"Winter-MoonGarden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Winter Laurel)

LAUREL WINTER - The Moon Garden Cookbook

SUSAN'S SPOON MOVED more slowly as she stirred the sour cream into the Chicken
Paprika. When her eye had fallen on the recipe in her Fanny Farmer cookbook,
Chicken Paprika had seemed an archetypal meal: savory, meaty, spiced to
perfection. Now, although the scent hadn't changed, the hands of the red-framed
clock above the stove reminded her that it was almost time to serve dinner. No
more chopping of tomato and onion. No more lazy spoon spirals. No more fall of
spices. She would have to arrange her creation on a bed of wide noodles on a
white oval platter her grandmother had given her, and place it in the center of
the scraped, marker-stained, fake-wood Formica table and subject it to the
opinions of her family.

She sighed and turned off the gas flame. Please, she thought to herself, wiping
fragrant steam and an anticipatory tear or two from her forehead and cheeks,
just let them be polite about it for once -- without any reminding. Tonight
especially would be nice, because her PMS was at its peak.

"Dinner," she called toward the family room, where Bob and the kids were
watching a "Scarecrow & Mrs. King" rerun.

Her wish was not granted. "What is that?" screeched Amy. "I wouldn't eat that if
you gave me a hundred dollars."

Darryl's "Major gross!" was no less emphatic.

Tommy settled for "Yuck."

"We don't say that," hissed Susan. "We say, 'I don't care for it,' or 'No, thank
you,' or, 'Gee, Mom, I'm not very hungry." She punctuated her sentences by
jabbing the serving spoon into the food on the platter and slopping it onto her
plate. Drops of paprika-tinged sauce spattered her shirt.

She passed the platter toward Bob, who gave a weak grin and dished himself about
a quarter cup. "Thanks, honey," he said. "Looks interesting." He nibbled some
from the end of his fork. "Only problem is, I had a late lunch, and . . . ."

"Can I make myself a peanut butter sandwich?" asked Tommy. Amy poked him -- too
late -- with a skinny elbow.

Susan's anger simmered, bubbled, steamed.

"Leave the table," said Susan, her voice low and deadly. "All of you. I'm tired
of your complaints. I'm tired of fixing macaroni and cheese and frozen fish
sticks and corn dogs. Just go to McDonald's or something."

She could have been a cobra surveying petrified chickens. No one moved. "Get out
of here," she shrieked, pounding her fist on the table and knocking over her
water glass.