The Interview

 

1950 

 

“How long have you been working here? I’m assuming you are an in and out kind of woman.” It wasn’t he was being abrupt. Well, yes he was, and knew it. Reporters tend to be abrupt and rude. He worked for a relatively well known paper, and as a side line, he also worked as an interviewer for a trash paper that paid the rent. 

 

He’d been sitting in this rather nice hotel, just scanning the coming and going. As soon as he saw her, he picked her as the type, hoping not to end up on the street with his suit ripped and hearing sirens heading his way.

 

None of that happen. Apparently, she had no trouble being asked by a nicely dressed and good-looking man who might be able to afford her.

 

“You are a lady of the night, or pardon me if I’m wrong.”

 

She smiled smoothly.  “I prefer Woman of Glory, and to answer your question, that’s not any of your business. Your real question is, am I what you’re looking for?”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Where is this going? I know you’re writing something that will end up somewhere.”

 

“You needn’t worry.”

 

“Please don’t lie! Once on paper……Say something worthwhile or leave me alone.”

 

This was suddenly going nowhere, so he changed the tone quickly. “I will not use your name or where you…..ummm…where you work or with whom you work.”

 

“I need to know a bit more before I give you……well, I’m sure you understand,” she said and lost the smile.

 

“I write for Bedroom Antics.”

 

“I know of it.”

 

“Glad to hear it. It’s become popular, especially among the ladies,” he said.

 

“Why do you think that is? I would have guested men are the biggest readers.”

 

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but my guess it has fewer partially nude pictures. Women are more interested in…”

 

“Women, see men as open books, which they are. Men see women as mysteries,” she said.

 

“You really think men are open books?

 

“Of course not. Men come to me to chat about Shakespeare, poetry and the Stock Market.”

 

“Well, Bedroom Antics has a lot for men readers too. I didn’t mean to say only women read it.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like I’m an interviewer. I gather as much as I can about women in general and especially those of your……your …… is ‘profession’ a word you like? Anyway, men are interested.”

 

“I prefer An Element of Charm.”

 

“So how long have you worked as An Element of Charm?”

 

“Since I was married five years ago.”

 

“I’m shocked!” His eyes blinked.

 

“Are you married?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Happily?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you think a wife does?” she asked.

 

“You mean sex?”

 

“Is your wife An Element of Charm?”

 

“I certainly wouldn’t call her that!”

 

“What would you call her?”

 

“She is sweet, intelligent, and really lovely.”

 

“Another way of saying, you’re not getting enough.”

 

“Let’s leave my home life out of this! I am doing the interviewing! And my wife has nothing to do with it.”

 

“In other words, she’d much rather be doing the laundry.”

 

“Ok! Ok!  My turn!  Would you rather be doing the laundry for you husband?”

 

“Would you like me to show you?”

 

----------------------------------------------

 

“It went well?” Her girlfriend, another An Element of Charm, asked.

 

She smiled. “Of course. I picked he out in ten seconds.”

 

“Jesus! that’s all it took? How do you do it?”

 

“I got him to talk. He thought he was interviewing me!” She smiled.

 

“Did he …..? “

 

“Of course. Very generous. Lovely room in that hotel. Very nice guy. And you can bet he has a lot more interviewing to do.”

 

“Have his name and phone number?” The girlfriend had that hopeful look.

 

“Oh yes, but his business phone. He insisted. Just, tell him you want to be interviewed. Men are open books, especially married men.”

 

Bless Me

 

I closed the tension that watered my eyes 

Until surrounding needs fled the field of nameless noise 

And calmed autumn’s ancient leaves racing the wind 

Giving such soft reminders of all the good that has passed 

Oh how I long again, again to feel the touch that draws me

Into the mountains that Christen the golden moon 

Blessing me to find my way.

Lemon Bars? Not Quite! Lemon Cake By The Careless Cook

   

 

You see, I have a recipe for Lemon bars and really thought about sticking with it, but two reasons popped up:

 

First off, I am The Careless Cook, and careless means I couldn’t take a lot of time. But, with a little sleight of hand ‘Puff’ the problem dissolved.  

 

On we go! I was baking for lots of folks, and my recipe was for 15 Lemon Bars. Not nearly enough.

 

My careful thoughts pushed me away from Lemon Bars, using the same ingredients! Presto, a dandy Lemon Cake.  Same ingredients baked in a cake pan would feed forty in a lot less time.

 

Bingo!

 

Now you’re asking:  Would keeping the same ingredients change the taste?  I found that most of my Lemon Cake was gone faster than fat girls at a birthday party. I really say that. I meant faster than a person of substance.

 

A new concern popped up. Fewer hungry mouths than I’d expected. How ever the few pieces that were left, disappeared with the snaping of purses.

 

But maybe you don’t need to feed forty, or fill up purses. Easily done. Just cut the recipe in half, or bake it all and put the rest in the fridge and save it for when you invite guests for morning coffee, or cocktail hour. See what a problem solver the Careless Cook is!

 

EQUIPMENT

 

9 X 13 Pan

 

Use your Food Processor if it’s big enough.

 

I used a big bowl and a handheld mixer.

