Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (8 page)

I
found out pretty quickly that pulling marshmallow gook out of Vinnie’s fur was
going to hurt me a lot more than it hurt him.  His claws are pretty sharp.  So
I got a pair of scissors and cut off anything that felt remotely sticky.  After
I was done, Vinnie looked like a large stuffed toy that had been attacked by
moths.  But, as he purred and rubbed against me, he didn’t stick.  Progress.

I
washed my hands, pulled on a pair of Capri length chinos and a hot pink
sleeveless shirt.  I matched that with a pair of hot pink flat sandals.  My
stubbed toe and pierced foot still  complained, and I told them to mind their
own business.  I did a quick double-check at my make-up.  My face looked pink
(not scarlet), and my eyes looked less vampiric (more Dean Martin-esque).  I’d
probably fit in.  I tossed some spare Tylenol in my pocket for back up, and
went downstairs with my moth-eaten mountain lion leading the way.   Out of the
house I went, Auntie’s sunglasses back on my face, hopped into the Doo-doo and
then floored it across town.

I
weaved my way across Millersville Pike, Columbia Avenue, Marietta Pike and into
Auntie’s development.  I got to her house and let myself in through the garage
door.  “Hi, I’m here!” I shouted.   No answer.

I
walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.  The message light on
Auntie’s phone blinked.  I wondered if the message was from Ma, then wondered
what Ma was doing.  Sometimes I miss Ma being in New Jersey, especially when
I’m god-mom sitting.  But I figured I’d get a call from her at lunchtime
tomorrow about new swatches. 

“In
here, dear,” Aunt Muriel called out.

“Where?”
I asked.

“Bedroom,”
she said.

I
walked into Auntie’s bedroom and saw her standing in the middle of the room in
her underwear and knee highs wearing a plastic grocery bag over her head. 
“Everything okay, Auntie?” I asked.

She
pulled a pale yellow silk top over her head, bag and all.   She removed the bag
and stared at me.  “It keeps your hair in place,” she explained.   That was a
relief: for a moment I wondered if she was performing a very slow form of
suicide.

She
put on white linen trousers and slid her feet into matching yellow sandals. 
Aunt Muriel looked very nice, cool and collected.  In contrast to me, I thought
as I glanced at myself in her dresser mirror.  I looked hot, pink and harried.

We
took Aunt Muriel’s Lexus and headed across town and brunched at ‘Camille’s’. 
We both love it there.  It’s like dining in a 1930s movie set.  Different kinds
of Art Deco lamps decorate each table, the windows are Frank Lloyd Wright-like,
and vintage jazz music plays in the background.

We
each ordered a Bloody Mary, then studied our menus to the tune of several fire
engines in the background.  “Oh dear,” Aunt Muriel commented idly.  I sighed,
wondering if the Fruitville Buy-A-Lots got flambéed again and worried about
facing EEJIT tomorrow morning.  Aunt Muriel looked at me.  “How are your eyes,
dear?” she asked.  I lowered her sunglasses.  She pushed them back up on my
nose.

Just
then the GQ-like waiter we’d been admiring came back with our Bloodies.  I
picked mine up and took a sip.  “Are we ready, ladies?” he said, smiling.  For
what? I thought idly, staring at his handsome face and movie star smile.  I
really needed to get a boyfriend.  And a life.  Auntie’s was nice, but it was a
loaner.

Aunt
Muriel woke me up politely.  “Mina?”

“Sure,”
I said, and we ordered.  To my credit, I at least don’t live up to my
namesake’s restaurant habits.  Great-Grandma Mina vacillated horribly between
menu items and typically wound up ordering two to three entrees as a result
(with several doggie bags on the side.) I ordered only one entree.

In
the amicable quiet that followed, Aunt Muriel asked hopefully, “Have you chosen
any paint colors, dear?”

“Oh,
there are a few I’m thinking about,” I lied.

Aunt
Muriel sighed and gnawed her celery.  We both turned and looked out the window
at a fire engine racing past us.  I took a healthy swig of my Bloody Mary and
pretended Mondays happen to someone else.

I
went to split the tab with Aunt Muriel but she insisted on treating me.  “Of
course, dear,” Aunt Muriel said, leaving Handsome Harry a large tip.  I also
thought I saw her write my phone number down for him.

