Natalie lagged behind to gaze at the “Weird Animals” exhibit where there was a pet spider monkey and a sign that read: “Howdy! My name is Stinky! I will clap my hands if you show me food!” And there was a thoroughly ordinary Afghan dog, quivering with embarrassment in a beret and a striped French sailor’s suit. A marmalade cat with a Captain Video helmet was trapped inside a space suit made from aluminum foil. The owner was holding its front paws in the air, so the cat stood on its hind legs, its tail lashing. Zapping noises were piped in as ray guns feebly strafed the air. The sign around the cat’s neck read: MARTIAN.
Mrs. Christiansen shoved her tricycle in reverse and swerved snakily back, a horn beeping, until Natalie caught up again. Mrs. Christiansen said, “The ladies were so pleased when they heard a cordon bleu from Paris was here to judge their cooking.”
Natalie cautioned, “Madame, I am not a chef.”
But Marvyl wasn’t listening. “Carl Bacon did it once,” she said, “but he’s a tad persnickety. Last year we settled on a fry cook from Ogallala whose Oldsmobile was being fixed.” She turned the tricycle toward a tent and motored inside. At once there were high-pitched cheers and thunderous applause from the many women at folding tables on which a wild assortment of foods were arrayed. Mrs. Christiansen stood up from her vehicle and put a finger to her lips in a teacherly way. Women quieted. “I have the honor of presenting to you the Queen of the Revels, Mademoiselle Natalie Clairvaux,” she said. “Our guest taster. Now remember, she’ll be judging both flavor and presentation. And you’re not allowed to tell her what she’s eating.”
There were a few faint groans and protests.
Mrs. Christiansen shushed them with a hand and formally turned. “Natalie?”
Natalie walked uncertainly toward the first table of pies and pastries. She lifted a smidgen of lemon meringue pie with a plastic fork, put it in her mouth, and evaluated it. “Très bien,” she said.
She shifted sideways and tilted forward to taste a Boston cream pie. She was getting into it, becoming a regular Julia Child. “Intéressant,” she said, “mais . . . agressif.”
“Was it good?” the cook asked Mrs. Christiansen.
She got a pat of condolence on the forearm as they went on.
Lois Tetlow, a full-figured gal, was spilling out of a skimpy French maid’s outfit as she presented a tray of muffins.
Mrs. Christiansen chided, “Lois!”
“Well, last year the judge was a man,” Lois said.
Natalie nibbled some muffin and grew concerned. “Are they raisins?”
“Blueberries,” Lois said, “but they mighta turned.”
Natalie shifted over to Owen’s Aunt Opal, who was humble to the point of unctuousness as she held up a faintly green rhubarb pie. Natalie hesitated with the dab on her fork. She took a full breath and tried the pie. She could not hide a wince.
Opal explained, “What’s the point of a food competition if you don’t get to experiment and be creative?”
Natalie was still masticating while seeking a place to spit.
Opal told Marvyl, “It just occurred to me that a little chili powder and Worcestershire sauce might put a sleepy old pie up on its hind legs.”
“I’m sure it’s unique,” Mrs. Christiansen said, and then she looked ahead. “Oh no. Mrs. Zebrun made her Candied Tree Bark Surprise.”
13
Natalie avoided food poisoning and rewarded herself with an afternoon nap at Mrs. Christiansen’s rooming house. She woke at three to the sounds of cooking in the kitchen and took it upon herself to help out, cracking farm eggs into a great big bowl of cake mix as Opal and Mrs. Christiansen chopped and washed vegetables. Mrs. Christiansen announced, “We’ll have a Waldorf salad first off on Saturday.”
“Oh, I like that idea,” Opal said.
“And then I thought a Châteaubriand would be nice for the main course.”
“Uh huh. Kind of make her feel more at home.”
“With onions and carrots à brun.”
“You know what I think I’d like to try, Marvyl? Potatoes Lyonnaise.”
Mrs. Christiansen frowned. “From a freezer package or from scratch?”
“The grocery freezer.”
Mrs. Christiansen smiled. “Aren’t you a dear?”