumped another girl carrying a pitcher of apple juice. Most of the juice ended up in the batter.

There had been a brief uproar—breakfast was ruined!—and the girl who had first told Honey no skill was required to make waffles had yelled at her as though she’d bumped into the other girl on purpose. Honey had let the words wash over her and tried not to cry. When the other girls went off to “attempt to salvage breakfast”, Honey had returned to her station, at first thinking only to stay out of the way. Then, she got to thinking. A restaurant might put cinnamon and apple on a waffle to dress it up, so the flavor of the apple juice in the waffles wasn’t the problem.

She stirred the batter cautiously and the consistency seemed okay—a little thin, but she could just use more batter in each waffle, right? She tested it, and decided she’d been right to use more batter, but she’d also need to cook the waffles longer. The apple juice made the waffles sweeter than she wanted, so she went hunting for the cinnamon to see if that would help. By the time she’d figured out how much batter and how long to cook the waffles, she’d also gotten the right amount of cinnamon into the batter.

She took the platters of waffles out to the tables herself, knowing the other girls wouldn’t give the apple cinnamon waffles a chance.

The waffles had been a hit, and over the rest of the summer, several girls from other cabins asked her about her secret for waffles. The attention had given her confidence, and she’d begun to experiment with other flavors and found many worked, as long as she was careful not to let it get too sweet.

The beeping of the waffle iron brought her attention back to the present. She checked the center of the waffle to be certain it was cooked through before she pulled it off the iron. She quickly made her own waffle and then took breakfast back to their room.

Brian woke up as she entered the room. He smiled appreciatively when he saw her. “Breakfast in bed? You’re too good to me, Honey.” He tried a bite. “Mm…yum. Blueberry and what?”

“Honey,” she answered.

“Sweet, like you,” Brian said, giving her a quick kiss.

Dan & Garlic

Dan reached reflexively for the garlic. Jim stopped him. “Man, it’s sauce out of the jar, not homemade. It’s already got garlic.”

“Not enough,” Dan replied.

Jim rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and garlic? Do you really like it that much? I’d like to be able to still taste the sauce.”

“Garlic keeps the vampires away,” Dan said, shaking in enough that Jim knew this would be another Dan-cooked meal that would taste solely of garlic.

“Um, Dan, are vampires code for something?”

Dan sat down heavily at the table. “You’d better keep an eye on dinner, if we’re having this conversation.”

Jim recognized the tone of Dan’s voice, one that meant they were talking about the bleak parts of their pasts. He nodded and moved to the stove. “Vampires, then,” he said when Dan remained silent.

“You know Mama died of cancer, right?” Jim nodded; everyone knew that. “It was leukemia.” It sounded familiar to Jim, as though Dan had mentioned that before. “Cancer of the blood, it sucks out all the good blood and just leaves itself.” Dan was silent for a minute, more. “How do you explain to your baby boy, even if he’s been man of the house from the cradle, how do you explain to him that your body is destroying itself, that you are literally self-destructing, and you are going to leave him all alone in a world much too big for him?”

Jim swallowed hard. He supposed you explained it the same way you explained that something went wrong inside Dad’s brain and he wasn’t coming home from the hospital. The same way you explained the effect severe depression had on a latent heart condition.

“She said—” Dan stopped, needing to swallow the lump in his own throat. “She said it was like vampires had gotten inside her, and were sucking the blood right out of her.”

“Not entirely inaccurate,” Jim reflected.

“No, not entirely. And I just asked how you do away with vampires. Mama just gave this little sad laugh and said that was her boy. Eventually, she said it was time she taught me to cook. And it was over a batch of spaghetti, just like that one,” he explained with a wave at the pot on the stove, “that I remembered an important thing about vampires.”

“Their aversion to garlic.”

Dan nodded curtly. “Exactly.” Dan waved to the pot as Jim took it off the heat. “It only needs enough garlic to drive out the vampires.”

