Death of a Coupon Clipper (16 page)

The other day after a rather extreme-sports-style cross-country skiing trek in the
park, I was reminded of another skiing adventure I had last winter, which ended in
disaster. Most of the town heard about it over breakfast at Jordan’s Restaurant, so
any hopes I had of maintaining a shred of dignity were quickly dashed. It all started
when I went down to the cellar to look for a few sweaters I kept stored there, as
we were experiencing a particularly bone-chilling cold spell. February in Maine. Big
shock, right?

I was a bit depressed because my best friends, Liddy and Mona, were in Cabo San Lucas,
Mexico, drinking pomegranate margaritas, poolside, at their fancy all-inclusive resort.
They had invited me to join them, but I was too cash-strapped to go. Story of my life.
Plus I didn’t want to leave my kids, because I would miss them too much. That, and
I knew if I left them unattended, they would seize the opportunity to throw a blowout
party with all their friends at my house.

Anyway, while I was rummaging around for my sweaters, I happened to notice my cross-country
skis standing up against the cellar wall and I realized I hadn’t had them out all
year. I decided the way to cheer myself up for not being able to go to Mexico was
to clear my head with a little exercise. Yes, I was going to get up at five in the
morning and go skiing and watch the morning light crest over Cadillac Mountain. What
a refreshing and peaceful way to start my day before work.

Well, true to form, I overslept. It was six in the morning and I was tempted to pull
the covers back over my head. No, I was going to do this. I dragged myself out of
bed and peeked out the window to check on the weather conditions. It was sunny and
the ground was covered with a fresh coating of snow. Perfect! I quickly threw on my
long underwear, pullover shirt, and pants. I topped that off with a sweater, ski pants,
and a down vest. Then I got my ski boots on, grabbed my gloves, hat, skis, and poles.
Because I overslept, and it was now going on six-thirty, I didn’t have time to drive
to the park, so I decided to stick close to town. I let Leroy back inside after he
finished his morning business. For once, he had no interest in accompanying me and
just trotted back up the stairs to my still-warm bed.

I skiied on some back roads, which took me to the shore path trail, and I huffed and
puffed my way along the snow-covered route to the town pier. There wasn’t another
soul in sight, not like in the summertime when thousands of cruise ship passengers
and tourists clog the scenic path.

I was merrily coasting along, when I rounded the corner in front of the majestic Bar
Harbor Inn, which stood high on its hill above the town pier. I pictured myself skiing
down the big slope that ran from the inn to the path. Why not? No one was around.
A little downhill skiing instead of the rather monotonous, slugging-along cross-country
version. It would be fun!

Sidestepping with my skis up the hill to the top, I took a deep breath and shoved
off down the hill. My plan was to fall down to my side so I wouldn’t overshoot the
path and hit the rocks and water below. I laughed and screamed at the top of my lungs
all the way down. Why not? It wasn’t like anybody else was around.

Wrong again. Bobby Spear, who was chugging out in his lobster boat, which he had rigged
for winter shrimping, saw me waving my poles in the air and screaming. Bobby assumed
I was headed straight for disaster. He radioed the police station, claiming some damn
fool was trying to commit suicide by skiing off the town pier and straight into the
ocean. The police called the fire department for rescue assistance. (Since they share
the same building, they probably yelled across the room.) The fire department, in
turn, brought along the ambulance with paramedics.

In the meantime, after safely falling over in the snow, I decided to ski down the
hill just one more time before heading home. That’s when I heard loud sirens and truck
horns honking. I hoped Bruce, my colleague and the paper’s crime reporter, was home
listening to his police scanner because he would finally have something to write about
instead of bothering me.

I began to push off for my final descent, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, I felt
arms grabbing me around my waist. I was lifted straight up into the air and my boots
snapped right off my skis. As I tumbled, I found myself staring into Wilbur White’s
eyes. As you know, Wilbur is one of our big, burly, handsome firefighters. When we
came to an abrupt stop, Wilbur was lying on his back. His giant arms were wrapped
around me, our noses touching. He just stared at me in shock.

You know, I never noticed what nice brown eyes Wilbur has. I can’t believe he’s still
single. Anyway, as we stood up and brushed the snow off ourselves, Wilbur explained
about the frantic call he got from Bobby Spear. I was completely mortified, having
to explain that I was just skiing down the slope for fun and was not attempting to
take my own life. By now, word of my ill-fated escapade was all over the police scanner.
Locals were showing up at the scene, hoping for a little excitement. Most of them
had looks that said, “Oh, it’s Haley Powell. Now we understand.”

I was so embarrassed and didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone, so I looked
out at the ocean, noticing how the islands dotting the bay resembled giant marshmallows.
I’m not a morning drinker, but after this humiliating episode, I went straight home
and prepared a big mug of Irish coffee, which I like to call the Snowman because of
the three scoops of Marshmallow Fluff I put on top.

1 coffee mug
1 ounce Baileys Irish Cream
1 ounce Irish whiskey
3 dollops of Marshmallow Fluff, or whatever you prefer, but, honestly, who doesn’t
love Marshmallow Fluff?

 

Into a coffee mug pour the Baileys and Irish whiskey and fill with hot coffee, leaving
enough room on top to add your desired amount of fluff. Then sit back and relax and
let the stress of the day be washed away.

 

After work I went to the grocery store with my two-dollars-off coupon for a rotisserie
chicken. I completely scored; because on top of using the coupon, they had just reduced
the prices for the evening. I decided at that moment if I couldn’t go to Mexico with
Liddy and Mona, I would bring Mexico home to me. So it was going to be chicken tostadas
for dinner! Simple, quick, and yummy! Olé!

1 rotisserie chicken, skinned, boned, and shredded
4 large 10-inch flour tortillas (or 8 six-inch tortillas, depending on people)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil (more as needed)
2 cups shredded cheese or more, to taste
Shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, salsa, sour cream and guacamole—optional

 

To assemble or to let those who are eating assemble their own. Place your chicken
and other ingredients in bowls.

 

Heat a large frying pan to medium-high heat and brown tortilla on both sides until
golden brown. Be careful not to burn. You can always turn down the heat a bit. Place
tortilla on a plate and add the ingredients you desire. Oh-so-simple and mouthwatering.