Tough Cookie Page 5

  Makes 6 crab cakes

  Sauce Gribiche:

  1½ teaspoons finely chopped shallots

  2 gherkins, minced

  1½ teaspoons capers, drained

  1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley

  1½ teaspoons minced fresh tarragon

  1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

  ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  ¼ teaspoon dry mustard

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon sugar

  freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  1 cup lowfat mayonnaise

  1 large egg, hard-boiled and finely chopped

  In a small electric mincer or well-cleaned coffee grinder, combine shallots, gherkins, capers, parsley, and-tarragon. Pulse for about 5 seconds, or until thoroughly combined and well minced. Set aside. Stir together lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, dry mustard, salt, sugar, and black pepper. Stir into mayonnaise along with egg and minced shallot mixture. Serve with crab cakes.

  Ice-Capped

  Gingersnaps

  ½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  1½ cups dark brown sugar

  2 eggs

  ½ cup dark molasses

  2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar

  4 cups all-purpose flour

  4 teaspoons ground ginger

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

  ¼ teaspoon ground cloves

  ¼ teaspoon ground allspice

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Frosting (recipe follows)

  Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter two cookie sheets.

  Beat butter until creamy. Add brown sugar and eggs and beat until well combined, then add molasses and vinegar and beat thoroughly. Sift together all the dry ingredients and add-gradually to butter mixture. Using a 1½-tablespoon scoop, space cookies out 2 inches apart on sheets. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, until cookies have puffed and flattened and appear slightly dry. Allow to cool on sheet 1 minute, then transfer to racks and allow to cool completely.

  Frosting:

  1½ cups confectioners’ sugar

  2 tablespoons whipping cream

  2 tablespoons milk

  ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

  In a shallow bowl, mix all ingredients well with a whisk. Holding the cooled cookies upside down by the edges, dip the tops into the icing. Allow to cool, icing side up, on racks until the icing hardens. Store between layers of wax paper in an airtight container.

  Makes 5 dozen cookies

  I wondered if Arthur had opened the bottle of dessert wine, and if he’d let me chug it after the show.

  Muttering, I scooped the fragrant dough into Ping-Pong-ball-size spheres. The phone volunteers raised eyebrows at each other: Some caterer! I slapped the uncooked cookies into what Arch called the “pretend” oven and struggled to compose a last enthusiastic pitch about new equipment for PBS.

  Two lights above the phone bank flashed as the ringing halfheartedly resumed. I rinsed my hands and wiped them on the towel. Volunteers murmured to the donors. How much longer? My watch was obscured by gingersnap batter. I plunged back into my monologue, urging viewers to tuck crab-cake sandwiches into their packs before a full day of skiing.

  Camera One swept a wide-angle panorama of the hot line burgeoning with the completed, cooked dishes. Then the cameraman focused on the volunteers manning the phones, which had once again, drat them, gone dead. Arthur, pale with panic, shifted to a visual with the phone number viewers could call. He then ran a prepared tape of avalanche-avoidance safety tips. Shun steep, leeward slopes. Listen for broadcast warnings of avalanche danger. If you’re caught in unstable snow, grab a tree and hold on. And never, ever ski out of bounds.

  Too bad Arthur hadn’t run safety tips for cooking live. I felt acutely, painfully embarrassed. You don’t know a thing, Goldy. No kidding.

  I looked for Rorry Bullock.

  She was gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  As the credits rolled, I scanned the interior of the bistro. Arthur was talking urgently into his headset. Jack was handing Eileen a champagne glass filled with orange juice. Or perhaps it was part orange juice, part champagne. Eileen cupped the glass in her hands and beamed Jack a grateful smile. No one was hustling up to offer congratulations or tell me how much money we’d made. True, the show had been flawed by the cookie fiasco, and had lacked the public support of the pregnant widow. But there should have been some good news. Wasn’t that what public broadcasting was all about?

  Unfortunately, the only news coming my way was in the shape of pudgy, self-aggrandizing Doug Portman. His pate shone in the bright lights as he waved and shouldered toward the set through the dispersing crowd of spectators. I swallowed. How did you greet someone you’d had three dates with, eight years before?

