That afternoon was hectic. Myrtle sent a follow-up reminder to everyone she wanted to attend and skipped the ones that she hoped had forgotten her informal invitation. She pulled out more chairs and borrowed card tables and tablecloths from various friends to have enough table space. Then she set up a modest bar in one corner with her sherry glasses, which were tiny. With any luck, everyone would have just one very small drink.
Myrtle then studied the recipes. She figured she could make some of the dishes in advance instead of trying to tackle them all at once and under pressure. Pasha, swishing her tail, watched from a window sill as Myrtle chopped potatoes and rinsed green beans.
The doorbell rang at five o’clock and she opened it to see Puddin there.
“Good,” said Myrtle. “I’ve got some things for you to do.”
Puddin raised a hand. “Since you was fussin’ at me about the cleaners, I done brought one of mine. You’ll love the way it smells.”
“I’m sure I will, Puddin, but we don’t have time for that now. There’s lots to do.”
Puddin raised her chin. “But I want to show you. It’ll just take a second. Smells good.”
“Not now! I need you to focus on other things,” said Myrtle.
She led Puddin into the kitchen, pointing at a pot that needed stirring. Puddin, however, seemed to be moving at a turtle’s pace. “Look, we need to hurry. People will probably be arriving in an hour.”
Puddin frowned at Myrtle. “Then they’ll drink. That’s what they do.”
“Not here they won’t. After spending so much on the meal, I didn’t want to buy a bunch of alcohol,” said Myrtle briskly. “They’ll have coffee when they arrive and then water and one glass of wine with dinner.”
“Why don’t you just tell them to BYOB?” Puddin started resentfully stirring a bubbling sauce on Myrtle’s stove.
“I don’t think that would be good hostess behavior,” said Myrtle. She glanced over at the pot. “Why is stirring that sauce so laborious? You act as if you’re barely able to move the spoon.”
“That’s because I’m barely able to move the spoon,” answered Puddin tartly.
Myrtle frowned before shrugging. “Oh well. I guess it’s the type of thing that just thickens as you stir it. Now let’s see. I need to get a batch of vegetables cooked. Where’s my cutting board?”
Puddin wrenched the spoon around another rotation, panting a bit as she did.
“Takes a while to boil the water, if yer boilin’ veggies,” said Puddin. “Want me to get that started?”
Clearly Puddin was trying to get out of stirring duty. “No, no. I’ll turn on the boiler and put a pot of water on,” said Myrtle. She did, and then put her hands on her hips. “Where is that cutting board?”
“Is it that scrap over there?” asked Puddin, nodding at a plastic rectangle partially covered by grocery bags.
“Oh yes. That’s right.” Myrtle set up the cutting board on the stove so that she could cut vegetables and toss them right into the pot of water. “This is called ‘kitchen efficiency,’ Puddin. Louvenia taught us all sorts of helpful tips for speeding up the cooking process. I have a central area to throw away trash, too. It makes so much sense.”
Puddin grunted. “Miz Myrtle? Ain’t this sauce done yet? I don’t think it can be stirred no more.”
“I suppose so. It’s pretty thick.” Myrtle chopped up some potatoes with a bit of difficulty.
“What’s the sauce for?” asked Puddin.
“It’s supposed to go on the chicken.”
Puddin looked doubtfully in the pot. “Don’t look like a sauce.”
“Of course it does! What do you think it looks like?”
Puddin said, “A spread. Kind of a thick peanut butter.”
Myrtle said, “Well, I followed the directions exactly, Puddin. It should be fine.” Her nose wrinkled and she frowned.
Puddin frowned, too. “Smell somethin’ funny?”
Myrtle stopped chopping and looked around the room. “Isn’t that a burning smell?”
“Like bad burning. Like electric burning,” said Puddin, squinting suspiciously at the light switches and fixtures.
