Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case (26 page)

Crafting Tip

From Marsha Knox of Earth Baskets St. Augustine, Florida

IF YOU ARE NOT A FIBER ARTIST (WEAVER, KNITTER
, crochet, or needlepoint artist, etc.), you probably never realized how hard these materials can be on a body’s hands. To be specific, working with fibers and various kinds of wood such as those used in basket weaving can be extremely drying. Most materials will suck the moisture and oils right out of your skin.

One remedy is to use 100 percent lanolin. In its purest form, it is a very sticky paste. It seals in moisture beautifully, but leaves marks on your work. Solve that challenge by wearing cotton gloves when you craft. They are available at craft and hobby stores, as well as online. (BTW, you can also use lanolin on your hands—and feet!—at bedtime. After applying, don gloves and socks.)

Lanolin comes from the wool of sheep. Although you didn’t need a prescription, in days gone by, you’d ask the pharmacist to scoop some up for you. Most chain pharmacies no longer carry lanolin, but an old-fashioned, nonchain pharmacy may carry it. Lanolin can also be found in most stores with breastfeeding supplies or ordered online. The lanolin helps prevent tender mom parts from becoming dry and cracked, and it works! However you buy your lanolin, you will need very little, as it lasts forever!

Remember, the 100 percent natural lanolin will save your hands from dryness, and cotton gloves will save your projects from being marred. Happy crafting!

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Recipes

MAISE’S FRIED OKRA (In Her Words)

1 pound fresh okra, or however much you want to cook (I find smaller pods of okra to cook up more tender. Go for the 3-to-4-inchers.)

Crisco All-Vegetable Shortening—in the can

flour

cornmeal

salt

pepper

Rinse the whole okra, drain, then cut off the ends—unless you like them. I don’t. Then slice the okra into smallish chunks, about 1/2 to 1 inch. Okra should be slimy when cut, and that’s good. The more slime, the better the okra will coat in the flour and cornmeal mixture.

Now, depending on how much okra you’re cooking, mix flour and cornmeal in a large bowl. I start with a cup of each, but add more if you’re making more okra. I make a mess of it at once, but in batches. Add salt and pepper, and mix those dry ingredients well. A whisk works, but so does a fork.

That large bowl is important because you’ll need room to add the okra and stir and fold those chunks over until they’re thoroughly coated. Elsewise you’ll have a big mess of flour and such spilling out of the bowl.

Some use eggs, milk, or buttermilk in their fried okra batter. I don’t.

Dump your cut-up okra into the flour and cornmeal mixture. Stir and fold those pieces so they get good and coated.

Put a big pot on the stove—a deep one to keep the popping grease to a minimum. I use an old cast-iron pot, but use what you have.

Drop a few tablespoons of Crisco in the pot—about 1/4 to 1/2 cup depending on your pot size. I like the solid Crisco in the can, but I suppose you can use the liquid. None of that olive oil or coconut oil for me. The okra just won’t taste the same. And you be sure to get that Crisco real hot before you add the battered okra.

Spoon the battered okra into the hot oil and let it fry up golden brown—or darker if you want. Fred likes his on the burned side. When one side of the okra has begun to brown, turn it and gently stir as needed as you continue frying.

With a metal slotted spoon or spatula, take the cooked okra out of the pot and drain it on two or three layers of paper towels. Add the rest of the okra in batches until it’s all cooked. Be sure to change the greasy paper towels for fresh ones as you drain your batches.

Now, I drain my okra on those layers of paper towels, but I also pat the top of each batch with paper towels. Fried okra can be good cold, but not if it’s holding grease. I pat the top of pizza with paper towels, too. I may not cook frou-frou healthy, but I know to blot.

SHERRY’S CHICKEN AND ARTICHOKE CASSEROLE

SERVES 10–12

6 or 7 half chicken breasts, cooked, deboned (and cut when cool)

3 14-ounce cans water-packed artichokes

4 teaspoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, pressed

MIX TOGETHER:

2 cans cream of chicken soup

1 cup mayonnaise

1 teaspoon lemon juice

1/4 teaspoon curry

Set aside 1 1/2 cups grated cheddar cheese.

MIX TOGETHER:

2 cups Pepperidge Farm crumb dressing

4 tablespoons butter, melted

Drain artichokes, and slice into smaller pieces before or after you mix with oil and garlic.

In a casserole dish, layer artichokes and cut-up chicken. Spread mayonnaise mixture over top layer, then sprinkle cheese over mayonnaise mixture.

