Dying for Chocolate

When crushed berry mixture is cool, pie can be assembled. Stand whole (or halved, if you prefer) strawberries on top of cream filling, cut side down. When entire filling is covered with whole berries, carefully spoon cooled crushed berry mixture over all. Cream filling should not be seen between whole berries. Once the crevices have been filled, do not overload the pie with the crushed berry mixture, as it will just drip over the sides. Any leftover crushed berry mixture is delectable on toast or English muffins.

Makes 8 to 10 large servings

The household separated for school and Vail. I made a nut short crust, folded whipped cream into beaten cream cheese for a mountain of filling that I then dotted with rows of fat strawberries. A final glaze of crushed, cooked fresh strawberries was the finishing touch for the Strawberry Super Pie I was taking to Tom Schulz’s. I cleaned the kitchen and headed out to meet Marla. With dismay I noticed that Arch had neglected his one chore: rolling the garbage can to the end of the driveway. Too bad household chores were resistant to his magic.

The Aspen Meadow Café is an attempt to bring continental cuisine to our little portion of the map. Originally a real estate office that had gone under during the 1985 oil slump, it was rumored that the new place had been remodeled à la Nouvelle Bistro. As I waited for Marla, my purse pleasantly stuffed with the tip from Monday’s barbecue, the window displays beckoned.

On the inside shelves, baskets filled with every sort of bread crowded the shimmering expanse of plate glass. Braided loaves, round loaves, loaves freckled with poppy and sesame seeds, baguettes, muffins, fragrant nut breads, and oversize whole-wheat loaves crowded over and under each other. Decorously placed in one corner of the window was an Elk Park Prep decal: GET INTO THE SWIM!

The chimes attached to the glass door jingled cheerfully as I pushed through the door to look for Marla. Heady smells of roasting chickens and baking cakes mingled in the air. Above the glass cases filled with carryout items, there was a blackboard with the day’s specials chalked in: Red Onion and Basil Tart, Grilled Chicken Santa Fe, Crevettes aux Champignons. Past the glass cases and around a corner there was a seating area. I strolled back. No Marla. She was not at any of the tables, where fresh arrangements of freesias and daisies adorned each white tablecloth. Lunch business was brisk: waitresses bustled about in the dining area. A waitress whispered that she would be out to help me at the counter in a moment and apologized that they were shorthanded today.

I walked unhurriedly around the corner to the counter area and turned my concentration back to the day’s specials. I had just decided on the tart when I was whacked from behind.

I did not see who hit me. One minute I was reading the blackboard. The next I was shoved into a pastry case. I felt the glass crack beneath my chest. Shards splintered over tortes and pies. I careened off the glass. My head hit the metal of the bread shelves. I groped wildly for the bread baskets, the shelves, anything to keep from landing on the tile floor. My attacker rammed me again. This time I fell on a small marble table. It clattered to the floor and broke beneath my weight.

Loaves of bread toppled down as I landed on the broken table and tile floor. My body screamed with pain. I couldn’t see; I could only hear my voice howling, even as I knew the sound was muffled by loaves of bread.

A husky voice came in close to my ear. It said, “Let Philip Miller rest in peace.”

Then I heard abrupt jingling as the door to the café was flung open in haste. My attacker had rushed out.

I began to push loaves of bread away from my face and chest. My head throbbed from the fall; my back and chest ached from the relentless shoves.

“Hey! Hey!” came Marla’s voice from far above me. “What happened here?”

Hands groped through the piles of bread to pull me up. I opened my eyes and thought I saw stars. But it was just a pantsuit covered with embroidered galaxies: Marla’s sweat suit showing the summer constellations. A waitress and a cook were standing next to her, and they all stared down at me. Their questions tumbled out: What happened? Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?

I laughed at that last one. But that made everything hurt worse. My arm was bleeding. My chest felt as if it had caved in. The rest, luckily or unluckily, would be bruises. I gasped for breath. Something in my chest would not open up.