Killer Pancake

“You and I are going to have a talk,” I told him. “I won’t be long.” I marched out of the kitchen. I had my teeth clenched so lightly and was moving so fast, I failed to see that the next surface after the tiled kitchen floor was a slick green marble foyer. I avoided breaking my derrière by springing for the winding staircase. I landed facedown on the fourth stair up, and saw from very close range that the stairs were carpeted with a thick white wool weave, the kind you see either in ads or in houses without children. I stood up and walked more cautiously past two large silk screens showing carp floating in an ocean of gold. Again I felt my jaw clench with anger, and I averted my eyes. Carp made me think of bodies of water, and thinking of bodies of water made me think of shrimp, and thinking of shrimp in general and shrimp risotto in particular renewed a fury that was rapidly becoming volcanic. When I came to the top of the stairs, I took a deep breath and sat down facing the upstairs hallway. Relax, I told myself. Think about something else. How much you love preparing labor-intensive Italian food, for example.

When that didn’t work, I took a few deep yoga breaths. I should go see Babs, I thought. Maybe I can get her to tell me something I don’t know about Claire. Or about Claire and her husband.

But I wasn’t ready. I let air out of my lungs and stared at two portraits hanging on the opposite wall. The one on the left was of Babs, flatteringly painted with a somewhat slimmer face than the actuality. But the artist had been right on target with wide pink brushstrokes that had frozen Babs’s girlish-insecure smile permanently into place. The other painting showed a bespectacled Charles looking somber and resigned, even a trifle defeated. Here, too, however, the painter had found the single feature, that which spoke volumes about the personality he sought to capture. In the painting, Charles’s long, unruly pale hair said, I want to be wild, so that the effect he conveyed was a cross between a college professor and Harpo Marx.

From behind a door just down the hall I heard laughing and light rock music. I felt a surge of impatience. I had work to do. Oh, man, did I ever have work to do. But I had to go in and tell “the mistress” what was going on. My knuckles rapped on the cold white wood.

There was a giggled “Come on in!” and I pushed the door open with dread. Sometimes—especially in the summer, for reasons I did not understand—clients started the party early by beginning to indulge in alcoholic beverages long before their guests arrived. The results ranged from enthusiastically kissing someone else’s spouse to falling into their own swimming pools.

I walked tentatively into the spacious boudoir. Suddenly I felt like Alice, miniaturized in Wonderland, except that I had landed not in water but in the middle of a giant wedding bouquet. Roses, roses, and more roses were everywhere; they filled every available space. White roses, red roses, pink roses, and yellow roses were bunched in vases, arranged in baskets, gathered into bowls that bedecked every shelf, bureau, and windowsill. Lush scent filled the air. It was unnerving.

SHRIMP RISOTTO WITH

PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS

1 tablespoon dry sherry

1 ½ cups chopped portobello mushrooms

4 to 4 ½ cups lowfat chicken stock (see preceding recipe)

1 cup water

1 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning

¾ A pound (about 20 to 22) large “Easy-Peel” Shrimp

1 tablespoon olive oil

½ cup finely chopped onion

1 garlic clove, pressed

1 ¼ cups Arborio rice

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh thyme