Before baking, sprinkle dressing mixture on top.

Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes.

Note from Sherry Mae: The casserole should be warmed through when the cheese is melted and the crumb topping is browned. I use a 9 x 12, 3-quart casserole or baking dish when I cook for all of us, but you can divide the recipe to bake in smaller dishes for fewer people.

This casserole freezes and reheats very well, though the crumb topping won’t be as crisp. A few minutes under a low broiler might brown and crisp the topping some, but be careful not to overcook.

Keep reading for a preview of Nancy Haddock’s next Silver Six Crafting Mystery . . .

GOODBYE, GOURDGEOUS

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

“NIXY! NIXY, CHILD, WE’RE WAITING FOR YOU.”

“On my way,” I yelled down the stairs.

“We” meant my aunt Sherry Mae Stanton Cutler and her five housemates, aka the Silver Six. They lived together in Sherry’s farmhouse and were closer than blood family. The Six were in their late sixties and early seventies, but they’d worked every bit as hard and long as I had, because they were every bit as invested in the success of our new folk art and crafts gallery.

Oops. Not a gallery. The Six thought “gallery” sounded too highfalutin, aka expensive. We’d settled on naming our enterprise the Handcraft Emporium.

I paused long enough to eye myself in the large oval mirror in the small entryway of my new over-the-emporium apartment. Yep, I’d applied mascara to both sets of lashes. That should’ve been a given, but I’d been known to miss a set. Especially since I’d gone makeup-free for the past month. No point in primping when my waking hours had been spent sanding, staining, and sealing nearly every surface of this old building. I’d even learned to wield a power sprayer to paint the twelve-foot walls, the ceilings, and the exposed ductwork. We’d installed three new fire-rated entry-exit doors and two roll-up service doors, and improved the kitchenette and bathroom in back of the store proper. We’d installed security cameras and alarms, too.

Now the place shone, and we were ready for our grand opening.

“Nixy! Doralee will be here any minute!”

“Coming!”

I clambered down the interior staircase that led to the back room of the emporium. The space now served as Fix-It Fred’s workshop, but we’d decided to use it as a classroom as needed. Like for this evening’s Gorgeous Gourds class.

Fred scowled at me. “You know you sounded like a thundering herd trompin’ down them stairs, don’t you, missy?”

“Thundering herd?” I echoed, grinning.

“You laugh, but steep as those steps are, you’re gonna fall and break a bone someday when nobody’s here to help you.”

“Point taken, Fred. I’ll slow down.”

“Nixy, child, how do we look in our new polo shirts?”

I realized the Six were lined up, as if for inspection. We were each outfitted in a white shirt with “Handcraft Emporium” embroidered in forest green above the left breast. Sherry, Maise, Aster, and I wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, while Dapper Dab wore his shirt with polyester pants and loafers. Elegant Eleanor, as I liked to call her, had dressed up her shirt with blue linen slacks and low-heeled pumps.

“You look fantastic. Are you comfortable?”

“I am,” Dab said.

“I do believe the shirts turned out quite well,” Eleanor declared.

Aunt Sherry ran her hand over the short sleeves. “They’re wonderfully soft, too.”

“I’m so glad we went with the hemp fabric,” our throwback hippie and all-things-herbal expert Aster added. “Hemp is sustainable, you know.”

“We know,” former Navy nurse Maise grumbled, “You can’t bleach hemp in the regular way, though.”

“I don’t think we’ll get that dirty,” I soothed. “Does the shirt work for you, Fred?”

“I ain’t used to working with a collar around my neck, but it’s okay.”

I smiled. Fix-It Fred was a walking hardware store in bib overalls. Tonight’s dark denim pair partly covered the embroidery on the polo shirt, but he did look spiffy. The many tools he stuck into each of his dozen pockets stood soldier straight.

Maise clapped her hands. “Time’s ticking. Is everything shipshape for the class?”

I looked over the room setup. Two four-foot folding tables were in place for Doralee Gordon, the gourd class instructor. She’d face the wall that led into the store. Two similar tables held refreshments at the back of the room. Four eight-foot solid wood tables, which Fred used for workbenches, were positioned in a semicircle to give all the students a good view of Doralee. The arrangement accommodated sixteen students, four per table, a roll of paper towels at each place.

We’d scrounged a variety of barstools to use for classes, and duct taped white plastic dollar-store tablecloths over the workbenches to catch paint spills. They were pretty much beyond harm, but the tablecloths at least made them look clean.

