By Anne Sullivan
I was writing a letter (read dozing) in my comfortable chair while Sylvia seemed to be making an extraordinary amount of noise eating her breakfast in the kitchen.
A knock on the door startled (read awakened) me. It was followed by Sylvia tugging at my pants leg saying, “Open the door, please.”
Wiping sleep out of my eyes, I staggered to the door and opened it to find Gordo thrusting a paw with what looked like flowers, grass and dirt at Sylvia. Sylvia gave Gordo a short growl and hastened into the kitchen with her burden.
The ensuing crashing of pots and pans interfered with any chance of napping or finishing my letter. “What on earth are you doing, Sylvia?” I asked.
“Don’t bother me, please,” she replied. “I’m coming to the critical part now.”
“The critical part of what?”
“Write this down, please. ‘Three monkey pods pounded into flour consistency. Stir in three and a quarter cups of brown sugar. Add Coca-cola to taste.’” Her words were punctuated by distinct bangs.
After writing down her mysterious words, I again asked, “What is this for? What are you and Gordo up to?”
“We’re trying out recipes for my mystery book.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean the book with the dog and cat detectives?”
“Of course. The prize-winning book that’s going to be on the best seller list for at least 20
weeks. The one the Baldwin Cabin Public Library will be having a Book Signing for.”
“Oh,” I said again. “That book. Have you found a publisher yet?”
“Not really. I’m almost finished with the first draft and I need the recipes to fill out the book. Plus the detectives have to solve the crime before I can write finis.”
“Have you plotted out the end?”
“Huh?” said Sylvia.
“In other words, do you know who the murderer is?”
“No, of course not. I haven’t come to the end yet. The solution has to be in the recipe.”
“But you don’t know what that is?”
“Not yet. As I said, the murderer’s identity will reveal itself in the recipe.”
“Oh,” I said, no wiser. “What are you cooking? And, mind you, you are not allowed to light the oven or any one of the burners without me standing over you.”
“That’s no problem. All my recipes will be for the microwave, like lupine soufflé and marinated junco. That was Gordo’s idea. Since he’s not allowed in the house because of your allergies, he’s furnishing the ingredients. Tomorrow we’re doing Puree de Paintbrush L’Indianne.”
“I see, and what – -“
Sylvia interrupted with desperation in her voice, “Must remember the altitude and add more monkey pod flour. Write that down, too.”
I complied and asked, “What are you working on right now?”
Sylvia’s answer was obscured by a series of serious squeaks emanating from the vicinity of the porch.
“What on earth is that?” I hollered.
“That must be the main ingredient for Canapé de Chipmunk,” Sylvia replied. “While we’re waiting for delivery would you care for a bite of Crème de Lapin Bush? It’s almost ready for tasting.”
“Not right now, thank you,” I answered. “I feel suddenly overcome by a strong desire to live until tomorrow.”
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