  “Hey, Goldy?” Doug bellowed. “You forgot my ticket!”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Ready to rock?” he hollered. “It’s really coming down out there!” People stared at him.

  “Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” I yanked off my microphone and surveyed the mess on the hot line counter. Fortunately, the bistro staff cleaned up after each show.

  “Arch and Todd decided to take a group snowboarding lesson,” said Eileen, suddenly at my shoulder. “Want a mimosa before you take off? Jack made them.”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got some business to conduct. Need to be sober. Are you skiing down?” Eileen replied that she was staying to talk to the PBS people.

  The kitchen was jammed with folks, so I couldn’t change there. I nabbed my clothes and Eileen and I walked together down the hallway to the bistro’s ladies’ room. While I was taking off my chef duds and slipping back into my ski clothes, Eileen sighed. “Sorry about the butter,” she said ruefully. “It was almost frozen in the walk-in. Our microwave isn’t working, and I was afraid to smash it to soften it, ’cuz that would have looked bad.”

  “Not to worry. Is Jack skiing down now? He was awfully nice, and I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his help.”

  “He has to do lunch prep, sorry.” She looked at me solicitously. “Goldy, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, and thanks.” We left the ladies’, then paused outside the Lost and Found and glanced outside. The sky had turned a bright nickel. Swirling snow powdered Widowmaker Run. With a pang, I thought of poor Rorry.

  “You can always stay with us, if the weather gets really bad,” Eileen told me cheerfully. “We’ve invited Arch for another night.”

  “Thanks. But I promised Tom I’d be back this afternoon. I can pick Arch up tomorrow when I do my contract with Arthur, my one and only personal chef client.”

  “Friend, if you make a round trip to Aspen Meadow in this weather, you’ll be one tired caterer.”

  “I’ll be okay.” Impulsively, I hugged her. Eileen was always a thoughtful friend, the best kind there is. “Thanks again.”

  Outside, I could just make out Doug Portman’s glimmery black metallic ski suit and leather cowboy hat. He was stamping over to the snow-covered ski rack. Before pulling down his skis, he scanned the exterior of the lodge. Seeking me, no doubt. He doffed the snow-gorged cowboy hat and whacked it against his thigh. Ride those skis, pod’ner! Would Doug’s hat make it to the bottom of the mountain, or would it join the fifty other cowboy hats I’d just glimpsed in the Lost and Found?

  “Gotta split,” I told Eileen. I zipped up my sensible down jacket and knotted the string on my waterproof hood. Eileen finished off her drink and handed me my scarf. I glanced at her empty champagne glass and hoped she wasn’t skiing down anytime soon.

  In the bistro dining room, the arriving restaurant staff was clearing away the last vestiges of the show. The phone volunteers were wolfing down the food, without benefit of forks and spoons, no less. Hey! Fund-raising is an appetite-building business. One of the phone-answerers, a wife of a member of the Killdeer Hunt
Club—they shot elk and deer, not foxes—stuffed a Mexican egg roll into her mouth and called out that we’d raised six thousand dollars in half an hour. She added, “That’s pretty good.” I didn’t know if she meant the egg roll or the money. Scooping up two more egg rolls, she yelled to me, “And that was in spite of everything!”

  Doug Portman had returned to the bistro and was looking around impatiently. I felt annoyed to be hurried. But I slipped my hands into my new padded mittens—a gift from Tom—donned my ski boots, and walked as gracefully as possible to the front door. Of course, walking gracefully in ski boots is like waltzing on cannonballs.

  “It’s snowing harder,” Doug informed me, ever the weather reporter. “We’ll take Widowmaker to Doe’s Valley to Hot-Rodder to the base. I’ll meet you at Big Map.”

  “Big Map,” a familiar landmark at the base of Killdeer Mountain, was a large, plastic-covered map of the entire ski area’s terrain. I could find the map without a problem, but when I mentally reviewed the runs Doug was talking about—a mogul-laced “black” run—i.e., a steep ski trail covered with big bumps, designated for expert skiers—followed by a “blue”—intermediate, that would no doubt be treacherously icy under the new snow, followed by another precipitous black slope—I thought: No dice.