 

INGREDIENTS 

 

3 Cups flour (I use Italian flour from Amazon)

2/3 Cups powdered sugar

1/2 Teaspoon salt

12 Tablespoons butter

3 Tablespoons (or more) fresh lemon zest

3 Cups sugar

8 Eggs

 

A dash of vanilla 

1 Cup of fresh lemon juice (taste after mixing and add more if your tastebuds tell you)

 

FOR ICEING, optional:

 

1 Tablespoon butter, melted

A short quirt or two of fresh lemon juice

Enough powdered sugar to make it thicken when you brush it on the cake

 

INSTRUCTIONS – this will not take much time to blend everything together. 

 

HEAT oven to 350F

 

Line the baking pan with parchment paper (makes it easy to get the cake out of the pan)

 

Blend all the dry ingredients in a big bowl, then add the wet ingredients a little at a time, blending well.

 

Pour the thin cake dough into the parchment lined cake pan. To make the cake even, just slap the pan on the counter.

 

Bake for 35 min. Test by sticking a clean knife in the cake.  Bake another five minutes or more if you need to, but be careful. Mine only took about 35 to 40 min.

 

If you are going to make the icing, wait until the cake has cooled.

 

After I put on the icing, I put the whole cake in the fridge for a few minutes to let the icing solidify, then I took it out. 

 

Yes, I did test the results. Can’t take a chance on ruining my good name.  Then I tested the results again. You can’t be too careful.

 

Then I tested one more time with coffee…….but what the heck, I had a cocktail handy…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Delicious Easy Bread, from The Careless Cook

 

 

For a long time now, I’ve stopped buying bread that can sit on my shelf for weeks. Ever read what grocery store bread is made of? Better be good at high school chemistry to truly understand. 

 

It struck me that the grocery bread may last as long in my belly as it does on the shelf!

 

You been to Europe?  Let me inform you. If you buy bread in Europe, you better eat it in three days before mold sets in. European bread has only three or a few more natural ingredients, with no chemicals.

 

Now, some of the nervous crowd may say, “It just make sense to have bread that lasts until your next birthday.”

 

If you are one of those, get used to the wonderful things that begin to happen to your body. Bet it’ll be wonderfully amusing. You and your doctor can share a beer and laugh about it!

 

I have a better way to enjoy life. Bake your own bread!

 

You may say, bread is just too hard to make. Takes too long and I don’t have the time. Anyway, I don’t know how, and what if I don’t like it?

 

Read a few little tips to ease your reluctance and sooth your tummy. Then get off the couch and into the kitchen:

 

1.It ain’t difficult!

 

2.Making the dough takes about ten to fiften minutes.

 

3.Lucky you, I’m going to show you how to do it.

 

4. You will like it, and so will your body and so will your friends who think you are a pro.

 

Wait a sec…..doesn’t take long? What have you been drinking?

Yes, I’ve been drinking….coffee….it’s morning!

 

Check this: Prep time, just as I mentioned. 

 

Four hours letting the dough rise….all by itself... while you do whatever wonderful things you have planned. And what if you forget and let the dough rise another hour or so, don't sweat it.

 

Baking time: 40 min

 

Ok, time to get to the details that turns you  into a quick morning  baker!

 

INCREDIENTS FOR A SESATIONAL LOAF OF BREAD

 

3 Cups of flour (I use Italian flour) and a little more for dusting.

¼ Teaspoon yeast

1 Teaspoon salt (I use fairly coarse sea salt)

1 ½ Cups hot water (about 125 -130F). I use my finger to test. If my finger doesn’t scream, the temp right good.

 

(If you wish, just as I wished, add a heaping teaspoon of dried Italian herbs. No problem if you do or don’t.)

 

 

NOW THE REALLY EASY PARTS

 

1.     Mix the ingredients in a big bowl (I used a spatula to make sure everything is totally mixed.)

2.     Cover the bowl with plastic wrap (I used a shower cap)

3.     Let the dough rest for 3 hours at room temp. (I put mine in the oven with the oven light on.  Do not turn the oven on!)

4.     After three hours, put a hand full of flour on the counter or cutting bord. Scurry the bread dough out of the bowl and on the board. Dust flour over the dough.

5.     Fold the dough together about 12 times, adding more dusting flour if you need it.

6.     Use a longer ceramic dish the length of the dough. 

Before you put the dough in, put in parchment pape.

7.     Cover the dough and let it rest on the counter for another hour.

8.     At the end of the hour, turn the oven on to 450F.  Note I put a loaf of water below.

9.     When the oven reaches 450F, put the ceramic dish with the parchment paper and dough in the oven. (The parchment will turn brown, but will not burn, but sure helps ease the baked bread out!)

10.  Bake the bread for about 35 minutes or when it is browned to your desire. (I like mine very dark brown!)

 

There you have a wonderful bread, soft on the inside, crispy crust.

 

No, it did not take you very long.  Ten minutes to get the dough going. Another five minutes to fold the dough.  The rest of the time is just letting the dough sit.

 

When you cut a slice, paint some butter if you must.  

 

If you really want to charm your friends, tell them how you worked several days with a well-known French baker! Not just fifteen minutes while you did the laundry cut the grass and watched a great movie, while you downed a luscious wine with your loved one. 