Jim knew he wasn’t Moms, and Dan needed someone like Moms, with the right words, and the right gestures, and the right compassion, and he just didn’t have any of that. But he was the only one there, so he sat down beside Dan, met his eyes, and told the only truth he had. “It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair. But no matter how much garlic you continue to cook with and eat, it won’t bring her back.”

“I know,” Dan replied. “But as long as there is too much garlic in the spaghetti, the vampires haven’t gotten the last of her.”

Jim sat with his friend another minute in silence, knowing there was no response that wasn’t hollow to that, and then he got up and served the spaghetti, and managed to eat all of his share. Because it wouldn’t bring Dan’s Mama back, or his own, or his father, or his great uncle. But it would help him remember them, remember to be grateful for the time he had, and who he had it with, and as long as he had that, the vampires hadn’t gotten him yet, either.

Trixie's Beef Stroganoff

“Trixie, come in here, please,” Moms called from the kitchen.

“Sure thing, Moms,” Trixie replied, immediately heading for the kitchen. “What do you need help with?” She asked as she entered Moms’ domain.

“It’s time I taught you how to make Beef Stroganoff.”

“Really, Moms? Why?” Trixie asked, surprised more than protesting. If Moms was going to give her a cooking lesson, that meant Mart would have to Bobby-sit and the little hellion was getting on her last nerve today.

“Your Aunt Alicia is coming for a visit at the end of next month.”

Trixie groaned.

“Trixie, I know Aunt Alicia is not your favorite person, but you need to understand that she worries about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“You’re her only niece, for one,” Moms said drily. “She just wants to be sure you’ll be able to make it on your own.”

“Moms, I’m only twelve.”

“For now,” Moms agreed, “but you won’t always be twelve. Aunt Alicia believes that if you can cook or make clothing—better yet, both—you’ll be able to get by.”

“Moms, won’t I have a job and be able to get by because I make money?” Trixie asked, truly perplexed by the idea that her aunt would think she couldn’t survive on her own if she couldn’t cook, knit, or sew.

“If you want a job, you will have one, Trixie, but it wasn’t always that way when Aunt Alicia and I were growing up. You’ll be able to do anything you want, but we were expected to be nurses, teachers, or secretaries, if we took a job outside of the home at all. When we were first starting out, there were more women who wanted work than there were jobs in those fields where we lived. But there were several big estates where we grew up, estates like Manor House and Ten Acres used to be, and they always had room for another maid who could help in the kitchen or do the mending. Those jobs didn’t pay well, but they were generally live-in arrangements, so it was enough to survive. Aunt Alicia was fortunate to always be able to find a teaching position, but many of her friends weren’t as lucky. Those who could took positions as maids, but there were others we both knew who ended up on the streets, or in loveless marriages, for want of a roof overhead. Aunt Alicia doesn’t want you to ever have to worry about things like that, and, not having children of her own, she hasn’t realized how much the world has changed, and that you’ll have more options than we ever did. Humor her, and me, and learn to make this beef stroganoff, so you can make it for your aunt next month. After that, she won’t worry so much about your future. If you decide you’re interested in learning to cook—the way I do, the whole meal from scratch—I’d be thrilled to teach you. If you’re not interested, that’s fine; When you’re older, I’ll only demand you learn enough of a way around the kitchen that you won’t starve.”

Trixie still wasn’t sure her aunt had a sensible reason for worrying about her future, but, if learning this one thing would get Trixie out of the eternal doghouse with her aunt (and her parents, for losing her temper when said aunt insisted she should be doing things that weren’t fun and weren’t her assigned chores), it was bound to be worth it. In any case, the Bobby-sitting pass was probably worth it in its own right.

“Okay, Moms, what do I do first?”

Frayne Spit-Cooked Rabbit

“What’re we having for dinner?” Eric asked his father.

Jim nodded to the rabbit his son was proudly carrying. “That rabbit we caught.”

“Eww,” Katie complained.

Trixie grinned. “You haven’t tried your father’s spit-cooked rabbit. Even Aunt Honey and Auntie Di like it.”

“We’re cooking with spit?” Katie queried, even more disgusted.