  “You go ahead,” I told Doug politely. “I’ll take an easier route, probably be a few minutes after you.”

  He scowled and shifted in his ski boots. “I don’t have time for you to come after me. I want you to come with me,” he insisted, still macho to the core. “I’m running late already.” He hesitated. “Does Tom know we’re meeting today?”

  “Er, sure,” I lied.

  “Great. I’ve got something for him in my car. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.” He squeezed my elbow meaningfully. “It’s great to see you again, Goldy, after all this time.”

  I pulled my arm away and wordlessly clopped to the door. If it hadn’t meant so much to Tom that he sell the skis to make up for the expense of the new drains, I’d probably be skipping this whole encounter. Great to see me again, sure. I’d go down the runs Doug wanted me to, but very slowly. If he didn’t like that, tough tacks.

  Outside the entrance to the lodge, giant icicles hung from the roof, their thick bases as solid as tree trunks. The snow was now falling in thick pale sheets. Doug pulled his skis from the rack, snapped them on, and shoved off without so much as a backward glance. Once he whizzed away, the heavy snow instantly enveloped him.

  With more caution, I started down the smooth side of Widowmaker. Weight on the downhill ski, press through the arch of your foot, my first ski instructor had taught me. I’d do my best.

  The new powder on the slope, the falling snow, the lack of sunshine, my gray-tinted goggles—all these made seeing difficult. As skiers whizzed past, I concentrated dutifully on the slope five feet in front of my skis. Usually, I found skiing an invigorating escape. This was not true, however, when the slope you were on was too challenging. The curtain of snow enclosed me tightly. I could hear my labored breathing and feel every creak of my bones.

  Most runs are set up like slant-sided wedding cakes. Long sloped sections alternate with narrow flat areas. On the flat sections, you can meet up with friends, figure out where you are, or just plain rest. At the first opportunity, I pulled over to a flat area by a sign marking the beginning of two more blue runs. One was Doe’s Valley, where Doug had said he was going. It led to black runs. Right next to it, and feeding into the bottom of Doe’s Valley, was the easier-sounding Teddy Bear Run. I decided to take it. I could catch up to Doug on Hot-Rodder.

  Teddy Bear Run was smooth and dreamy, yet still steep enough to present a challenge. Feeling less apprehensive, I let loose with some speed. After the pressure of the show, the release was exhilarating. I surged down the slope, and felt as if I was flying.

  I hockey-stopped dramatically, flushed with the thrill of my run, on the last flat area. At the top of Hot-Rodder, neon yellow ropes stretched on bamboo poles across the entry to that particular slope. One of the ski patrol’s Closed! Hazardous Conditions! signs swung from the middle of the ropes. Which way would Doug have gone? Beyond Hot-Rodder lay a double-black diamond run—the most challenging and dangerous—with the happy name of Coffin-Builder. Few skiers were bold enough to vault down that turnoff. The ones who did were lean and fast; they hung briefly in the air and then plummeted from view. That was probably where Doug had gone. It was where I would not go.

  To my left, a blue run named Jitterbug beckoned. Before deciding which way to go, I waited for a noisy class of snowboarders on its way down Teddy Bear. Their instructor, clad in a bright blue ski school uniform, led the group as it artfully carved the snow. The kids balanced on their boards, adjusted to nuances in the terrain, extended their arms, and leaned into the hill—all as graceful and quick as surfers. I thought I spotted Arch in his new burgundy jacket, but when I called his name into the blowing snow, there was no response. Without a glance in my direction, the young snow-boarders slid swiftly past.

  I was cold. Icy pinpricks of snow fell on my cheeks and lips. I shivered inside my jacket and headed toward Jitterbug, which I knew to be a curvy blue run without too many surprises. At the base, Doug would be ticked off with me. But there was no way I was skiing down Coffin-Builder.