 

Fifteen minutes just isn’t nearly impressive enough.

France and England 1937 Part 3

 

                                           France and England 1937  

 

A woman’s voice, stricken with sniffles and maybe tears. He opened the door. Slowly and holding the pistol, although the voice was fairly familiar, but after men of various languages had pounded on him. What the hell. Why shouldn’t a woman give it a try?

 

“Sharon?”

 

“Oh my God, I…..I just….” Followed with a powerful hit from the other side of the open door!

 

The pistol went flying and his breakfast sparing partner showed his snarling face. This time Allain showed his stuff, carefully using kicks and fists to down the bastard, then landed with both knees on the man’s chest. If he wanted to breath he was going to have to earn it.

 

Sharon jerked Allain’s shoulder! “Please don’t hurt my husband!”

 

Allain quickly shook her hand away, hit the man again hard in the face, then again. Blood splattered! Already both cheeks had turned red, blood drippled down his chin.

 

Allain looked back at Sharon. “You brought him here! Now your turn to drag him away! 

 

The man was just getting up, still on his knees. Allain turned, swung with his palm hard into the man’s jaw, probably breaking it. He yelled and clutched his face.

 

Allain got to his feet.  “Now, Sharon, or whatever you call yourself, drag this worthless piece of slop down the stairs. The doorman is going to be waiting.”

 

Sharon did what she could, now speaking clearly in Italian slang. Allain didn’t grasp it, but guessed it wasn’t glad to see ya. 

 

“And by the way, you don’t have kids, do you!”

 

She was no longer crying. More like snarling! Her finger nails scratched his face bringing blood, then pulled a knife!

 

Allain slapped her face, hard! And again, even harder. Now the tears came back. “I don’t smack women, but you don’t fit the profile!”

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Breakfast became just coffee. Sitting alone, not picking up the newspaper.  Another waiter came by and oddly sat down at his table.

 

“I won’t tell you my name, but I am from….”

 

“MI6? I’m guessing.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. I was supposed to watch you, but I didn’t do a very good job.”

 

Allain shrugged.  “And why are you watching me? What have I supposed to have done?”

 

“You? Nothing.  You know Frank Howard?”

 

“I did. He’s dead.”

 

“We understand you’re a writer for the same newspaper and you’ve helped him spread anti-Fascist newspapers in Italy. We may need your help.”

 

Another shrug. “I’m not saying a thing. I don’t know you, or who you work for. Could be anyone.”

 

“Come with me, please. I have a better place to talk and explain things.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Downstairs in this hotel. Don’t worry. I have an office right here.”

 

Thoughts fluttered. Maybe he is MI6. Seems likely since we are going to an office in the hotel.

 

Down they went, step after step, echoes on the close cement walls. The man didn’t push. Walked in front, chatting at bit.

 

They stopped in front of a steel door and stepped in, lights on, a desk, and the two men who had tried to capture him in his hotel room.

 

Allain turned quickly. The so-called waiter pushed back.

 

A lot of Italian spoken. One of the men pulled out a gun and pointed.

 

The MI6 guy, or whoever he was, said nothing. The man with the gun turned and said something. The English man nodded, then said in English. “This place is quiet. Might as well do it now.” 

 

Before anyone had a chance to say another word, Allain put his hand in a pants pocket and shot the Beretta M1934 right through it. All three went down. One in the stomach, and one in the chest plus the English man took it in the hip, leaving him yelling in agony as he hit the floor.

 

“My God! You shot me!”  The Italians said nothing. They couldn’t.

 

“You’re not MI6,” Allain say. “I am. Well not really. But FBI working with MI6. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

 

The man was moaning, unable to speak. But soon he would.  Allain asked this and that. The man held his hip, looking up at Allain standing over him, still saying nothing.

 

Allain kicked the man’s hurt hip.  The man whined, rolling to his good hip.

 

“See, I can do his all day.” He kicked him once and again, making the man left screaming, this time loudly.  Allain didn’t ask, just kicked harder. 

 

Someone must have seen the unknown waiter with a customer going down stairs to the deep caverns of the hotel, where few are allowed.

 

Bobbies showed up and soon two MI6 men. Lots of obvious questions flowed: what, why and who?

 

“So why did you happen to have a pistol?”

 

“I took it off one of the Italian gentlemen.”

 

“And now two men are dead and another is seriously wounded?”

 

One of the other Secret Intelligent Service men spoke. “The two dead, I know them. OVRA. Been chasing them for weeks.”

 

“OK. You may find the waiter is something too.” The MI6 man who had spoken just shrugged his shoulders. 

 

The conversation changed to Allain again.  “You told the third man you were MI6? And obviously you are not.”

 

“True. I’m just a reporter.”

 

“Wait a moment. Why were these men chasing a reporter?”

 

“Does the Name Frank Howard ring a bell? There may be a couple of others, an Italian man and a woman you may want to look for. They had a room here.”

 

One of the MI6 men sighed. “You know where they are?”

 

“I only know where they were. If they come to bash my head in, I'l let you know.”

But he had an inkling.