“No, sweetie,” Jim promised. “We’re going to cook it over the fire tonight, once we get camp set up.”

“Are we there yet?” Eric asked.

Jim grinned at his wife and didn’t answer his son. It wasn’t exactly the first time they’d heard that question. It wasn’t even the first time that day. A few minutes later, they reached their campsite. While Eric had inherited some of his mother’s impatience, he was a good child, as was his sister. The Fraynes had their campsite in order, and the fire going, before long.

Jim dressed and spit the rabbit as his children crowded close. “Before there were ovens, our ancestors cooked everything over an open fire like this,” he explained to the kids. “Cooking meat on a spit helps with two challenges of cooking with open flame. The first is getting the meat hot enough without it burning or charring. The stakes Mom drove into the ground for us will hold the spit close enough to the fire for the meat to cook, but far enough out of the flames that it won’t catch.”

“You said there were two challenges,” Katie reminded her father when he paused his speech as he positioned the rabbit over the fire.

Jim nodded. “I’m glad you’re listening. The second challenge is that gravity pulls on the liquid in the meat, and dry meat isn’t as tasty.”

“But you taught us that we can defy gravity, but we can’t get rid of it,” Eric protested.

“That’s true, and so we’re going to use it tonight. The other thing cooking our rabbit on a spit lets us do is turn the meat constantly, so that gravity pulls the liquid back through the meat instead of away from it.”

Jim kept an eye on the kids as they took turns dutifully turning the rabbit so it wouldn’t dry out more than it had to.

A park ranger came up the path to their campsite shortly before it finished cooking. He eyed their camp and dinner and said casually, “You do know it’s not rabbit season, right?”

Jim’s temper sparked at the implication and Trixie was half-way to her feet, ready to go to war in defense of Jim’s honor, before he caught her hand. Calmly, Jim replied, “This rabbit was taken by snare, not shotgun, and I do know that, in this park, snare-caught rabbit is in-season summer through winter.”

“Snare-caught? I didn’t think anyone still hunted that way. My dad used to snare rabbits.”

Jim’s throat tightened. “Mine, too,” he said softly.

“Good evening to you, then,” the ranger said politely and continued on his way.

After a few minutes, Trixie suggested to the kids that they go gather some more firewood, before it got dark. As they headed off, she sat beside Jim, putting her arm around him.

“I miss him,” Jim said, leaning into her.

“I know. He taught you how to cook rabbit over a fire, didn’t he?”

Jim nodded. “To hunt, and lay snares. Most of what I know about the woods and living in them, I learned from Dad, not the Boy Scouts.”

Di's Fudge

“Fairest Diana, fabricator of delectable delicacies suitable for sovereigns, what have I done to merit such recompense?”

Di giggled. “It’s just fudge, Mart. Plain, chocolate, fudge.”

“The best plain chocolate fudge in the world,” Mart declared loyally. “You can’t even buy stuff this good.”

“That was the idea,” she admitted, blushing. Di knew Mart truly meant every word. He saved the simplest words in his vocabulary for his most heartfelt sentiments. “When we were in grade school, I was really jealous of the attention Amy got when she brought in brownies.”

“Mrs. Morrisey’s brownies are scrumptious,” Mart allowed.

“They are. I wanted to learn to bake brownies because I wanted all that attention. But back then, we couldn’t afford to buy flour and sugar and baking chocolate and who knows how many other ingredients just for a snack. I kept begging, though, and we almost always had condensed milk and butter. So, every so often, when she could save a little extra, Mummy would buy chocolate chips and then she helped me make fudge. And that was even better than brownies because I didn’t have to compete with anyone.”

“But you still make it now. From whom are you trying to garner attention?” Mart asked cautiously. Wasn’t he attentive enough to his beautiful princess?

“No one,” Di assured him. “I started making it for attention, but now it’s just for fun. I got good at it and it is yummy.”

“Divine,” Mart corrected, reaching for another piece.

“Glutton,” she teased. Mart could eat a pound of her fudge in a single sitting; she’d seen him do so. That he was only on his third piece was a show of restraint.