“This is no time for an electrical fire,” said Myrtle, putting her hands on her hips. “My patience is really being tried today. Take that pot off the burner and let’s check all the appliances. I certainly hope it’s not the stove!”
Checking all the appliances and outlets took five minutes. By the end of the five minutes, the smell had intensified into a sickly-sweet burning.
“Where on earth is that coming from?” demanded Myrtle.
There was a knock on the door and Myrtle said, “Go get that, Puddin, would you?”
Puddin slouched off to answer the door and returned with an anxious-looking Miles.
“I thought you had something to do,” said Myrtle.
“Well, I did. But then I thought it might be best if I checked in here,” said Miles. “What’s burning?”
“A good question! Puddin and I have been knocking ourselves out trying to figure out where the smell is coming from,” said Myrtle.
Miles’s eyebrows knitted. “Myrtle? What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
Miles pointed to the stove.
“They’re vegetables, Miles. Chopped vegetables,” said Myrtle, as if speaking to someone very young.
Miles said, “Yes. But the cutting board shouldn’t be bubbling.”
“What?” Myrtle flew over to the stove.
“Let’s turn off the burner first,” said Miles.
“But this wasn’t the burner that was supposed to be on! It was supposed to be the back one!” said Myrtle.
“Apparently, the stove got the wrong message,” said Miles.
He turned off the burner, found the heaviest-duty potholders he could find, and carefully lifted the melting plastic cutting board. The burner went with it, stuck to the underside of the board.
“Please turn on the exhaust hood,” said Miles, coughing a bit.
“Oh, the fan? It hasn’t worked in years,” said Myrtle. “I usually just open windows.”
“Please open windows,” said Miles.
Myrtle and Puddin opened all the windows in the kitchen and then, at Miles’s bequest, opened the windows in other rooms, too.
“Now I’m running behind,” said Myrtle irritably. “I haven’t even gotten the vegetables cut.”
Miles said, “I smell something burning.”
“That’s already been established,” said Myrtle.
“No, I smell something else burning,” said Miles.
Myrtle gasped. “My hors d’oeuvres!”
The hors d’oeuvres were completely annihilated.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” demanded Myrtle of the universe.
Miles said, “I think I would go ahead and start making the main dishes. Not having an hors d’oeuvres is understandable, but not having an entrée is unforgivable.”
“But I wanted to have them eat before the meal in case there wasn’t enough food! And I wanted them to drink coffee before the meal to fill themselves up and so they wouldn’t want alcohol. And we haven’t even had time to make coffee!” said Myrtle.
Puddin said, “I’ll make coffee. Better’n trying to spread the chicken with that sauce thing.”
Miles said, “And I’ll scrape plastic off the stove.”
“I’m calling Elaine. I really did want everyone to have hors d’oeuvres,” said Myrtle, still not wanting to let it go. She walked into the living room.
But Elaine hadn’t been to the store in days. “Unless you want to serve cereal as an appetizer. That’s all I’ve got. But I’ll drop by some wine in a little bit. That should help to make things go smoother.”
Myrtle said glumly, “Maybe with enough alcohol, they’ll forget they’re hungry.” She hung up. Her nose wrinkled. Now something else smelled bad.
“What do I smell now?” bellowed Myrtle.
Puddin yelled back over the fan. “The new cleaning stuff. Told you it smelled good. I’m trying to cover up the burnin’ smell.”
Myrtle hurried into the kitchen where Miles was turning blue in his effort to hold his breath.
“It does not smell good, Puddin. It’s far too strong. It smells like a pine forest on growth hormones!” said Myrtle.
“Or an institution,” said Miles, gasping.
“Exactly!” said Myrtle. “My home smells like the DMV or the health department or something!”
Miles added, “If they’d had a fire.”
Myrtle looked for more windows to open.
When she returned to the kitchen, Miles said, “Any updates on the hors d’oeuvres?”
“Elaine’s cupboard is bare, apparently. Miles, you don’t have anything at your house we can serve, do you?”
