Authors: Molly Harper
It seemed to be having some effect on him. Every few days, I would find a cheap discount-store saucepan in the kitchen sink, burned black and coated with some unidentifiable oily substance. Was he trying to retaliate?
I supposed I went too far when I made my special peanut-butter-cup brownies and left them under a glass dome on the counter. I even left a little card next to the display that read, “Enjoy!” The next day, I woke up to find that he’d shut off the gas connection to the stove, rendering it unusable. Clearly, he didn’t expect me to know how to fix that.
Amateur.
While the pranks kept my mind active and distracted from the potential disasters looming when I returned to Chicago, the sleep deprivation from the constant power-tooling was taking a physical toll. I was getting even less rest than when I was living at home. I took naps in the afternoons, just to keep alert during Sam’s active hours.
My routine was changing—again—and I was feeling it. What little progress I’d made health-wise took a distinct slide in the opposite direction. Chef was pleased to see that I was keeping the weight I’d gained from forced helpings of dumplings and milkshakes, but he
tsk
ed over the reemergence of dark circles under my eyes. I’d looked forward to jogging on some of the green-canopied country roads that surrounded the house, but I didn’t have the energy. I became snappish
and grumpy, even with Chef, earning me a ten-pound bag of potatoes to peel.
After I’d reconnected the stove’s innards, I went back to bed and tried to think calm, happy thoughts. I needed to sleep if I was going to come up with an appropriate and painful rebuttal to this abuse of my domain. Striking at my stove was a new low for Sam. How would he like it if I went into his basement and melted down all of his precious tools?
Hmmmm.
“Oh, come on, Tess, where are you going to get a smelter?” I said to myself, sighing and rubbing at the persistent ache in my middle. Perplexed, I sat up in my sad, lumpy bed and realized I was hungry. Not just a little peckish. I was seriously, feeling-my-belly-button-rub-against-my-spine starving. I hadn’t been this hungry in years, certainly not this early in the morning. I was usually just hungry enough to need a snack by the end of a dinner shift, meaning a lot of midnight carbs. I usually skipped breakfast in favor of running five miles to make up for the late-night eating.
I thought back to the last time I’d actually made breakfast for myself and couldn’t remember what I’d eaten. And now that I was hungry, what did I want? Waffles? Frittata? Crepes?
Those things were all well and good, but what I really wanted was Lucky Charms. I hadn’t had sugary cereals since culinary school, when I’d regularly
carried those mini-single-serving boxes around for snacking between classes. My pastry instructor found a box of Sugar Smacks sticking out of my purse in class one day and embarrassed me so thoroughly for my “toddler palate” that I’d lost my taste for them. But now I wanted a bowl of marshmallowy, sugar-coated goodness—badly. But what I had was fancy cheeses, eggs, and brioche.
So, instead of Lucky Charms, I had a spinach and feta omelet.
This just wouldn’t do.
—
On my safari
into the Shop ’n Save, I grabbed my Lucky Charms, and some Cap’n Crunch for good measure. I bought Oreos, Pop-Tarts, and the makings of Fluffernutter sandwiches—things I’d loved as a kid but had abandoned for the sake of refining my palate. After recovering from the shock of how
little
I’d spent at the register, I tucked the grocery bags underneath the front seat of my car and cast a longing glance down the quaint little street. It was one of those old-fashioned Main Street arrangements, skinny two-story buildings all bunched up against one another—a hardware store, an antiques store, one of those old-fashioned ice cream parlors, and a sandwich shop called the Three Little Pigs. The cars lining the parking lots were older but well maintained, and the people milling around did it pretty slowly. This was not the place for the Hollow’s young and hip to do their errands.
Did the Hollow have a young and hip crowd?
I didn’t want to go home just yet. So I walked. I window-shopped at the antiques store and browsed the selections at the ice cream parlor for later reference.
I walked past the Three Little Pigs, a snug little brick building with a ridiculously charming cartoon sign. Catching sight of a patron chowing down on a triple-decker ham sandwich through the front window, I seemed to be moving over the threshold before I could stop myself. I was just in time for a late lunch, and I was hoping that whatever I ordered incorporated cheese fries in some way. I hadn’t had cheese fries in years.
