kid here who looks like a bleeping
owl
with those glasses!"
"And this is Sam," Dr. Krupnik said, gesturing toward Sam, who was still clutching the jar of peanuts and staring at Annie with his mouth open.
"What does he have, premature acne?" Annie roared, laughing. She reached over and did the one thing Sam hated most in the world: She rubbed her hand through his curly hair. Sam took a step backward. "Hey, Sambo, you're okay," she said, "even if you do have leprosy or something god-awful."
"Sam is recovering from chicken pox," Dr. Krupnik explained, but Annie didn't seem to be listening.
For Anastasia, the "Sambo" had done it. She hated Annie. She hated anyone who said "Sambo." She wished she hadn't prepared a gourmet dinner. She wished she had stuck to her plan of hot dogs, eaten standing up.
Annie had burst into the living room, where Steve was still sitting on the couch. "ANOTHER ONE?" she brayed. "No wonder you never wrote, Mike; you spent all those years just turning out bleeping kids!"
"This is my daughter's friend, Steve Harvey," Dr. Krupnik said in a tense voice. "Steve, this is Annie O'Donnell."
Annie flung herself onto the couch beside Steve and roared with laughter. "I haven't heard that bleeping name for years!" she shrieked. "It's Annie Cummings now."
"Oh," said Anastasia's father politely. "I should have realized that you were married."
"Past tense," Annie said, and reached for some of the peanuts which Sam had poured carefully into the bowl. "Cummings came and went, but I kept his name. Before that I was Valdez. He came and went, too. And before that was, let's see, Wolf. Or maybe it was Fox: some nasty animal, anyway."
"You've been married three times?" Anastasia asked in amazement.
"But who's counting, right?" Annie chortled. "Lemme look at you, Mike." She peered across the room at Anastasia's father. "Got a bit of a pot, and you've lost your hair. Age takes its toll, right? Look at me, I'm forty bleeping pounds overweight!" While Anastasia watched in embarrassment, Annie grabbed two handfuls of her own stomach and shook it. She grinned. "Know what I call that? Love handles, that's what!"
Steve Harvey hadn't said a word. He hadn't even taken any more peanuts. He was simply staring. So was Sam. So was Myron Krupnik.
Anastasia took a deep breath. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm going to serve dinner."
***
They ate, as Anastasia had planned, by candlelight. The purple tablecloth glowed; the flowers gleamed in the center of the table. Sam sat politely, boosted up in his chair by books, and stirred the food on his plate with his fork. He picked out a few mushrooms, ate them, and left the rest.
Anastasia had lost her appetite. She ate a few bites of veal and wiped her mouth a lot with her napkin because she couldn't figure out what else to do with her hands.
Her father ate mechanically, smiling a lot, a frozen sort of smile. "It's very good, Anastasia," he said.
"Yeah," said Steve, and reached over to help himself to more.
"
Good?
" Annie bellowed. "It's bleeping fabulous! Did you cook this all by yourself, kid?" Anastasia nodded.
"Well, no question," said Annie with her mouth full, "you've got a bleeping genius here, Mike. And she'll be pretty sometime, too, if she just gets rid of those bleeping glasses and quits looking like a bleeping owl!"
Anastasia stared at her plate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Annie's huge arm reach over to take another helping of veal.
Suddenly Annie screeched. "WHAT THE BLEEP IS
THIS?
"
Anastasia looked over. Annie was poking her fork at a grayish mound on her plate with a look of disgust.
"It's veal marrow and knucklebones," Anastasia said in a loud, distinct voice. "I added them to give additional flavor. That's what
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
told me to do, and it wasn't easy. It took me a long time to figure out how to do it."
"Well, you're supposed to take it
out,
kiddo, before you serve the meal. Good thing I have a strong stomach. For a minute I
owl
with those glasses!"
"And this is Sam," Dr. Krupnik said, gesturing toward Sam, who was still clutching the jar of peanuts and staring at Annie with his mouth open.
"What does he have, premature acne?" Annie roared, laughing. She reached over and did the one thing Sam hated most in the world: She rubbed her hand through his curly hair. Sam took a step backward. "Hey, Sambo, you're okay," she said, "even if you do have leprosy or something god-awful."
"Sam is recovering from chicken pox," Dr. Krupnik explained, but Annie didn't seem to be listening.
For Anastasia, the "Sambo" had done it. She hated Annie. She hated anyone who said "Sambo." She wished she hadn't prepared a gourmet dinner. She wished she had stuck to her plan of hot dogs, eaten standing up.
Annie had burst into the living room, where Steve was still sitting on the couch. "ANOTHER ONE?" she brayed. "No wonder you never wrote, Mike; you spent all those years just turning out bleeping kids!"
"This is my daughter's friend, Steve Harvey," Dr. Krupnik said in a tense voice. "Steve, this is Annie O'Donnell."
Annie flung herself onto the couch beside Steve and roared with laughter. "I haven't heard that bleeping name for years!" she shrieked. "It's Annie Cummings now."
"Oh," said Anastasia's father politely. "I should have realized that you were married."
"Past tense," Annie said, and reached for some of the peanuts which Sam had poured carefully into the bowl. "Cummings came and went, but I kept his name. Before that I was Valdez. He came and went, too. And before that was, let's see, Wolf. Or maybe it was Fox: some nasty animal, anyway."
"You've been married three times?" Anastasia asked in amazement.
"But who's counting, right?" Annie chortled. "Lemme look at you, Mike." She peered across the room at Anastasia's father. "Got a bit of a pot, and you've lost your hair. Age takes its toll, right? Look at me, I'm forty bleeping pounds overweight!" While Anastasia watched in embarrassment, Annie grabbed two handfuls of her own stomach and shook it. She grinned. "Know what I call that? Love handles, that's what!"
Steve Harvey hadn't said a word. He hadn't even taken any more peanuts. He was simply staring. So was Sam. So was Myron Krupnik.
Anastasia took a deep breath. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm going to serve dinner."
***
They ate, as Anastasia had planned, by candlelight. The purple tablecloth glowed; the flowers gleamed in the center of the table. Sam sat politely, boosted up in his chair by books, and stirred the food on his plate with his fork. He picked out a few mushrooms, ate them, and left the rest.
Anastasia had lost her appetite. She ate a few bites of veal and wiped her mouth a lot with her napkin because she couldn't figure out what else to do with her hands.
Her father ate mechanically, smiling a lot, a frozen sort of smile. "It's very good, Anastasia," he said.
"Yeah," said Steve, and reached over to help himself to more.
"
Good?
" Annie bellowed. "It's bleeping fabulous! Did you cook this all by yourself, kid?" Anastasia nodded.
"Well, no question," said Annie with her mouth full, "you've got a bleeping genius here, Mike. And she'll be pretty sometime, too, if she just gets rid of those bleeping glasses and quits looking like a bleeping owl!"
Anastasia stared at her plate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Annie's huge arm reach over to take another helping of veal.
Suddenly Annie screeched. "WHAT THE BLEEP IS
THIS?
"
Anastasia looked over. Annie was poking her fork at a grayish mound on her plate with a look of disgust.
"It's veal marrow and knucklebones," Anastasia said in a loud, distinct voice. "I added them to give additional flavor. That's what
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
told me to do, and it wasn't easy. It took me a long time to figure out how to do it."
"Well, you're supposed to take it
out,
kiddo, before you serve the meal. Good thing I have a strong stomach. For a minute I
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