“Looks great. We only have eleven paid students, but this gives us room for walk-ins.” If we had any.

Sherry patted my arm. “Eleven is a good turnout for our first guest instructor. It will take time to build a following. Besides, it’s June. People are taking vacations.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Chin up, child. It’s all good.”

I blinked at Sherry’s use of slang and blinked again as all the seniors but Fred headed through the door into the emporium proper.

“Where are y’all going?”

Sherry gave me a wave. “I told Doralee to park out back, but we’ll be mingling in the store, where I can watch for her in case she forgets.”

“And we’re still training the girls,” Maise tossed over her shoulder as she and Aster scooted out. “We’ll send one of them back to help Doralee unload.”

Eleanor followed. “I do believe they’re splendid additions to the business. They’ll bring in the younger crowd.”

“Maise assigned me to pass out name tags as the students arrive,” Dab said as he strode out, his pants riding his bony hips.

When the door closed behind the exodus, I chuckled, knowing that the true mission was to rearrange their individual art displays.

I cocked a brow at Fred. “You’re not going out front?”

“Nope, out back. Got all my tools and projects locked up,” he said, gesturing at the wall and a half of pine cabinets, some open-shelved, some with doors and padlocks. “I told Ida Bollings to park in the lot out there, so I’ll go keep a lookout for her.”

“You see Ida a lot?”

He winked. “What can I say? I got a weakness for dames with hot wheels.”

“Wheels as in her big blue Buick or that new walker she’s sporting?”

“Both. Besides, she’s bringing her famous pear bread.”

With that he clank-clunked his walker, loaded tool belt fastened to the front of it, out the new back door. I didn’t know how much Fred needed the walker to steady him versus how much he simply wanted to keep all his tools near to hand, but he lifted the thing more than he scooted it. And had the arm muscles of a weightlifter to show for it.

I took a deep breath and basked in the quiet for a moment.

The last month had been exhausting, and the next week would be another whirlwind. Thank goodness Kathy Blakely and Jasmine Young were doing a work-study program with us. Both were enthusiastic about crafts and eager to learn, and all for miniscule pay, store discounts, and free classes if they wanted to take them. Only Jasmine had opted for tonight’s class, which would run from six thirty to eight thirty.

Doralee Gordon should be here any time now, and I sure hoped she would bring all the supplies she’d need. She’d seemed well organized when I confirmed the class details by phone, and what I’d seen of her art pieces lived up to her business name, Hello, Gourdgeous. But if she’d forgotten anything key to teaching the class, we’d have a roomful of unhappy students.

Tomorrow we’d celebrate the first day of our grand opening and host a week of drawings, demonstrations, and discounts that we hoped would bring in buyers as well as lookers. Since three of the Silver Six, including Aunt Sherry, were folk artists themselves, they knew hundreds of other folk artists and craftspeople both in our little part of southwest Arkansas and all over the state. A gratifying number of those artists had agreed to have their work sold in the emporium, and they’d be in the store next week to do demonstrations.

And Sunday, well, we were taking a break from the emporium on Sunday to rededicate the Stanton family cemetery. Aster had already smudged the graveyard to clear negativity by burning sage, cedar, lavender, and something else I couldn’t recall now. Sherry, though, had wanted a formal blessing and had sweet-talked her Episcopal priest into doing the honors. She’d also insisted on a reception on the lawn following the short ceremony. Her farmhouse sat on half a city block, so she’d invited the whole town to attend.

I hoped for a much smaller turnout. I still shuddered remembering why we were blessing the cemetery, and I didn’t want to spend the afternoon rehashing those events.

I glanced at the oversized wall clock hung near the stairway to my loft apartment. Dang, where was Doralee?

I’d barely finished the thought when Jasmine flew through the store door, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“She’s here, Miss Nixy. Just pulling around back.”

•   •   •

“GOOD TO MEET YOU, NIXY, JASMINE,” DORALEE SAID
with a firm handshake when we met at her SUV. “This is my gentleman friend, Zach Dalton. I hope you don’t mind me bringing him to the class. We’re making a weekend of it in Lilyvale.”

“Are you staying at the Inn on the Square?” I asked as Zach went to the back of the car to begin unloading. Jasmine joined him.

“Yes. We haven’t checked in yet, but I understand we don’t have to. Not in the usual way, I mean.”

