Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) by Lydia Adamson Read Free Book Online Page A

look at me.
    I went in to the kitchen and headed directly for the door that opened onto a small storeroom, which in turn led outside. This rear entrance to the house was closer to the creek than the front door was.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Wallace,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I thought I’d take a nice long walk this morning because it’s so . . . so lovely.”
    She cast a quick glance out of the kitchen window at the thick gray sky.
    â€œThe
grounds
are so lovely, I mean. And I haven’t had much of a chance to see the property.”
    â€œYes,” she said dully. “Then you’ll want to take some nourishment first, I’m sure.” With one foot she quickly pulled out a kitchen chair and nodded to me that it was my place at the table.
    Obeying, I sat down, and continued to trip over my own words. “Thanks . . . and did I thank you enough for that wonderful meal last night? I don’t think I’ve ever had veal so fragrant and moist. And those potatoes!”
    â€œAnna,” she grunted.
    â€œOh, yes. Potatoes Anna. Superb.”
    Mrs. Wallace then dropped a plate in front of me. “And what,” she said, a sardonic little smile on her face, “did you think of the dessert?”
    I looked down at the neatly cut wedge of an exquisitely turned-out omelet. “The dessert? Superb, also.” And it
had
been—a rich, underrated slice of cake in a little pool of perfect
crême anglaise
.
    She placed her own plate on the table then. Her half of the omelet was just as beautiful, cooked precisely the way I like it, folded over but still thin and burnished on the top. She set about removing the plastic wrap from three small bowls on the table. One contained red caviar, one black—leftovers from last Sunday’s brunch—and the last held what I took to be sour cream. No, it wasn’t sour cream, Mrs. Wallace corrected me. It was
fromage frais
, which she’d served with berries a few nights ago. Hadn’t I ever heard of its American equivalent, “creole cream cheese”? I had to confess my ignorance.
    Last, she brought a plate of piping hot English muffins, fresh from the blackened griddle on which she’d made them, and a battered old percolator full of coffee that was still bubbling up against the glass nipple in the lid.
    I hadn’t been the least bit hungry ten minutes ago, but I tucked into the food lustily. “How does a person get to be such a wonderful cook?” I asked, genuinely interested.
    She sipped her coffee complacently. “Ever hear of Lydie Marshall?” she asked.
    â€œNo, I don’t believe so.”
    â€œWhat about Simone Beck?”
    The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know why. I shook my head in answer.
    â€œBut surely you’ve heard of James Beard, Julia Child.”
    â€œYes, of course,” I said. “Did you study with them all?”
    â€œI surely did, my girl. I surely did. Now, wouldn’t you think in most places that would earn a person some kind of respect . . . some kind of . . . ?” Her voice trailed off in irritation.
    Mrs. Wallace barely touched her food. Instead, she watched closely as I consumed mine. “I have plenty more muffins where those came from,” she told me when I’d cleaned my plate. “What about another one with some of my preserves? I can see you’re not one of those weak women that never eat a good meal, always watching their so-called figures.”
    I managed to prevent her from feeding me more than one additional muffin, and while she was at the sink, I seized the opportunity to push away from the table and throw on the old sheepskin coat.
    â€œWell, thank you for breakfast,” I said quickly. “I think I’ll go on that walk now.”
    â€œHmm,” she mumbled. “You’ll probably freeze.”
    It
was
damned cold! So much for the Indian