“Can I help it if I resemble that remark?” Mart asked when he’d swallowed.

Brian's Spareribs

Don’t get me wrong. Dad’s awesome. Best father in the universe—at least my universe—material. But even the best men have flaws. And Dad’s is the kitchen. He simply has no clue. He knows his way around a carving knife, and he’s handy with a grill, but ask him the difference between a pot and a frying pan? I’ve seen deer in the headlights of my jalopy look more composed. You really can’t blame the man. He has spent his entire adult life married to Moms. Why would he ever need to cook when he stands no chance of doing it as well as she does?

So, he probably should have overruled me when I suggested we gift Moms a night off for Mother’s Day. But he didn’t.

Plan A was steak and potatoes on the grill. Except we wanted to surprise Moms, so we didn’t tell her, and she does the grocery shopping. We had no steak. As Mother’s Day is a Sunday, and Sleepyside is a small town, we couldn’t just go buy some.

Plan B was hamburgers and salad. Remember, what I said about Dad knowing his way around a grill but having no clue in the kitchen? So we were playing to our strengths. But, as we should have known, Moms makes hamburgers fresh, minutes before they go on the grill. So no hamburgers, either.

“So what do we have?” I wondered out loud, exasperated.

We had ribs, which I thought we could grill. Dad argued that we didn’t have any barbeque. I almost rolled my eyes. Moms keeps the kitchen well-stocked (the steak notwithstanding) and in this day and age, a recipe is only a few key strokes away.

Turns out, you don’t grill spareribs, and it’s simpler to make spareribs than barbeque sauce. My inexperience aside, they turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

Martin & the Terrible Tamale Debacle

A budding gourmet, such as myself, would make a culinary specialist par-excellence. At the time, it seemed only natural that this would be so. Thank all things delicious, I had the foresight to wait until Trixie was off chasing clues for one of her harebrained mysteries. Now, of course, you know that numerous chefs are menfolk, but I couldn’t depend on the squaw to be cognizant of that, and I do remind her often about her woman’s work in the kitchen, because I know it makes her crazy, and what kind of intermediate brother would I be, if I didn’t make her crazy? Moms was out in the garden, nurturing her tomatoes that are good enough to serve to God Himself. It was safe.

And I wanted tamales. We’d had them for lunch last week at school, and they were surprisingly delightful. School lunches can be…unsatisfactory, especially for us Beldens who have had the pleasure to be raised on Moms’ cuisine.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find the ingredients, or the appropriate equipment to cook them, and I even had located a recipe in one of Moms’ cookbooks. How challenging could it possibly be? I thought.

The answer? It was a comprehensive catastrophe. Even I, thesaurian that I am, have no words to adequately convey the totality and disastrousness of what followed.

The dough didn’t form into a single substance. The meat didn’t cook through. I almost set the vegetables on fire. Moms walked in just in time.

“Mart, what are you doing?” She asked in that tone of voice she has, one usually reserved for my two younger kinfolk; Trixie, when she’s pursuing a mystery that might get us all killed, and Bobby when there’s about to be another call to Dr. Ferris for him putting something he shouldn’t somewhere he shouldn’t. Moms didn’t wait for my answer, but hurriedly turned off the heat under the vegetables as the first spark flared. She grabbed a towel as an improvised pot holder and took the skillet off the stove.

“I’m making tamales,” I said matter-of-factly. What could I do, but try to preserve the façade that I knew what I was doing?

Moms’ eyebrows shot up for half a second, and then she schooled her expression. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend a recipe as complicated as that for your first foray into cooking,” she said slowly, “but if you truly want to learn…”

The worst of it? Worse than having my endeavor turn out so awfully? Moms cleaned up my mess and walked me through the successful preparation of a fresh batch of tamales in less time than it had taken me to reach the precarious point at which she had first walked into the kitchen.

So much for my career as a culinary specialist. I’ll stick to agriculture, the consumption of gastronomic delicacies, and, of course, tamales.