Miles shook his head. “I need to go to the store, too.” He paused. “I hesitate to mention this as a remedy to your problem, but Erma Sherman always seems to have something to eat at her house.”
“But that would mean inviting her,” said Myrtle with a shudder.
“Not inviting her is probably a bad idea. She’ll clearly see you’re having a dinner party and when her feelings get hurt, she’s impossible to deal with,” said Miles.
Myrtle still stalled until Miles said, “I’ll go over myself and ask her. And I’ll invite her to come over.” He glanced through the kitchen door at the tables in her living room. “Maybe she could even bring a chair or two.”
Erma did want to come over. And she did have something to eat. Miles was back in a few minutes with a couple of chairs and Erma. She was wearing an ill-fitting floral dress and carried a tray of food. Myrtle gave her a tight smile and tried to be gracious over the bowls of nuts and crackers and cheese that Erma was carrying, although, they were not nearly as interesting as the fabulous hors d’oeuvres that she’d been planning on serving.
Erma said, “Now what can I do? I love to help in the kitchen! Except I can’t help out if there is shellfish. I have a terrible allergy to shellfish and have the most disgusting reaction.”
Puddin gave Myrtle an alarmed look and Myrtle quickly said to Erma, “Actually, everything in the kitchen is under control.”
Miles snorted and Myrtle repeated firmly, “It’s all under control. What you could do is to help me let people in. For some reason, even though people are invited to my house, they ring the bell and wait to be admitted.”
“I don’t do that,” said Puddin, helpfully.
“But when you let yourself in, it’s at times that I have no idea you’re coming,” said Myrtle in an irritable voice.
Erma said, “No worries, Myrtle! I will greet guests and make sure everyone has something to drink.”
“Yes. And about that ... I’m wanting everyone to have a pre-dinner coffee. And probably a post-dinner coffee. And they can have as much sweet tea as they can possibly consume,” said Myrtle.
Erma quickly translated this in her head. “So ... no alcohol?”
“Not immediately, no. With dinner.”
Erma heaved a tremendous sigh and nodded.
Myrtle returned to the kitchen and got out her mixer. She glanced around. “Why are there never enough outlets in here?”
Puddin nodded toward the slow cooker. “What’s in there?”
“That’s mashed potatoes. I guess I could put the slow cooker in the oven and use that outlet for my mixer. It’s a ceramic pot, after all.” Myrtle took the pot out of the slow cooker and stuck it in the oven with the chicken.
Unfortunately, Myrtle soon discovered that the slow cooker’s top had a plastic handle on it. A top which started burning and making that same distinctive smell. She took out the slow cooker and tried scraping the top of it to get the burned plastic off.
Pasha jumped in through the open kitchen window to see what was going on right as the doorbell rang.
“That witch-cat!” hissed Puddin. “Can’t work with her!”
“Ignore her! That window needs to stay open to get rid of the burning smell!” Myrtle gave Miles a look as he snickered. “You can put yourself to use by seeing who’s there at the door.”
Miles peered out. “It’s Louvenia.”
“Oh good. Maybe she can give us a hand back here,” said Myrtle.
“Well, right now Erma seems to be monopolizing her attention. And serving her coffee.”
The doorbell rang again and Miles reported in. “Now Amos and Bonnie and Felix are here.”
Myrtle frowned “Isn’t it too early for everyone to be here?”
“No, they’re right on time. In fact, they’re a little late,” said Miles. “But Erma is directing them to the nuts and cheeses and giving them all coffee.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Myrtle said to Puddin, “I think this meal is as good as it’s going to get.”
Puddin looked doubtfully at the chicken and the vegetables.
“Could you go and get Louvenia? You know her, don’t you? Ask her to come back here and make sure this is good to serve,” said Myrtle.
Puddin sauntered out of the kitchen and returned a minute later, making a face. “She can’t help.”
