Killer Pancake

I tiptoed back to the kitchen and contemplated the egg yolks I’d been accumulating in the refrigerator. They were left over from my preparation of lowfat recipes that invariably required egg whites. I’d have even more yolks to deal with when I got going on the vanilla-frosted fudge cookies. The yolks, though, what could I do with the yolks? I mentally tasted a cake or rolls enriched with yolks, then hit on the idea that the yolks could be the mainstay of a light, sweet, Sally Lunn-type bread for the fair. I hummed to myself as I made a yeast starter, chopped fresh pecans, and measured sun-dried cranberries. When a large chunk of butter was dissolving into golden globules in a pan of milk, I peeled thin curls of flavorful zest from juicy oranges, then spooned out flour from a copper canister Tom had brought from his cabin.

I had learned a great deal about Tom, I reflected as my mixer began its slow route through the warm liquids. For example, I’d discovered that he preferred saving money to spending it, except when he could lavish exorbitant sums on antiques. I didn’t understand the point of antiques—why would you pay more for something used and old? He’d proudly showed me his cherry sideboard and announced, “Hepplewhite, 1800 to 1850.” I’d almost passed out when I learned what he’d paid for that hunk of wood. He’d bought it before we were married, though, and had vowed to purchase no more “goodies,” as he called them, until we could figure out what to do with the stock-pile of possessions we were now trying to cram into one house.

WHAT-TO-DO-WITH-ALL-THE-EGG-YOLKS BREAD

2½ teaspoons (1¼-ounce envelope) active dry yeast

¼ cup sugar

¼ cup warm water

¾ cup skim milk

¼ cup butter, melted

½ cup canola oil

1 tablespoon chopped orange zest

1 teaspoon salt

4 egg yolks, lightly beaten

3½ to 4 cups all-purpose flour

¾ cup sun-dried cranberries

1 cup chopped pecansButter a 10-inch tube pan; set aside. In a large mixing bowl, combine the yeast, one teaspoon of the sugar, and warm water. Set aside for 10 minutes. Combine the milk, butter, oil, zest, remainder of the sugar, and salt, and stir into the yeast mixture. Add the egg yolks, stirring well Add the flour ½ cup at a time, stirring well after each addition, to incorporate the flour thoroughly. Knead 5 to 10 minutes, until the dough is smooth, elastic, and satiny. Knead in the cranberries and pecans. Put the dough back in the bowl, cover the bowl, and let the dough rise at room temperature until it is doubled in bulk. Using a wooden spoon, beat down the risen dough for about a minute.Place the dough into the buttered tube pan and allow it to rise at room temperature until it is doubled in bulk.Preheat the oven to 375°. Bake the bread for 45 to 50 minutes or until it is dark golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped. Place on a rack to cool or serve warm. Once cooled, the bread is also excellent sliced and toasted.Makes 1 large loaf

In terms of money, though, these days Tom took great pleasure in setting aside funds for Arch and Julian, whom he referred to as the kids, the guys, the boys. Our boys. And he didn’t want any more children, he said when I asked. Two were enough. Which was fine by me. But now our two boys had college funds, savings funds, Christmas funds. All generously supplemented by Tom, who took a childlike pleasure in giving.

I set aside new egg whites for the fudge cookies, then mixed the butter, milk, and egg yolks into the yeast starter. I stirred flour into the rich, flaxen-colored mixture until it was thick. Once I started to knead the dough, I thought back to the second phone call from Tom this morning. He did/did not want me involved in the investigation. He wanted me to think about it. He wanted me to be willing to back off once I’d brought my great intellect to bear. I had helped him before, when an attempted poisoning closed down my catering business, then again when Julian’s mother was involved in some bizarre crimes, and again when Arch’s and Julian’s school was the scene of homicides. When Tom was kidnapped this spring and our local parish had been turned upside down by crime, I had thrown myself into the investigation with every ounce of my will. Sometimes the sheriff’s department welcomed my involvement; occasionally, they did not. At least Tom asked for my opinion, even respected it, I thought with a wry smile. He had always treated me as a resource. But unknown to him, I was very sensitive about the issue of offering my thoughts.

My vulnerability came from interaction with Husband Number One. Dr. John Richard Korman not only disliked hearing any of my opinions on things medical, he resented my occasional input. In one case, expressing my ideas had backfired so appallingly that I’d never ventured another word about his work.