Page 244 of Naughty Nelle

An evil thought lurks in my head. Maybe, I should poison one of them and give it to Marcella. My mind is racing. Yes! I’ll concoct an evil potion using a recipe from that bogus cookbook and dip one of the apples into it. Then, at dinner, I’ll convince Her Royal Skankiness to eat the poisonous fruit by telling her that apples are good for your health. They can even help you lose weight!

“Stop it!” shouts a voice inside my head. “STOP IT!!” the voice says again louder. Okay, I hear you! Enough! Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stay focused on making dessert.

I know. I can bake an apple pie. I made one once with Winnie at Faraway. Okay. Confession. Winnie did most of the work. I merely cut up the apples and swished them around in the sugary mixture. But I think I can handle it. I mean, how hard can it be to add a little crust? If my calculations are correct, it’ll take me twenty minutes to make the pie and an hour to bake it. My dessert will be ready just when The Prince, Calla, and that woman finish the soup and salad. Warm apple pie! Won’t they be impressed!

I gather up the ingredients Winnie used and then quickly peel the apples. As I cut them into thin slices, Shrink’s theory of good vs. evil pops into my head. On an apple scale of one to ten, Marcella’s definitely a one—rotten to the core. Calla, on the other hand, is a ten—unblemished. God’s perfect fruit. I’m not so sure where The Prince fits in. And come to think about it, nor where do I. Maybe, like Snow White, the human hand poisoned me. My mother’s. Trembling, I almost cut myself with the knife.

Jane, get a grip! Focus!Stop thinking about all this nasty stuff! Cooking’s supposed to be fun and get your mind off things. I take another deep breath and scoop the slices into a bowl. I add the other ingredients, except for the flour and the butter. Swish. Swish. I pop one of the sugarcoated slices into my mouth. Yum! So far, so good!

On to the piecrusts. Winnie told me a proper apple pie needs two crusts—one on the bottom to cradle the apples and one on the top to blanket them. “The apples are like the baby,” she said.

Using a well-floured rolling pin, I roll out two crusts. I don’t get it. Why won’t the dough roll out into perfect circles like Winnie’s? Mine are ugly, jagged blobs. Oh, well. They look enough like piecrusts.

I transfer one of the crusts to a deep round earthenware dish, pressing it firmly into the bottom and over edges of the rim. Easy enough. I load the apples onto the crust, piling them high in the center, precisely the way Winnie did. And now the tricky part…placing the second crust over the heap of apples. Carefully, I lift up the limp dough and edge it over the top of the pie. But then it happens. The dough breaks apart. I manage to glue the two pieces together, but I can’t make the patched-up crust cover the filling no matter how much I stretch it. Losing my patience, I tug harder and harder. The dough, now as thin as parchment, breaks into a dozen jagged pieces. I have no clue how to splice them together, and there’s no time to make a new crust. I want to cry.

Putting the sad-looking pie aside, I run over to the cauldron to taste my soup. I’m instantly cheered up. The ingredients have blended to perfection. I dash over to the hearth to check on my bread. The crust is golden brown, and it smells scrumptious. Time to take it out and put in the wannabe pie.

Dinner, my friends, is about to be served.

The Prince, Calla, and Marcella are seated around a long formally set, candle-lit table in the dining hall. The Prince, dressed in a billowy white linen shirt and royal blue velvet vest, is on one end; Marcella, wearing a tacky, low-cut hot pink gown, is on the other, and Calla’s in the middle. Right beside her is Lady Jane, propped up on pillows in her own chair. A carafe of red wine graces the table.

“Marcella, thank you for my dolly!” exclaims Calla with a big fake smile. She’s good!

The PIW glowers at her. “Child, what on earth are you talking about?”

Calla rolls her eyes, then exchanges a wink with me.

Chuckling inside, I have to steady the heavy silver tray that’s holding my three-course dinner. I plunk it down on the table, nearly spilling the tureen of soup on Marcella.

“Jane, I want my dinner served on the table, not my lap,” she sneers.

Duh! I serve the salad first. I hold my breath as everyone takes their first bite.

Bad news. Her Royal Skankiness spits it out and screams. “There’s dressing on this salad! I told you I was on a diet!” She shoves the plate away.

“Yum!” says Calla. “Can I please have more?” I serve her a second helping. She alternates between gobbling the salad and pretend-feeding some to her new doll. “Lady Jane loves it too!”

The Prince’s face brightens. “It has always been a struggle to get Calla to eat her greens.” I take his words as a compliment.

I clear the salad plates, then serve the hot soup and bread. The Prince dips his spoon into his steaming bowl and lifts it to his lips. I hold my breath again.

“Mmm! What do you call this?”

Crap! I have no idea what this concoction of vegetables is called. Think! Think of something quick! “Um, uh Potage de Meeshmash,” I stutter.

“Ah, it’s French.” He scoops up another spoonful. “Where did you learn how to cook like this, Jane?”

Rehab.No, wait! I can’t tell him that. “I went to cooking school in France,” I stammer.

“Vraiment?” comments Marcella, her tone snippy.

Whatever. I smile at Calla who’s giving little “tastes” to Lady Jane.

Marcella hasn’t touched a thing. She’s practically frothing at the mouth, watching Calla and The Prince wipe their bowls clean with the crusty bread. Finally, she can no longer take it. In one swift swoop, she grabs her bowl of soup and scoffs it down. Then she snatches the bread and bites off one chunk after another. Sheesh! How much can she stuff into her mouth?

“Marcella, you hogged the rest of the bread!” sulks Calla. “Not fair!”

The PIW’s eyes narrow; her lips pucker, and her fists clench. “Jane, why did you let me eat all that bread!” she yells as if I’m responsible for her lack of will power. “You’ve made me fat!”

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