Back
out in the street, the heat pummeled up at us from the sidewalk. Aunt Muriel’s
gadgety car thingies confirmed the ridiculous temperature with their
feminine-esque electronic voices.  “It is one-hundred and one degrees
Fahrenheit, with a humidity index of 92, which will make the air quality seem
like one hundred and seventeen degrees.”  Yeesh.  How about just saying it’s
hot?

Aunt
Muriel set her car’s air-conditioning to freezing.  A few minutes later, we
pulled into her driveway and scraped frost off the windows.  “What time’s the
polo thingy?” I asked, getting out of her car.  Auntie’s borrowed sunglasses
fogged up: I tripped and fell flat on the driveway.

“Two-thirty,
dear,” she said, picking me up and leading me by the elbow into her kitchen.  I
took off the fogged sunglasses and looked at her kitchen clock.  It was two
o’clock.

“Shouldn’t
we just go straight there?” I asked.

“Oh
no, dear!  Not without our tailgate!” Aunt Muriel said, shocked.  Tailgate?  I
thought.  We’d just finished a three course brunch.  Where does she put it? 
Aunt Muriel weighs about 98-lbs. soaking wet and has never had to diet.  My
dieting sensibilities are pretty much subdued by my catering disorder.  Let’s
just say it’s a good thing I’m not height challenged.

Aunt
Muriel opened a cooler waiting by the fridge and carefully placed containers of
cheese, crackers, nuts and crab spread inside, along with assorted pretty
plates and silver utensils.  Then she pulled out a painted box with a latch on
it, and inserted a bottle each of red and white wine into it.   I wondered if
catering disorders were normal for polo?  Maybe I’d fit in.

Auntie
handed me a small boutique bag holding a rolled up cloth.  “Careful with this,
dear,” she instructed.  “Our wine glasses are in here, wrapped inside the table
cloth and napkins.”

“Are
you allowed to bring wine to polo thingies?” I asked.   Aunt Muriel stopped
dead in her tracks and stared at me.   Well.

We
stashed the party loot in her car and took off up Route 30.  Happily for me,
this avoided Fruitville Pike altogether, so I could honestly not think about
burnt Buy-A-Lots or EEJIT.

We
wound up in the middle of a small farmers’ town. Just a small main street; a
few residences and the odd shop.  Some dogs barked.  “Are you sure we’re going
the right way?” I asked. 

“Yes,
of course.  I’ve held a season pass since I’ve moved here,” Aunt Muriel smiled.

“Oh,”
I said.  Since Auntie had lived here for over a decade, this must be a pretty
established outing.

We
turned onto the exit for Route 772.  Before I knew it, we saw a smallish lawn
sign low to the ground at the corner on Church Street, next to the ‘Alla
Famiglia Italian Ristorante’.  The sign read: ‘Polo – This Way!’

Aunt
Muriel made a left onto Church Street, then turned right onto a gravel road. 
We drove up to a woman wearing gold jewelry and collecting cash.  Aunt Muriel
slowed down and swooshed her electric car window open.  “How are you?” Aunt
Muriel beamed at the blonde behind the Elton John pink sunglasses.

“Lovely
day for this, isn’t it?” she beamed back.

“Oh
yes!”  Aunt Muriel tinkled some laughter her way, and we continued on.  I shot
her a sideways glance.  Clearly she was out of her mind.  Aunt Muriel’s usual
idea of an outdoor event was peering at it from behind a large window,
preferably in a stadium box.  I shrugged.  Maybe we were going to watch the
polo thingy from inside her Lexus.

We
drove along, and I saw a large party tent set up.  Next to it was an
announcer’s booth.  I peered around but for the life of me couldn’t see one
building, much less a building large enough to fit a swimming pool.  “Well,
we’re here!” she sang out brightly.  I looked beyond her and saw Porta-potties
and furrowed.

Aunt
Muriel led the way toward the pseudo-wedding tent while I limped behind like
Quasimodo, dragging the tailgate supplies between my hands and teeth.  Tables
and chairs were set up, and a bunch of people sat around enjoying their snacks.
They seemed pretty friendly.  Or well lubricated.  Or both.  Aunt Muriel
directed me to a table, and I put our stuff down while she flitted from table
to table.  She lit on her last party: a table complete with silver champagne
bucket, roses, crystal stemware, numerous hors d’oeuvre trays and a large
Martini pitcher.  It was impressive.  There, she accepted a hug from a tall guy
who chose to conceal his receding hairline by shaving his head altogether.  But
sitting right next to him was – ohmygosh-ohmygosh-ohmygosh – Mr. Perfect!!  I
pushed Auntie’s borrowed sunglasses way back up my nose.

