Killer Pancake

Julian’s high-top black sneakers squeaked across the vinyl as he energetically nipped past the counters and clattered in the cooler for the cranberries we’d chopped the night before. Unlike me, Julian was in a very good mood. And it wasn’t because he—again unlike me—enjoyed the challenge of preparing a lowfat menu. It was not even remotely likely that Julian’s good humor came from working with roughage and ricotta; he was hardly conversant with nonfat milk solids. As he folded the cranberries into the delectable Grand Marnier-flavored muffin batter, I recalled how he generally lavished dollops of creamy-anything on every dish he prepared. No, it wasn’t the food. This budding vegetarian cook, now ladling spoonfuls of cranberry-studded dough into muffin cups, would have been excited today if we’d been serving steak tartare. Julian was in love.

The current object of Julian’s affection, Claire Satterfield, Mignon sales associate extraordinaire, was due at our door any minute. Julian had assured me that Claire would have no trouble finding her way from Denver to our place off Main Street in Aspen Meadow. Claire was intelligent, Julian maintained, in unnecessary defense of this woman who was three years his senior and who had opted out of a university education to work for Mignon Cosmetics. I certainly hoped her intelligence extended to geography. Claire had arrived from Australia with her work visa only nine months before, and during that time she’d lived in downtown Denver. The mile-high city was probably not that different from Sydney, as large urban environments go. But once you get off the interstate and head for Aspen Meadow, the roads become curvy and complicated. So much so, in fact, that the best-selling map book of our area is entitled You Use’ta Couldn’t Get There from Here. Did they have mountains in Australia? I couldn’t remember.

There was a muffled banging on the front door.

“It’s me, it’s me! Hallo! I got here! Where am I, the Himalayas? Let me in, I gotta use the facilities!”

Julian heaved the muffin tins into the oven, flipped on the full wattage of his smile, and strode in the direction of the banging. Leaving him to play host, I closed the box of vegetables and turned back to the dieters’ delight. There is a reason why weight-loss cookbooks have you serve everything dripping with hot mustard, streaked with Tabasco sauce, or speckled with chopped peppers or red pepper flakes. They want to convince you you’re actually eating something. Forget your appetite, see if this doesn’t make fire come out of your ears! Of course no one can consume much of these spicy lowcal concoctions. Why willingly engage in electroshock therapy for the mouth?

In any event, I had my own Macho Jalapeño Theory of Lowfat. Men heartily dislike diet food, but will eagerly engage in I-can-eat-hotter-stuff-than-you contests. No wonder diet experts recommend spicy foodstuffs when women are trying to wean their menfolk from their beloved meat and potatoes. On the other hand, nobody cared about my philosophy, and I was defying my own jalapñeo theory today by offering classic cuisine to the Mignon Cosmetics people. But the recipes they had supplied left much to be desired. So now I was having second thoughts. I groaned again.

I decided to stash two dozen individual peach cobblers and an equivalent number of chocolate-chip-dotted brownies into zippered bags underneath the corn rolls made with—-forgive me, Escoffier—nonfat sour cream. After giving me instructions about the banquet, Harriet Wells had had the guts—skinny, washboard-ab guts—to give me her lowfat muffin recipe. I had ignored it because it called for okra. The emergency supply of brownies and cobblers was an insurance policy, I reflected, in case someone came up to me today and demanded real, honest-to-goodness comfort food.

“This is Goldy!” a smiling Julian announced as he held the door open for Claire Satterfield to step haltingly into my kitchen.

For someone who had thumped so vigorously to herald her arrival, Claire, suddenly demure, sidestepped uncertainly toward the counter. Although I’d heard a great deal about her, I’d never actually met this wonder. So I was unprepared for what I saw. Claire Satterfield was surely the most gorgeous creature on the planet. Or at least, she was the loveliest female I had ever seen. About four inches taller than Julian, the girl was svelte yet shapely, in a way reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Her black hair was arranged in long, shiny ringlets that brushed her tanned shoulders. Bangs framed a striking face that featured breathtaking cheekbones. With her dewy skin, irresistible face, and glossy hair, this vision resembled a landlocked mermaid. She gave me a frightened glance and mutely opened her mouth.

HOISIN TURKEY WITH

ROASTED PINE NUTS IN