Y is for Yesterday (Kinsey Millhone, #25)

by Sue Grafton

Every afternoon, they repaired to Poppy’s house, ostensibly to study, but actually to smoke dope and raid Poppy’s parents’ liquor cabinet. Iris was a genius at concocting mixed drinks, utilizing what was available. Her latest she called a “flame thrower,” which entailed Kahlúa, banana-flavored liqueur, crème de menthe, and rum. Poppy’s parents didn’t drink rum. That bottle was held in reserve should a guest request it.

Most of the time the two girls were on their own, ordering pizza or any other foodstuff that could be charged to a credit card and delivered to Poppy’s door.

Rosie brought Ruthie a martini straight up and brought me a glass of white wine, freshly poured from a one-gallon jug she kept on a shelf out of sight.

This was so her patrons couldn’t see the label on the cheap brand she bought. One taste was all it took to identify the wine as swill, but none of us had the nerve to bitch. Rosie was a bit of a bully when it came to her place. She told you what to eat, which was inevitably a strange Hungarian dish replete with offal and sour cream. If some bites contained gristle or fat, you quietly spat the offending matter into your paper napkin and discarded it at home. Trust me, she’d catch you if you tried using one of her fake ficus trees as a dumping ground. Mostly you were well advised to keep your complaints to yourself.

“I’d thought so. Has she said anything about tonight’s fare?” “Creamed chicken livers with a side of sauerkraut.” I could feel my mouth purse. “Maybe I can talk her into a bowl of soup.” Ruthie said, “Uh, no. She’s made a pot of what’s called—I kid you not—Butchering Celebration Soup, along with a roast pork that’s baked with the fat from the pig’s abdominal cavity.” “I think I’ll wait and have a sandwich when I get home.” “I would if I were you. I ate before I came,” Ruthie said.

I topped off my evening with a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with way too much mayonnaise and way too much salt.

She’d already laid out a coffee service: cups, saucers, cream and sugar, cloth napkins, a plate of biscotti, and a large Thermos of hot coffee.

My dinner was buttered popcorn and Diet Pepsi, which contained none of the major food groups unless corn is considered one.

Did I dare brave Rosie’s for dinner that night? Occasionally she supplemented her offal cooking with comfort foods and I wondered if I could count on her sense of fair play. Those of us who endured her culinary aberrations deserved the intermittent relief of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

She turned the oven to preheat at 350 degrees, dropped her bag on the small pass-through between the kitchen and living room, and opened the refrigerator door, taking out a package of chicken breasts, a head of romaine lettuce, a small jar of vinaigrette, and a cardboard tube of Parker House rolls. She removed the cellophane from the chicken and rinsed the pieces in a colander under cold running water. She took out a cutting board and neatly whacked the two big breasts into four smaller pieces.

She covered two small jelly-roll pans with foil, patted the chicken pieces dry, and placed them in one pan. She took out the Spike, generously seasoned the chicken breasts, and set them in the oven to bake. When the chicken was close to being done, she’d whack the cardboard tube of dinner rolls on the counter, remove the rolls, and place them in the second pan to bake. She took out a packaged mix of fettuccine amandine, filled a saucepan with water, and lit the fire under it. With the romaine, she’d make a freestanding Caesar salad with the lettuce upright in a bowl, glossy with vinaigrette, and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. While the chicken baked, she changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Joey was home by six thirty and the two sat down to eat. By then, the oven had warmed the apartment, which was scented with the crispy-skinned, succulent baked chicken. This was one of Joey’s favorite meals. With dinner, they each had an oversize goblet of rosé wine.

At six forty-five, having savored a peanut butter and pickle sandwich and tossed my paper towel in the trash, I grabbed my shoulder bag and keys and locked the door behind me.

I smelled beef stew and homemade bread, feeling ever so faintly put-upon at the meal I’d missed.

Rosie appeared behind me with a glass of bad white wine without even being asked.

Troy had his metal lunchbox set out on a square of waxed paper that he was using as a place mat. He’d placed his sandwich, a cluster of green grapes, a Baggie full of carrot sticks, and an oatmeal cookie in a semicircle along the edge, the whole of it anchored by a small milk carton of the sort you get in elementary school. The exterior of the lunchbox featured characters from Sesame Street: Ernie, Oscar the Grouch, Big Bird, and the Cookie Monster.

“We’ll do it after supper and I’ll be baking the cake.” Pearl said, “He was going to make an angel food cake, which is a type of sponge cake. Stiff-beaten egg whites is used as leavening instead of baking soda or baking powder, but I suggested a sheet cake, which will feed more.”

“Look what I done,” she said. In her lap she held a loaf of homemade bread that peeked out of an aluminum foil wrap. The crust was a golden brown and the top listed only slightly to one side. It smelled heavenly, as though she’d pulled it from the oven just a short time before.

Yesterday she give us each a bowl of this new recipe she found for Veseporkolt. Pork kidney stew over dumplings.” “Delish,” Pearl said enthusiastically. “Lot of chewy bits.”

Henry had made two gallons of vanilla ice cream, along with a sheet cake large enough to feed the multitudes.

Eight blocks later, I reached a hole-in-the-wall Mexican diner where I sat at the counter and loaded up on carbs: huevos rancheros, sopes, beans and rice, two cheese enchiladas, a chicken taco, and three cups of coffee.

Henry made supper for us: a green salad and cheese omelets with fresh herbs.

They were eating their dinner, which in the case of Peter, Meg, and Abigail consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and cups of tomato soup, my personal favorite.

I insisted on paying and then the two of us discussed the virtues of Coneys versus corn dogs, beef versus pork, New York–style versus Chicago, half-smokes versus bratwurst, and organic versus nothing, as we were both morally opposed to the notion of organic foods of any kind. We sat across from each other at a picnic table, variously moaning and exclaiming as we bolted down our weenies loaded with mustard, ketchup, onions, pickles, and hot peppers.

Someone had tossed in a plastic grocery bag loaded with empty baked bean cans, the packaging for hot dogs, and an empty cellophane wrapper for the hot dog buns.

They’d rounded out this wholesome repast with a bag of Fritos, also depleted. I was starving to death and found myself staring wistfully at the wrappings from a packet of moon pies.

I ate a brown bag lunch at my desk. I’d packed it with care, the “entrée” being one of those peanut butter and pickle sandwiches I’m so fussy about. Whole grain bread, Jif Extra Crunchy, and Vlasic or Mrs. Fanning’s Bread’n Butter Pickles. In a pinch, dill will do, but never sweet. My practice is to cut the finished product on the diagonal and then wrap it in waxed paper that I still fold the way my Aunt Gin taught me. I’d added two Milano cookies and, being ever so dainty, I included two paper napkins, one to serve as a place mat and one for dabbing my lips.

I could smell freshly baked cinnamon rolls. I tapped and he told me to come on in. Anna was sitting at his kitchen table, which was taken up with two sheet pans onto which she was dolloping cookie dough with a small ice cream scoop.

Henry sliced the crusts from a loaf of white bread and he had a bowl of egg salad at the ready. He’d already prepared small homemade buns with butter and country ham, small leaves of baby endive with a dab of blue cheese at the tip of each. There were six trays of finger sandwiches covered in Saran wrap. Peering closely, I could identify anchovy butter and radishes, thinly sliced cucumber with cream cheese, sharp cheddar and chutney—all specialties of his. He’d arranged cupcakes, petit fours, and tiny cream puffs on three silver platters, again protected from the drying air with clear plastic wrap.