Aunt
Muriel returned to our table and smiled brightly at me.  “Sorry, Mina. I didn’t
mean to be away for long,” she said.

“Not
a problem,” I said, waiting to pump her for an introduction to Mr. Perfect and
Crew.

Then,
all of a sudden, coming directly up to the tent, was a gal riding a horse!  And
then a guy riding a horse!  In helmets!   Aunt Muriel waved to them, and they
waved back.  I looked at her, puzzled.  “The polo players, dear,” she clarified
in an obvious sounding tone.

“Polo?”
I asked.

“Yes,
dear.  Those are players from our team.”

“But
where’s the pool?”

“What
pool?”

“For
polo.  Water polo, right?  Like Marco Polo?”

Aunt
Muriel slapped her hand to her forehead.  “White,” she said.

“Right?”

“White!”

“Right?”

“POUR
THE WHITE WINE PLEASE, DEAR,” Aunt Muriel shouted affectionately.  I opened the
bottle of wine, while Aunt Muriel explained through clenched teeth.  “This is a
polo match, Mina.  As in polo pony,” she grimaced.

“Oh,”
I said.  I still didn’t get it.

Aunt
Muriel hissed kindly at me.  “Polo is a field sport, like soccer, with horses.”

OH!
I thought.  I GET IT!  “Horse hockey?” I asked.  Aunt Muriel sighed.

“Here’s
a paper that will help explain… and I’m sure the announcer will give some
sort of an overview,” she said, patting me on my head.

She
poured me a glass of wine, and we watched as the match began.  Amidst my
casting furtive glances toward Mr. Perfect.  A sort of half-time came and the
announcer invited us to ‘stomp the divots’. We got up with the crowd, and
commenced to go a-stomping.

There
in the middle of the field was Mr. Perfect, stomping contentedly with his
pals.  I stood stomped in my tracks, wine glass in mid-air.  Aunt Muriel hissed
at me.  “Who are you staring at?” she asked.

“Ummm…
I think that guy over there might be my neighbor.”

Aunt
Muriel shielded her eyes with her hand, looking across the field. 
Unfortunately, it was with her wine glass hand, which she dumped right next to
her left foot.  “Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully, ignoring the fact that she’d
imbibed under-age field growth.  “I might have seen him before. Maybe at a
benefit.  I’ll ask Marshal tomorrow,” she said finally.  I furrowed.  So much
for a timely introduction.

We
managed to avoid the ‘steaming divots’ as directed by the announcer.  Instead
we sat back down, poured more wine and settled in to watch the rest of the
game.  The referee threw the polo ball down the middle of the field and both
teams thwacked their mallets.

And
then everything went black.

I
woke up flat on my back with a scrambled head.  Or at least it felt like that. 
But, I realized by comparison, my foot didn’t hurt so much.  So maybe things
were getting better after all. I opened my eyes and saw flashes of light.

“Hope
you don’t mind! We like to scrapbook everything!” the bleach blonde polo maven
said while clicking some pictures of me.

I
blinked.  Above me stood a cigar-puffing patron.  I looked around and saw Aunt
Muriel looming up from behind him like Godzilla v. Mothra.  She pinched his
cigar with lightning speed and extinguished it in a pitcher of water, screaming
politely at him about my needing air.  Well, at least Auntie thought it was a
pitcher of water.  Unfortunately it was Marshal’s very large pitcher of
martinis.

After
the fire was put out, I sat clasping a sandwich baggie full of ice chips to my
forehead.  Or at least what used to be my forehead.  Now it felt like it was
about to give birth, evidenced by the egg on it that was becoming the size of
the polo ball what bonked me.

A
guy with a helmet and a numbered Jersey ran over to me.  “Are you okay? Do you
want an ambulance? We’ve got a doctor here…” he trailed off, gazing around
and signaling said doctor.

Oddly
enough, said doctor was also sporting a helmet and numbered Jersey.  “How many
fingers am I holding up?”  he asked kindly.