The interior was done in dark panels and black-and-white hunting photos, presumably of the owner’s family. The menu was scrawled on a chalkboard in bright colors. The smell was incredible, so many layers of scent—fresh bread, frying bacon, melting cheese. I had to catch myself to keep from drooling all over the floor. This might be even better than Lucky Charms.
With an emphasis on carnivorous delights, the Three Little Pigs seemed to be primarily a sandwich shop. If it once had a pulse, it could be grilled, fried, braised, or roasted, then slapped between two slices of bread and delivered to your table. I was trying to decide between the house specialty—pork chop on wheat, topped with grilled ham and bacon—or starting off small with a turkey club, when a dill pickle
flew over the opposite side of my booth and smacked me square in the eye.
“Sonofa—” I yelped, turning to see the adorable strawberry blond toddler who had blinded me with dill brine. “Gun,” I finished lamely.
“I’m so sorry!” a beautiful auburn-haired woman gushed, stepping around the booth and handing me a napkin to dab at my stinging, stinky eye. Her tinny country twang contrasted sharply with the fierce elegance of her face, but I doubted the sandy-haired man sitting with her minded all that much. “We’re still workin’ on hand-eye coordination and table manners. Trust me, they normally don’t waste a bite.”
“That really stings,” I marveled as she hovered.
“I know, it’s the vinegar,” she said, clucking her tongue and offering more napkins. “I’m so sorry.”
I snorted a little. “That’s OK. ‘Blinded by flying pickles’ goes nicely with the rest of my week.”
“I’m Jolene Lavelle, and this is my husband, Zeb.” She gestured to the sandy-haired man, who was currently scrubbing barbecue sauce from the boy twin’s face. “And these are our twins, Janelyn and Joe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, swiping at my eye one last time. “Tess Maitland.”
“You new in town?” Jolene drawled.
“Yeah, how can you tell?”
“The accent. You don’t have one.”
I chuckled. “I’m from Chicago. I’m just visiting the area for a while.”
“And you’re not having a very good time?” Zeb asked, his big brown doe eyes sympathetic. “You said a pickle to the eye went with the rest of your week. That can’t be a good vacation.”
“Come on over here, honey, and tell us all about it,” Jolene said, dragging me out of my booth. Geez, this girl was crazy strong for someone so slight. As she pushed me into the seat opposite Joe the pickle flinger, she yelled for someone named Maybelline to bring her a “tall blue.”
I really hoped that was some sort of home-brewed moonshine, because I could have used a drink right about then.
Imagine my surprise when a tall blue turned out to be a large blue glass bottle of homemade root beer, which Jolene swore would cheer me right up. It was tasty, with strong undertones of sassafras and ginger. The lack of carbonation was a little weird, but it settled my stomach almost instantly, and the lift in blood sugar helped my outlook considerably.
Jolene took the kids behind the counter and handed them off to two equally pretty waitresses, who bore a strong resemblance to my new friend. The ladies bobbed the babies on their hips and fed them bits of smoked sausage, which could not possibly be good for them. Then again, those kids seemed to have a lot of teeth.
Jolene snapped me out of my thoughts by sliding onto the bench seat next to me. “OK, now you have
my full attention. Let’s hear it.” I lifted my eyebrows at her commanding tone. “Oh, come on, you look like your head’s about to pop off. You’re dyin’ to talk to someone. Now, spill.”
I looked to Zeb, who smiled at his wife fondly. “It’s best to just do what she asks. She’ll get it out of you somehow.”
I sighed. “It’s just, this house I’m renting, I have an ‘unexpected’ roommate. I would feel sorry for him, but he’s kind of rude and prickly. And I can’t get rid of him because I don’t have superstrength.”
On and on, I rambled about the house, which I loved, and Lindy, whom I didn’t have any fond feelings for, about Sam and Phillip and talking arugula, until I finished with “My professional reputation is in shreds. I haven’t had sex in six months, and I’m starting to think that after a certain period of disuse, everything grows over down there. Plus, I don’t know if I have a job or health insurance to go back to, so how am I going to afford the reconstructive hooha surgery?”
“Wow,” Jolene marveled. “That was an impressive rant.” She shot a look to her husband. “That was a Jane rant.”
Zeb grinned and shrugged, as if answering some unspoken question from his wife. There was a nonverbal coziness to their communication that made my chest ache a bit. I’d never had that kind of intimacy with any of my boyfriends.
“It’s all going to be just fine, Tess. You’ll see. You just relax now, while I get us a little lunch.”
