Read Online The Persian Pickle Club by Sandra Dallas - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Dallas
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up at Agnes T. Ritter, who’d just opened the screen door. She started toward us, with Tom behind her. The two of them were almost the same height, but Tom had inherited all the good looks.
“It appears you drank all the lemonade,” Agnes T. Ritter said, scowling at Rita. “So much sugar’s not good for someone in your condition,” she added, as if Rita had a disease. “At least Mom doesn’t get the sugar mixed up with the salt, like some people.” Tom rolled his eyes at me, and I figured Agnes T. Ritter would throw that salt and sugar mix-up at Rita for the rest of her life.
Rita grinned at Tom and said, “Hi, ace.” Then she winked at me and looked over at Agnes T. Ritter and added, “Hi to you, too … Agnes T. Ritter.”
Before I left, I invited Tom and Rita for supper the next evening. That didn’t give me much time to dust and Hoover the house and put out my best quilts and cook the supper, but with Agnes T. Ritter picking on Rita the way she had, I’d gotten an idea.
At noon, after I told Grover about our guests, he told me to serve pickled pigs’ feet and sauerkraut, which was his favorite as well as Tom’s, but I wouldn’t do it. After all, Rita was from Denver and ate in restaurants where the food was cooked by Mexicans and Chinamen. Grover suggested fried chicken, but I told him Mrs. Ritter fixed it better than I did. So he said to make up my own mind, and finally, I decided on ham and red-eye gravy.
Grover approved. “There’s nothing better than redeye gravy and mashed potatoes,” he said. “Put plenty of bourbon in the gravy so Tom can drink it. You know how Howard Ritter is. Tom told me his dad’s farm is the driest place in Kansas, and he wasn’t talking about the weather. Why don’t you make a pie for dessert?” I knew Grover would ask for that.
“Okay. How about rhubarb?” It was Graver’s favorite.
“Rhubarb’s a little past its prime, isn’t it?”
“I found some late stalks that haven’t gone stringy yet,” I said, hoping Grover wouldn’t ask me where.
He didn’t. “I got chores to do before the old dog barks,” he said, leaving me in the kitchen as he headed out to the barn. That was just the way I wanted it. Men didn’t understand how much work there was in a supper invitation. It took me all the rest of the afternoon to do the cooking and set the table. There wasn’t a minute to spare.
In fact, I barely finished in time to go stand in the screened in porch with Grover to watch Tom and Rita walk down the the road, stirring up the yellow dirt that was as dry as ashes. It rose waist-high and stayed there, so you could see only the top half of them. The wind was blowing, too, not hard, just enough to get that darn dust all over my clean house. I ran back inside to close the windows, but they were already shut, with towels shoved into the cracks. Even so, little lines of dirt were forming near the openings.
Rita and Tom weren’t in any hurry and fooled around as they walked along. Every now and then, Rita bumped into Tom on purpose, and they laughed. Watching them reminded me of Grover and me when we were first married and liked to walk around the fields at dusk, kicking at the clods of dirt and jumping over the ruts that the rain had cut into the road.
Tom went off into our east field and picked up a handful of dirt and held it to his nose, then stood up and let it sift out of his fingers. It was powdery, like the dirt on the road. I saw him shake his head and frown and say something to Rita, but by the time they reached us, they were laughing and holding hands again, and so were Grover and I. Rita hugged me, and Tom kissed my cheek, and that was the start of just about the best evening we ever had. Tom and Rita said so, too.
Boy, were they glad to get away from Agnes T. Ritter. “I don’t care if you burn dinner, Queenie. Just don’t give me anything white,” Tom said. “If Agnes isn’t serving creamed onions or cottage cheese, it’s rice or
“It appears you drank all the lemonade,” Agnes T. Ritter said, scowling at Rita. “So much sugar’s not good for someone in your condition,” she added, as if Rita had a disease. “At least Mom doesn’t get the sugar mixed up with the salt, like some people.” Tom rolled his eyes at me, and I figured Agnes T. Ritter would throw that salt and sugar mix-up at Rita for the rest of her life.
Rita grinned at Tom and said, “Hi, ace.” Then she winked at me and looked over at Agnes T. Ritter and added, “Hi to you, too … Agnes T. Ritter.”
Before I left, I invited Tom and Rita for supper the next evening. That didn’t give me much time to dust and Hoover the house and put out my best quilts and cook the supper, but with Agnes T. Ritter picking on Rita the way she had, I’d gotten an idea.
At noon, after I told Grover about our guests, he told me to serve pickled pigs’ feet and sauerkraut, which was his favorite as well as Tom’s, but I wouldn’t do it. After all, Rita was from Denver and ate in restaurants where the food was cooked by Mexicans and Chinamen. Grover suggested fried chicken, but I told him Mrs. Ritter fixed it better than I did. So he said to make up my own mind, and finally, I decided on ham and red-eye gravy.
Grover approved. “There’s nothing better than redeye gravy and mashed potatoes,” he said. “Put plenty of bourbon in the gravy so Tom can drink it. You know how Howard Ritter is. Tom told me his dad’s farm is the driest place in Kansas, and he wasn’t talking about the weather. Why don’t you make a pie for dessert?” I knew Grover would ask for that.
“Okay. How about rhubarb?” It was Graver’s favorite.
“Rhubarb’s a little past its prime, isn’t it?”
“I found some late stalks that haven’t gone stringy yet,” I said, hoping Grover wouldn’t ask me where.
He didn’t. “I got chores to do before the old dog barks,” he said, leaving me in the kitchen as he headed out to the barn. That was just the way I wanted it. Men didn’t understand how much work there was in a supper invitation. It took me all the rest of the afternoon to do the cooking and set the table. There wasn’t a minute to spare.
In fact, I barely finished in time to go stand in the screened in porch with Grover to watch Tom and Rita walk down the the road, stirring up the yellow dirt that was as dry as ashes. It rose waist-high and stayed there, so you could see only the top half of them. The wind was blowing, too, not hard, just enough to get that darn dust all over my clean house. I ran back inside to close the windows, but they were already shut, with towels shoved into the cracks. Even so, little lines of dirt were forming near the openings.
Rita and Tom weren’t in any hurry and fooled around as they walked along. Every now and then, Rita bumped into Tom on purpose, and they laughed. Watching them reminded me of Grover and me when we were first married and liked to walk around the fields at dusk, kicking at the clods of dirt and jumping over the ruts that the rain had cut into the road.
Tom went off into our east field and picked up a handful of dirt and held it to his nose, then stood up and let it sift out of his fingers. It was powdery, like the dirt on the road. I saw him shake his head and frown and say something to Rita, but by the time they reached us, they were laughing and holding hands again, and so were Grover and I. Rita hugged me, and Tom kissed my cheek, and that was the start of just about the best evening we ever had. Tom and Rita said so, too.
Boy, were they glad to get away from Agnes T. Ritter. “I don’t care if you burn dinner, Queenie. Just don’t give me anything white,” Tom said. “If Agnes isn’t serving creamed onions or cottage cheese, it’s rice or
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