  The few straight stretches of Jitterbug were bordered by trees on the left and a yellow cord to the right. After a few moments, I stopped on the right side of the slope to rest. Snow obscured the far mountains, but the vista downward was breathtaking. The yellow cord marked a no-man’s-land of rocks and pines that led down to two steep mogul fields, Hot-Rodder closest to me, Coffin-Builder beyond. On Coffin-Builder, a handful of expert skiers zigged and zagged through the bumps. I certainly hoped that it was Arch I’d seen at the top of Jitterbug. If I thought he was boarding down a black run, I’d probably have a heart attack.

  I skied fast down the next section of Jitterbug. When I careened around a bend, I spied a crowd of people clustered ahead of me. Digging in my skis, I sent up a cloud of snow as I came to an abrupt halt.

  Why was everybody stopped?

  Something scraped my cheek and I pulled back. It was a large shred of ash. Or a torn chunk of map. Without thinking, I tried to catch it. It was indeed a wadded piece of paper. That’s when I realized that, along with the snow, this large confetti was coming down everywhere. It was as if someone had torn up a newspaper and carelessly dumped the crumpled bits of litter from the lift.

  Litter?

  “Mom, hey, Mom!” Arch’s voice sailed past me. “Over here!”

  I turned, but did not see my son. All around, gaggles of skiers had halted and were scooping up the tumbling papers. I did not see any snowboarders. “Arch!” I cried into the mêlée. “Where are you?”

  “Here, Mom!” Suddenly my son scraped his snowboard next to my skis. Swathed in his dark red outfit and a stay-warm ski mask that made him look like an escapee from a horror movie, Arch clutched a handful of the paper. His prescription goggles had been pulled up at an angle on the top of his head, and I could just make out his merry brown eyes above the mouth mask. “Money!” he announced. “Hundred-dollar bills! It’s falling with the snow! Here,” he squawked as he thrust a fistful of bills at me. “Put these in your pocket, would ya?” Before I could protest, he scooted off on the board to retrieve more of the falling cash.

  There was squawking and yelling among the skiers now, as a sudden updraft swirled the precious bills heavenward, where they mixed with a new tornado of flakes. A member of the ski patrol showed up and started hollering ineffectually for order.

  Still uncomprehending, I stood grasping the wad of bills Arch had handed me, then stuffed them into my pocket. I dug in my poles and scooted to the slope’s right side. An abrupt shift in the wind spun up a fresh storm of bills. The money smacked my goggles and I was momentarily blinded. I wiped the bills away and strained to see their source. They seemed to be blowing up from somewhere below where I stood. />
  To my right, the yellow boundary cord had torn loose from its moorings. The cord lay in a loop, then disappeared under the snow. Past the boundary pole, a row of boulders obscured the drop to the lower slope. I hesitated, then cautiously skied to the torn yellow rope. With great care, I glided down to the edge of the rocks that stood between Jitterbug and the steep drop-off to Hot-Rodder.

  The view of the lower run was obscured by more boulders and a cluster of pines. Several sets of tracks led through the trees, while more circled the rocks. Money continued to fall. Damn. I had a very sinking feeling, despite the gleeful cries from the skiers downslope. Using the perpendicular-to-the-mountain two-step taught to all beginning skiers when they need to get uphill, I maneuvered up and around the rock pile.

  On the far side of a boulder below me, a cowboy hat lay at the base of a small, barren aspen tree. A chill ran through me. Squatting cautiously on my skis, I slid carefully to the edge of the drop-off.

  Sprawled next to a mogul, Doug Portman lay motionless in the crisp white snow. His legs seemed to be tangled with one of his skis. Beside the sharp half of a broken pole, his left arm was impossibly contorted. A splotch of blood was spreading on the snow.

  “Ski patrol,” I whispered, as I turned and worked my way back up to Jitterbug run. “I—we—need help.”

  The crowd of skiers on Jitterbug were still grabbing at the whirling shreds of paper tumbling down with the snowflakes. “Help!” I called. No one paid attention. The bills swirled and landed on the slope, on moguls, on boulders, on branches of pine trees. Greedy hands reached impatiently for them.