Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese Page B
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
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Mississippi could cook.
Nina knew this, and, being a child of The Deep South herself, had always known it.
But she was still somewhat taken aback when she walked into the dining room, surveyed the tables elegantly laid out with candles flickering radiantly and silverware glittering—and made her way beside the long and sumptuously endowed buffet.
Mildred and the others had done wonders, especially given the fact that they’d all felt compelled to quit no more than half a day before.
It was a southern feast.
There before her, simmering in platters warmed by small gas flames, were all the great dishes of her youth, just as they’d been prepared by her mother and her mother’s mother and all the mothers before that.
Fried chicken.
(Of course.)
Honey-glazed ham.
Veal cutlets.
(Choice of wondrously thick cream gravy or succulent scented brown gravy)
Fried catfish.
(Not farmed catfish but catfish fresh caught out of the magnificent Mississippi River and cooked in a special batter whose secret ingredients no Yankee had ever succeeded in prying away from anyone living below the Mason Dixon Line.)
Golden fried jumbo shrimp flown up that morning from the coast.
Fresh lump crabmeat.
Oysters on the half shell.
And, of course, the side dishes.
New Potatoes.
Mashed Potatoes.
Fried Potatoes.
Squash.
Beets.
Black eyed peas.
Green peas.
Green beans in mushroom sauce with delicately breaded onion rings atop them.
And niblets of something else, a treasure that none of the northern-based cozy writers had ever seen before, and that elicited awed questions such as:
“What is that? I’ve never seen that before!”
“What are those things?”
Questions which made Nina, always proud of her heritage, smile as she said, in answer to whomever she could reach with her soft voice.
“It’s fried okra.”
“It’s what?”
“Fried okra. And look, Mildred has done it just right. Just enough to make the okra bits crunchy like they should be.”
“I see.”
“Try it. Take some!”
And, of course, most of them, remembering okra as slimy and runny and squid-like, did not.
There was iced tea, there were urns of freshly-roasted coffee, there was juice, and, of course, there were decanters of white and red wine.
Nina watched as the cozy writers made their way up and back, along the buffet line, astonished at the huge amount of food that had been made available to them and certain that most of it would remain un-eaten, given what were almost certainly birdlike appetites of the ladies.
In this last, though, she was proven completely wrong.
The Cozy Writers ate like Teamsters.
They plowed through the chicken, gorged on the fish, shoveled potatoes of all kind on their plates, made mincemeat of the crab offerings, devoured the veal and sopped up the gravy with roll after roll after roll after biscuit after biscuit and then as though they had nothing better to do and an infinite amount of appetite to satisfy began to wolf down slice after slice after slice of apple, cherry and chocolate pie.
“My God,” Nina found herself whispering to Margot, who was standing with her in an equal state of astonishment, “can these women eat!”
“We may,” Margot replied quietly, “have to slaughter some of the cattle.”
They were not forced to take such drastic steps for, after only an hour or so of feasting and drinking, the Roman Orgy was over.
Plates were removed from tables, some last cups of coffee or glasses of port or burgundy were poured, chairs were turned to face the dais, and Harriet Crossman had risen to address, for the first time this year, the plenary congress of the American Guild of Cozy Writers.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to you all!”
Some shouts from the audience.
“Hear, hear!”
The sound of a few knives, a few forks, a few spoons, ratting on the tables.
“Tomorrow morning at precisely eight o’clock—for you all know, that as mystery authors we all value precision, else how could our lady
Nina knew this, and, being a child of The Deep South herself, had always known it.
But she was still somewhat taken aback when she walked into the dining room, surveyed the tables elegantly laid out with candles flickering radiantly and silverware glittering—and made her way beside the long and sumptuously endowed buffet.
Mildred and the others had done wonders, especially given the fact that they’d all felt compelled to quit no more than half a day before.
It was a southern feast.
There before her, simmering in platters warmed by small gas flames, were all the great dishes of her youth, just as they’d been prepared by her mother and her mother’s mother and all the mothers before that.
Fried chicken.
(Of course.)
Honey-glazed ham.
Veal cutlets.
(Choice of wondrously thick cream gravy or succulent scented brown gravy)
Fried catfish.
(Not farmed catfish but catfish fresh caught out of the magnificent Mississippi River and cooked in a special batter whose secret ingredients no Yankee had ever succeeded in prying away from anyone living below the Mason Dixon Line.)
Golden fried jumbo shrimp flown up that morning from the coast.
Fresh lump crabmeat.
Oysters on the half shell.
And, of course, the side dishes.
New Potatoes.
Mashed Potatoes.
Fried Potatoes.
Squash.
Beets.
Black eyed peas.
Green peas.
Green beans in mushroom sauce with delicately breaded onion rings atop them.
And niblets of something else, a treasure that none of the northern-based cozy writers had ever seen before, and that elicited awed questions such as:
“What is that? I’ve never seen that before!”
“What are those things?”
Questions which made Nina, always proud of her heritage, smile as she said, in answer to whomever she could reach with her soft voice.
“It’s fried okra.”
“It’s what?”
“Fried okra. And look, Mildred has done it just right. Just enough to make the okra bits crunchy like they should be.”
“I see.”
“Try it. Take some!”
And, of course, most of them, remembering okra as slimy and runny and squid-like, did not.
There was iced tea, there were urns of freshly-roasted coffee, there was juice, and, of course, there were decanters of white and red wine.
Nina watched as the cozy writers made their way up and back, along the buffet line, astonished at the huge amount of food that had been made available to them and certain that most of it would remain un-eaten, given what were almost certainly birdlike appetites of the ladies.
In this last, though, she was proven completely wrong.
The Cozy Writers ate like Teamsters.
They plowed through the chicken, gorged on the fish, shoveled potatoes of all kind on their plates, made mincemeat of the crab offerings, devoured the veal and sopped up the gravy with roll after roll after roll after biscuit after biscuit and then as though they had nothing better to do and an infinite amount of appetite to satisfy began to wolf down slice after slice after slice of apple, cherry and chocolate pie.
“My God,” Nina found herself whispering to Margot, who was standing with her in an equal state of astonishment, “can these women eat!”
“We may,” Margot replied quietly, “have to slaughter some of the cattle.”
They were not forced to take such drastic steps for, after only an hour or so of feasting and drinking, the Roman Orgy was over.
Plates were removed from tables, some last cups of coffee or glasses of port or burgundy were poured, chairs were turned to face the dais, and Harriet Crossman had risen to address, for the first time this year, the plenary congress of the American Guild of Cozy Writers.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to you all!”
Some shouts from the audience.
“Hear, hear!”
The sound of a few knives, a few forks, a few spoons, ratting on the tables.
“Tomorrow morning at precisely eight o’clock—for you all know, that as mystery authors we all value precision, else how could our lady
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