“You’re right.” I knew the owners of the Lilies Café and Inn on the Square, so I knew the drill. “Just enter your code at the back door. The room key will be tagged with your name and be in the lock.”

“Good to know, thanks. I’d better help Zach.”

I followed and took the handle of one rolling bin while Jasmine took the second one. Zach carried the large box of gourds. The box was awkward but not heavy, Doralee told me.

“Even a box of large gourds is fairly lightweight.”

Sherry had told me Doralee Gordon was fifty-five, but her short, golden-brown hair and her cheerful smile made her look younger. Zach was probably in his early to midfifties, too. Trim and handsome, he was dressed as country casual as Doralee. As he helped unload and arrange class materials, I found him to be quiet but not standoffish, with calm, kind hazel eyes almost the same color as Doralee’s. I liked Zach immediately.

When all the bottles of paint, the brushes, and the handouts were set on the tables, Doralee greeted not only Sherry and the gang, but also the students as they came in. We’d made stick-on name tags printed in large block letters so the students wouldn’t be anonymous faces, and she took advantage of that to call people by name.

The class filed into the workroom, friends chatting with each other. Dab, Eleanor, and Aster had opted to stay in the store with Kathy, but to my surprise, Maise decided to take the class. Sherry did, too.

Sherry, Maise, and Jasmine shared the table closest to the refreshments so they could hostess at the break. Ida Bollings also shared their table, taking a seat at the far end where she could park her new walker out of the way. Fred’s walker was next to Ida’s, and he sat beside her on the tractor-seat stool he’d brought from his old workshop at the farmhouse.

At Sherry’s request, I introduced Doralee, then stood in the back, ready to assist if needed. Zach took an empty spot at the far table.

“Welcome, everyone,” Doralee began. “First, my thanks to Sherry for inviting me to teach you about gourd art, and to Nixy for her lovely introduction. Second, thank you for being here this evening. I hope you’ll enjoy the class. Now, if you have questions as I go along, just holler. Let’s begin with a quick history about the use of hard-shell gourds.”

And off she went, telling the class about the different kinds of gourds, how she came to work with them, and the ways to craft with gourds. She then passed samples of her various gourd art around the class, from simple birdhouses to gourds with designs etched using a wood-burning tool to beautifully painted gourds. She said gourds had been called nature’s pottery, and I could see why.

“Why is a thick gourd better?” Sherry asked.

“They’re more durable and easier to work with, too. The longer the growing season, and the drier the gourds are before they’re cut from the vine, the better.”

“Where do you get your gourds?” a lady in front asked.

“There are gourd farms around the country you can order from, Ann. I get mine from an organic farm in California.”

“Is it hard to grow your own gourds?”

Doralee tilted her head. “I can’t really speak to that, Megan, because I’ve never tried. I’m sure the local nurseries, agricultural extension, or the technical college could help you find that information. Be aware that cleaning gourds is a messy process. You always want to wear rubber gloves and a dust mask, if not a respirator. I also wear a mask when I cut and chisel gourds with power tools.”

“How many kinds of gourds did you say there are?”

“If I name them all, Ginger, I’ll sound like Forrest Gump.” The students chuckled and Doralee grinned. “Seriously, there are at least eight to ten kinds of shapes, and some lend themselves to a project better than others. I like to examine the shapes of gourds and let that spark my imagination as to what it will be.”

Doralee glanced at her watch. “We’re due to have refreshments, and I know you probably want to get to the fun part—painting your gourds. Are there any more questions first? No? Then let’s nosh and paint.”

I snagged a piece of Ida’s pear bread but left the three kinds of cookies Maise, Eleanor, and Aster had baked to the students. We’d opted to serve only bottled water, but no one seemed to mind.

When class resumed, Doralee asked me to pass out gourds.

“Now these bottle gourds are all about the same shape,” she said. “I brought a small size so you could finish tonight, and I removed the neck so they’d be easier to handle. You’ll find a variety of acrylic paint colors on the table and some summery and patriotic stencils and sponges if you want a design on your gourd but don’t want to freehand. I’ll circulate to give you help if you need it.”

I stood at the back, ready to assist again, which I figured would be about the time students needed to rinse their paintbrushes. Doralee had brought white plastic butter tubs that I’d put by the utility sink, and I was straightening to go fill them when the emporium door banged open.

A scowling, burly man stomped into the workroom and pointed at Doralee.

“Doralee Boudreaux, why are you teaching classes when you learned everything you know from me?”