Jolene returned to the table with two trays piled high with all sorts of foods that I didn’t recognize—colorful casseroles and fried mystery items and ribs.
“There’s no way the three of us could eat all this!” I cried, rising to help her heft the trays. “Please let me know what the check total is, so I can cover my share.”
“Pay?” Zeb scoffed. “McClaines eat free at the Three Little Pigs. Otherwise, we wouldn’t get access to Aunt Lulu’s special seven-layer salad. She doesn’t give that to just anybody.”
Without responding, I poked at the mayonnaise-covered bowl skeptically. “Why don’t I see any green vegetables in that salad?”
“Surrounded by beautiful smartasses, that’s my lot in life.” Zeb sighed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
“Everything you see here was made by my family, except for the pulled pork and the ribs,” Jolene said, unloading her culinary treasures with a practiced hand. “It’s on special, provided by the Volunteer Fire Department. They’re hosting a barbecue booth at Burley Days, and they needed the practice. My uncles don’t handle barbecue very well, which is why they don’t usually serve it here. Something about the smokers and fire—they get all wound up bein’ manly men and end up overcookin’ the meat.”
“Outdoor cooking has been known to do that. So, seven-layer salad?” I said, lifting a brow and staring at
some well-disguised romaine lettuce that seemed to be topped with mayonnaise and bacon.
Jolene shook her head in a maternal fashion. “Hold on, sweetie, we have to start you out slow. We’ll work you up to seven-layer salad. You’re new to this whole Southern comfort food thing, and I don’t want you to get sick off your first try.”
I scanned the table to try to find something I recognized. “How is it that I grew up just a few hundred miles from here and I’ve never heard of these dishes?”
“We have a recipe-hoarding border patrol at the Illinois state line,” Jolene deadpanned.
“We can’t possibly eat all of this.”
“Just watch,” Zeb muttered. “Jolene will mow through this in no time flat.”
I wondered at the crack on Jolene’s eating habits, particularly from Zeb, since she didn’t have a spare ounce on her
and
she’d recently given birth to his twins. But there was no malice in expression or tone. It was fond, as if he was just waiting for the word to run and get another tray full of food. The silly, love-struck look on his face made my heart ache a little.
Jolene began systematically loading my plate with little scoops of every dish. I sampled a few familiar things—potato salad, corn casserole, three-bean salad. But when I got to the orangey-yellow substance that sort of resembled scrambled eggs with little red bits, I poked it with my fork. “I’m sorry. But what the hell is this?”
“Homemade pimento cheese,” Jolene said. I took a little bite. “Velveeta, pimentos, and mayonnaise. Oh, and bacon. It’s Aunt Vonnie’s recipe.”
I swallowed, then took a huge gulp of water to wash down the gelatinous mass of funk. “Is Aunt Vonnie here?” I asked. And when they shook their heads, I shuddered, wiping at my mouth with my napkin. “Why? Oh, my God, why would anyone do that to an innocent processed food product?”
“I believe that pimento cheese was invented as a practical joke by two mean old church ladies, but they died before they could get their laugh in,” Zeb told me. “We are left with their legacy of mean-spirited hospitality.”
“I’m going for the seven-layer salad,” I told Jolene, aiming my fork for the bowl of lettuce, peas, bacon, shredded cheese, and purple onions, covered in a dressing consisting of mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, and sugar.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she retorted as I forked a healthy sample into my mouth.
Seven-layer salad was freaking amazing. Simple, fresh, and green, with a series of flavors tumbling against my tongue like dominoes. “This should not be as good as it is,” I told her, taking another huge bite.
“It’s the great mystery of Southern cuisine,” Jolene intoned.
“And what’s that?” I asked, stabbing through a
cornflake crust to find a bubbling mixture of cheese and potatoes.
“Hash-brown casserole—hash browns, cream of mushroom soup, cheddar cheese, and a couple of other things.”
I put a scoop into my mouth. It was everything that was good about comfort food, warm and cheesy and gooey and savory. I tucked more into my mouth, moaning indecently.
“Would you two like to be alone?” Zeb asked, eyeing the casserole.
“I think so,” I said, sighing happily as I swallowed another bite.
“Easy, girl.” Jolene chortled. “Pulling the full Meg Ryan is not a good way to introduce yourself to Half-Moon Hollow society.”