Myrtle put her hands on her hips. “Why on earth not?”
“Her is drunk,” said Puddin succinctly.
“What? How can she be drunk? Erma has been giving everyone coffee. Even Elaine hasn’t come over yet with the wine,” said Myrtle.
Puddin shrugged. “Drunk.”
Miles intoned, “A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.”
Myrtle glared at him. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Aesop. Sorry you’re so ridden with anxiety that you can’t weather a couple of minor dinner party mishaps. Although it is annoying about Louvenia. She must have arrived here intoxicated, since she’s only been given coffee here. How disappointing! All right, then, I guess we’re ready to serve.”
Myrtle and Puddin started helping plates and putting them on the table as Myrtle’s guests took their seats. Myrtle saw with relief that her book club had apparently opted not to come. Only the cooking class members and Miles and Erma were there. Even Hattie had come, although she was wearing black lipstick and heavy black eyeshadow.
Louvenia did indeed seem intoxicated. She was laughing uproariously at something that Felix said to her and Felix gave Myrtle a wink. Puddin rolled her eyes and set down the chicken and vegetables with a clatter.
“Oh, my. This looks delicioussss!” slurred Louvenia loudly.
Everyone else was staring at their plates in discomfort. When Myrtle put Miles’s plate in front of him, he said in a hushed voice, “Is the sauce supposed to stand on the chicken? I don’t think I remember that in class.”
“It’s delicious,” said Myrtle sourly. “Be sure to be a member of the clean plate club.”
Amos was dressed neatly in a carefully pressed pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt with a tie. No one else was dressed nearly as nicely; except, of course, for Miles, who always dressed that way. Amos looked a little uncomfortable at being part of the group, but was making halting conversation with Bonnie.
If it was a little quiet in the room, Felix and Erma made up for it. Erma was giving a nonstop monologue about a wonderful dinner she’d had when she’d been an exchange student in France a million years ago (although she’d suffered some sort of terrible stomach flu afterward—she was sure it was in no way connected). And Felix was making Louvenia laugh so loudly that she wasn’t able to even eat.
Pasha, tail twitching and ears back, watched them from the top of Myrtle’s desk, at some distance away. And Puddin watched Pasha.
There was a tap on the front door and Myrtle frowned. “I thought everyone was here.”
It was Elaine. “So sorry—I got caught up at home. Here’s the wine. At least it’s chilled.” She leaned into the room and gave a cheery smile and wave. “Hi everybody! Wish I could stay, but I’ve got Jack with me.”
Myrtle whispered to her, “Jack would be a vast improvement on Louvenia.”
Elaine’s eyebrows shot up as she glanced over at the table. She quickly continued, “Enjoy your meal. I brought some wine.”
There was a cheer from behind Myrtle.
Everyone seemed eager to have wine and Myrtle and Puddin opened the bottles of wine and poured them.
Felix said in an earnest voice, “Miss Myrtle, thank you so much for this lovely meal and all the preparations for it. It was very kind of you to host us here.”
Myrtle beamed at him. “You’re very welcome. I thought, since the cooking class was teaching us some special occasion cooking, that it made sense to have everyone over for a special occasion.”
She was finally able to take a seat, herself. Myrtle noticed that there seemed to be a lot of pushing food around on plates and a lot of wine drinking. She took a bite of the chicken with the sauce. She washed it down with some of her water. It appeared that there might have been too much flour in that sauce. She carefully scraped the sauce off and started in on the chicken.
It had fallen quiet again, minus Erma’s medical monologue. Hattie said abruptly, “Miss Myrtle? Tell me about what was going on in your yard.”
Everyone looked stricken, as if Myrtle’s yard was some sort of terrible scar that shouldn’t be mentioned in front of the person who had it.
“It’s yard art,” said Myrtle. “Isn’t it brilliant? It’s art of yard art.”
“Art of yard art,” said Hattie thoughtfully. “That’s actually very, very interesting.” She looked surprised as she said it.
