Читать книгу Beyond Delicious: The Ghost Whisperer's Cookbook - Mary Ann Winkowski - Страница 13

RUTH JOHNSON WAS NOTHING IF NOT FRUGAL. She counted pennies and clipped coupons, and when she saw a good deal at the secondhand shop, she didn’t think twice about taking it. So it was with the cooking pot she came across one day: It was the right size, and the lid, of all things, was spectacular. She’d been looking for something bigger to make her applesauce in, and she couldn’t help but grin with glee at finally finding it.

Then the problems began.

First it was the lightbulbs in the kitchen constantly burning out, then it was the radio going on the fritz. Around the same time Ruth started feeling run-down, which she attributed to her suddenly restless nights. But it wasn’t until she saw the shadow that she thought she’d better call someone.

Just outside her bedroom door she had a nightlight in the hallway, and she started seeing it go out then come back on again—only she knew it wasn’t turning on and off. No, she could just tell that someone was walking in front of it and blocking it from her view momentarily. As reasonable as she was frugal, Ruth knew when she was up against something she needed help with. She hadn’t lived 60 years and not learned when it was time to ask for help.

When I arrived at Ruth’s small bungalow, where she’d lived for 25 years, I confirmed immediately that there was a ghost because she was standing glaring at us before I even got in the door. Her name was Mrs. White, and she clearly didn’t appreciate sass from anyone. Her hair was gray and tied up in a severe bun, and she refused to give me her first name.

“Mrs. White,” she said curtly. “Everyone calls me Mrs. White.”

Realizing that small talk was not going to work, I got right to the point: “Why are you here? Do you know Ruth?”

She stood up straight and glared. “No, I don’t know her. She’s just using my pot wrong. Ask her—isn’t her applesauce always burning?”

Ruth agreed that it was. Her new pot, as perfect as it was, always seemed to burn her applesauce.

“That’s because the pot is made for consommé, not fruit,” Mrs. White explained haughtily.

“Consommé?” I checked. “Do you mean broth—soup stock?”

“I mean consommé!” she retorted. “I used to cook for the wealthiest family in four counties. I know what broth is and I know what my pot is for!”

That’s when it all became clear. Ruth had brought home more than just a good pot from the secondhand store. She’d also brought home Mrs. White, whose pot it had been, and the old cook was angry about how Ruth was using it. When I explained this, Ruth was actually overjoyed.

“I’ve always wanted to make my own soup stock!” she cried. “Will she give me her recipe if I promise not to use that pot for anything else?”

“If she promises to call it consommé! And only if she cleans the pot well first,” Mrs. White decided, but I could tell by the twinkle in her eye that she’d got what she really wanted. Her consommé was clearly a great source of pride for her and she didn’t want the recipe to join her in the grave.

Mrs. White’s Clear Consommé

10 cups cold water

¼ pound chicken giblets or chicken meat, cut in small pieces

¼ pound veal

2 pounds beef brisket

Salt to taste

Dash of freshly ground pepper

2 medium onions, preferably baked

1 large leek

2 or 3 carrots

1 celery root

1 parsley root

Few sprigs of parsley

½ head Savoy cabbage (optional)

1 bay leaf

1 bouillon cube

The chicken and veal should be first dipped in boiling water. Cover chicken, veal and brisket with cold water (5 cups of water to 1 pound meat) and bring to a boil. Skim carefully. When no more fat comes to the surface, lower flame and add salt, pepper, and remaining ingredients. Cover and let simmer for 3 hours. Skim fat, strain, and serve with crackers or noodles.