Death of a Chocoholic (12 page)

I ran into an old high-school friend, Beth Leighton, at this year's Hayseed Ball, who just happened to be in town visiting her parents. I hadn't seen Beth since graduation. She missed our ten-year reunion because she was building homes for orphans in Guatemala, which completely trumped my bake sale to raise funds for my daughter's sixth-grade class trip to Quebec. Beth always had this admirable knack for helping those in need. But I am proud to say that I was the one who helped Beth in a major, life-changing way. That's right. I was responsible for putting Beth on a path to her destiny and meeting and marrying her current (and fingers crossed) only husband!

We were around twenty years old at the time, and I was having quite a difficult time deciding what to do after completing just one year of college. Let's just say, studying wasn't my forte, and the only thing I really learned that year was how to become a good downhill skier. So I ended up back where I started, in my hometown of Bar Harbor, taking a year off to find myself. Which is code for goofing off and partying with my other peers, who were also “finding themselves.”

I got a lucky break when out of nowhere I was asked by a wealthy summer family, who owned a fancy restaurant in town where I waited tables between my junior and senior year of high school, if I would be willing to live in their oceanfront mansion for the winter until they found a replacement caretaker who would take over in the spring. (Their regular caretaker of thirty years had recently retired to a sunnier climate.) I, of course, jumped at the chance to earn some spending money and live on my own without my mother monitoring my comings and goings.

It was a cushy gig. Basically, I just had to live there from September to March and make sure everything was in working order and not let the pipes freeze up over the winter. I was the envy of all my friends. As they headed back to those tiny dorm rooms at college, I was going to be living the high life in a multimillion-dollar estate. Granted, I was told to live in the maid's quarters; but still, it was better than my bedroom at my mother's house, which still sported a ladybug phone and an 'N Sync poster on the wall.

It was a glamorous life spent sipping wine on the porch and watching the leaves change color. But by November, the novelty had worn off. I missed my friends and was bored out of my mind. My closest gal pals had planned a Fort Lauderdale Thanksgiving weekend getaway, but I was unable to attend because of my caretaking duties. I was totally bummed.

By Christmas, I was climbing the walls. I was pretty much over this cold prison by the sea. And to make matters worse, I began hearing strange noises in the night. Squeaks and creaks and all kinds of rustling sounds. Great. Just what I needed. A haunted house. One night I woke up to eerie laughter. Was it a ghost? No, I had just fallen asleep with the TV on and it was a studio audience laughing at David Letterman's joke. The weird sounds persisted, however, and I checked every nook and cranny in the house, even the cobwebbed attic, which was downright creepy. But I didn't find anything. Maybe it was just squirrels running around on top of the roof.

Finally, during the Christmas break, my best friends since kindergarten—Liddy, Mona, Beth, Annette, and Penny—descended on the mansion one night for an evening of gorging on our favorite comfort food, including my mother's famous chocolate pudding recipe she used to whip up when my girlfriends came over to the house. Liddy came armed with spirits just for the occasion—the good kind of spirits, not the ones apparently roaming around in this big house. Her spirits included top-shelf gin she swiped from her parents.

It was just like our high-school sleepovers, in our cute pj's, with lots of gossiping and giggling. But pretty soon those bizarre scratching noises coming from somewhere inside the house started up again. Mona said it sounded like a dog's toenails on the hardwood floors. Suddenly a horrible shrieking noise echoed through the house and all five of us jumped up off the floor, screaming, as we piled onto the couch. We huddled together as the terrifying shrieks stopped and started all over again. Nobody knew what to do.

As usual, in any kind of crisis, my bladder was ready to burst; but the bathroom was down the long hallway, exactly where the frightening noises were coming from. Beth, always helping those in need, agreed to accompany me.

The rest of the girls watched, barely breathing, as Beth and I made our way to the bathroom. Beth slowly opened the door and I felt along the wall for the light switch, when suddenly our eyes settled on the grotesque face of a monster in the bathroom illuminated by the moonlight through the window. We both screamed bloody murder! My finger finally found the switch; the lights snapped on; we found ourselves face-to-face with a giant raccoon standing on top of the closed toilet seat. It was screeching and it wasn't alone. The bathroom was overrun with the wild creatures. Hearing our screams, Liddy went into survival mode and ran to push the panic button on the alarm system, which was wired to the police station in town.

Now I have previously mentioned how quiet the town of Bar Harbor is in the middle of winter. Nothing much ever happens; so when a call does come in, both the police and the fire department respond with flashing squad cars and wailing fire trucks. Then there are the ten to fifteen volunteer police and firemen, bored at home, glued to their police scanners, eager to tag along in the unlikely event they're needed.

Well, when the whole posse arrived, they found five screaming, babbling girls all shouting at the same time about a pack of wild animals in the bathroom. The police chief just stood there taking in the empty gin bottle on the coffee table and the five of us decked out in our fancy pj's. No further explanation seemed necessary.

As it turned out, there was only one mother raccoon and three baby ones, which were quickly trapped and carried away. We never found out how they got in, but one of the babies must have accidentally pushed against the bathroom door, locking the whole brood inside.

The police chief mercifully never mentioned the gin bottle. He just told us to stay put for the evening. During all the commotion, Beth struck up a conversation with one of the volunteer policemen, Danny Mays, who recently had relocated to Bar Harbor from Belfast. Well, before the raccoons were deposited back into the wild, they had planned the first of many dates, which would eventually lead to their wedding, with a rousing reception at the Kebo Valley Golf Club, less than two years later. Yes, if I hadn't decided to become a caretaker for the winter, Beth might never have met her future husband. That's me. I love helping people.

Now if you have a sweet tooth like me, I probably lost you at my mother's chocolate pudding recipe. I have a craving too, so let's make some together. And nothing goes better with chocolate than a chilled glass of champagne.

 

 

1 ounce chilled pomegranate
juice
3 ounces your favorite chilled
champagne

 

Pour the pomegranate juice into a champagne flute, then top with the champagne. Grab some chocolate, and sit back and relax!

 

 

cup sugar
¼ cup cocoa powder
3 tablespoons cornstarch
teaspoon salt
2 cups milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

In a microwavable bowl, combine your first four ingredients. Stir in the milk until smooth. Microwave, uncovered on high for three minutes. Microwave at one-minute intervals, stirring after each minute until thick and creamy. Stir in the vanilla. Pour into a bowl and refrigerate. Spoon into bowls and add fresh whipped topping if desired and then dig in!