“Sam Sinclair is the art student’s name. I’m sure one day we’ll have to pay gobs of money for his work,” said Myrtle.
Hattie’s gaze drifted over to the begging, leering gnome near Myrtle’s desk. “Is that more of Sam’s work?” she asked.
Myrtle frowned. She’d meant to move the gnome into another room. “No. No, that’s Elaine’s piece. She’s experimenting with restoration.”
The guests stared solemnly at the gnome, not sure what to say.
Bonnie spilled her wine on the table and looked at the spill sadly. “Oh no,” she whispered.
Felix reached over to try to upright the wine glass and knocked his over in the process. He sighed. “Clumsy.”
Amos leaped up beside Bonnie and started dabbing at the wine with his own napkin. “It’s easy to do,” he said kindly. “No use crying over spilt milk.”
Miles stood and started collecting plates from the table to take to the kitchen.
Myrtle said, “Miles! They may not be finished eating.”
“I am,” said Hattie quickly. “It was ... very filling.”
Felix leapt to his feet to help Miles. “Isn’t it amazing how filling it was? A wonderful dinner, Myrtle.”
Erma leaned over and said to Bonnie, “Just scrape that sauce off and it’s much better.”
Myrtle bristled. Clearly no one here recognized haute cuisine. Even if they’d been taught it in class.
Louvenia seemed to be commenting about the food, but her speech was so slurred that the words were unrecognizable. Felix said, “May I give you a hand, Louvenia?”
It was a good thing he did, because she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t had an arm around her, supporting her.
“So dizzy,” muttered Louvenia.
Felix said solicitously, “Would you like me to take you home, Louvenia?”
“Or you could put your feet up in my room,” offered Myrtle.
“Not feeling so well,” said Louvenia. “Head hurts. Home.” She stumbled a bit and Felix pulled her back up.
Felix said, “I’ll take you home, Louvenia. Then tomorrow maybe you can catch a ride with someone to come back and get your car.”
Myrtle nodded. The last thing she wanted was for Louvenia to drive home from her house in that condition.
Felix said as he walked carefully out the door with Louvenia, “Thanks again, Miss Myrtle. Sorry I had to eat and run.”
“Or just run,” said Myrtle sourly under her breath to Miles as she helped him get the last of the plates. “I’m not sure he ate anything at all. It looked as if he were shoving food around on his plate. I’m certain he hid his chicken under his mashed potatoes. And where’s that Puddin? I need her to start washing up and to serve some coffee!”
Hattie called from the living room, “I really have to get going, myself. I’ve got so much to do right now. Thanks, Miss Myrtle.”
Bonnie and Amos also quickly left.
Myrtle put her hands on her hips. “Well, it hardly seems worth all the work. And I have all this leftover food! You’ll have to take some to Dusty, Puddin.”
“Dusty don’t like burnt food,” muttered Puddin.
“It isn’t all burned. Oh, I guess I’ll freeze some of the rest. What a pain, though,” said Myrtle dejectedly.
Miles pushed his glasses up his nose. “You know, I think it went rather well.”
“Did you? Were you paying attention?” asked Myrtle.
“No, I really do. There was still plenty of food to be had. No one seemed to notice the lack of wine. The conversation appeared to go well,” enumerated Miles.
Myrtle said, “I suppose. Although I wasn’t counting on my cooking class teacher to be intoxicated at dinner. And there was too much food to be had.”
“I guess Erma’s hors d’oeuvres filled everyone up,” said Miles carefully.
Myrtle was about to rant about Erma’s conversational topics when she stopped to peer more closely at Miles. “You’re looking very tired.”
“It’s been a long week. But many hands make light work—I’ll help you with the cleanup.”
“No, no. You were a guest, the same as anyone else. And you also did a lot of cleaning before the party even started. No, you go home and get some sleep. Puddin and I will tackle this.”
Puddin sighed.