A Little Bit Wicked by Joni Rodgers, Kristin Chenoweth Read Free Book Online Page A

at me. I’m not even worth the punch.”
    Substitute the word critic for Jill and you have a scenario that has played out several times during my career, and it never ceases to astonish me.
    Anyway. Elvis had his fried peanut-butter, bacon, and banana sandwich; I’ve got my Hum Dum Ditty, a spectacular conglomeration of ground meat, corn, tomatoes, and some kind of gravy. Dip a biscuit in there, and you’ve got yourself a garage sale of gastronomic delight, a veritable trailer park for the palate. I can’t share the exact formula for Hum Dum Ditty because I think it partly depends on what’s in the “dented and expired” clearance cart next to the door at the supermarket, but I will share the recipe for my personal specialty, without which your life is a pale imitation of what it could be:
    The Top Secret Recipe for Kristi Dawn’s No Calorie Left Behind Butterfinger Pie
Crunch up six king-size Butterfinger bars. Smash them up in a plastic bag or beat them with a rolling pin while they’re still in the wrapper. Exercise your aggressions. Very therapeutic.
Take a twelve-ounce deal of Cool Whip and mix it up with the candy-bar shrapnel.
Plop all that into one of those graham-cracker crusts. (Just get over yourself and buy the premade kind. Don’t be all Barefoot Contessa about it.)
Freeze! No, not you, the pie. I mean freeze in the freezer, not in the theatrical sense. This is important. If you skip this step, people will assume it’s French onion dip and stick their potato chips in it.
Serve with a smile on paper plates. The kind with the rippled edges, whenever possible.
    Everybody brings her specialty when we all get together, which is a rare occasion these days. Weddings and funerals. We saw Dad’s side of the family at Grandpa’s service in Hinton. Now everyone on Mom’s side has gathered in Tulsa to gab and eat, exclaim over how big thekids are, eat some more, gab some more. It’s like that song from The Music Man, “Pick a Little, Talk a Little.”
    I set my Butterfinger pie well away from the potato chips on Aunt Ginger’s long dining room table, which is heaped with a whole lot of everything. You can tell a lot about each of the fabulous Smith sisters by what she brings to potluck. Aunt Ginger’s warm and nonjudgmental biscuits and gravy are the ultimate comfort food because she’s always been the caretaker of the whole family and everyone else in town. Energetic Aunt Gaye serves up green beans and tabouli, which go well with her innate element of surprise. You never know when Aunt Gaye is going in for the love pat, but you know you’re gonna feel it when she does. My mom always supplies the dressing for the Thanksgiving turkey because she is a healer, a problem solver, able to transform stale bread and soup stock into something delicious. Aunt Roselan is an earth mother who goes for the organic. She’s a breast cancer survivor and in better shape than me, but I always feel a little heartier after a bowl of her special oatmeal with apples, nuts, and honey. Aunt Violet is the most liberal of the sisters, world-traveled and savvy, having lived in London and California. I nestle my Butterfinger concoction next to Aunt Vi’s stellar apple and pecan pies because she and I are on the same wavelength: “Life is short. Eat dessert first.” Sweet Aunt Tommie Jo is openhearted, a good listener who adopted two children after Mom and Dad adopted me, so it’s not surprising that Aunt Tommie Jo’s special dishes—banana pudding with Nilla Wafers and broccoli chicken casserole—combine elements that weren’t born together but belong together.
    Home from Iraq for a brief visit, Aunt Tommie Jo’s son Robert is the celebrity in this gathering. A few years ago, he did a tour in Afghanistan and came back filled with pride and enthusiasm about the help being offered, schools being built, progress being made. Now he’s in Iraq, guarding prisoners, and when I ask him about it, a deep shadow passes through his