shrimp, and chicken. But jambalaya can actually be made from any combination of the aforementioned ingredients. What’s really indispensable, of course, are spices. Tabasco sauce, pepper, garlic, fresh parsley, thyme, and chili powder are de rigueur , with liberal amounts of onions and bell peppers tossed in as well.
For the last forty minutes Carmela had been dancing around her kitchen, chopping, blanching, peeling, coring, seeding, and dicing. She was bound and determined to give her mind a rest from the debacle of Jimmy Earl Clayton’s murder and the nasty accusations that seemed to be piling up against Shamus. Cooking seemed as good a refuge as any.
Now she was ready to simmer most of her ingredients atop the stove in a large pan for an hour or so. Then, once everything was tender and aromatic, she’d toss in the seafood and sausage and finish the whole dish off for another thirty minutes. And, per her momma’s stern advice, she would scrupulously avoid stirring the rice dish toward the end of the cooking process so it for sure wouldn’t lump up.
As the big blue enamel kettle hissed and burped atop the stove, Carmela did help herself to a glass of wine. She yanked the cork from a nice crisp bottle of Chardonnay she’d lifted from Shamus’s private stash before she left.
Grasping her glass of wine, Carmela poured out a cup of dry dog food for Boo, topped it with a dollop of cottage cheese, then finally settled into her wicker easy chair. Even though she’d vowed not to let herself get overwrought about this whole mess, she found her thoughts once again turning toward the man who had once made her life seem joyful and rich, then had haphazardly turned everything ass over teakettle: Shamus Allan Meechum.
Good lord but the man was maddening! And to skip out on her as he had. What had been his plan, anyway? Keep your fingers crossed behind your back when you mumble the old marriage vows, then hit the fast-forward button? Hold everything, whatever happened to the pause button?
Maybe she should be glad Shamus was up to his arm-pits in trouble. Glad he was getting some form of comeuppance for his reckless ways.
Am I glad?
No, not really.
And did she honestly believe that Shamus was involved in Jimmy Earl Clayton’s demise? Well, she’d be the first to admit it didn’t look good. Shamus did have a famously hot temper, that was for sure. And certain events in his life had proved that Shamus wasn’t always a colossally clear-headed thinker or was immune from acting the fool.
There had been that silly business about stashing a goat in the dean’s office when he was a senior at Tulane. In addition to consuming a perfectly good leather couch, the goat had committed a nasty indiscretion on the dean’s Aubusson carpet. Besides rating a couple inches in the newspaper, that goat incident had almost kept Shamus from being admitted to graduate school. But then his family had stepped in. God forbid the pride of the Meechum clan didn’t continue on and earn his MBA.
There had also been some problem with a belly dancer from Meterie that Shamus had hired for Joe Bud Kerney’s bachelor party. Besides her penchant for Casbah-style dancing, Miss Meterie also had a nasty little habit of picking pockets. So, while she’d been charming her audience with the dance of the seven veils, she’d also been pocketing Rolexes and pinching Diners Club cards.
Shamus had also been involved in something a few months ago, just before he’d walked out on her. Carmela recalled hearing Shamus on the telephone, angry and insistent, telling Seth Barstow, one of Crescent City Bank’s corporate lawyers, to handle it. It being something that had to do with construction loans and land zoning. She’d asked Shamus what the heck was going on, but he’d never made her privy to any of the details. Again, his family had swooped in and supposedly taken care of things. The big fix, as he always called it.
Will they be able to fix things this time?
For the last forty minutes Carmela had been dancing around her kitchen, chopping, blanching, peeling, coring, seeding, and dicing. She was bound and determined to give her mind a rest from the debacle of Jimmy Earl Clayton’s murder and the nasty accusations that seemed to be piling up against Shamus. Cooking seemed as good a refuge as any.
Now she was ready to simmer most of her ingredients atop the stove in a large pan for an hour or so. Then, once everything was tender and aromatic, she’d toss in the seafood and sausage and finish the whole dish off for another thirty minutes. And, per her momma’s stern advice, she would scrupulously avoid stirring the rice dish toward the end of the cooking process so it for sure wouldn’t lump up.
As the big blue enamel kettle hissed and burped atop the stove, Carmela did help herself to a glass of wine. She yanked the cork from a nice crisp bottle of Chardonnay she’d lifted from Shamus’s private stash before she left.
Grasping her glass of wine, Carmela poured out a cup of dry dog food for Boo, topped it with a dollop of cottage cheese, then finally settled into her wicker easy chair. Even though she’d vowed not to let herself get overwrought about this whole mess, she found her thoughts once again turning toward the man who had once made her life seem joyful and rich, then had haphazardly turned everything ass over teakettle: Shamus Allan Meechum.
Good lord but the man was maddening! And to skip out on her as he had. What had been his plan, anyway? Keep your fingers crossed behind your back when you mumble the old marriage vows, then hit the fast-forward button? Hold everything, whatever happened to the pause button?
Maybe she should be glad Shamus was up to his arm-pits in trouble. Glad he was getting some form of comeuppance for his reckless ways.
Am I glad?
No, not really.
And did she honestly believe that Shamus was involved in Jimmy Earl Clayton’s demise? Well, she’d be the first to admit it didn’t look good. Shamus did have a famously hot temper, that was for sure. And certain events in his life had proved that Shamus wasn’t always a colossally clear-headed thinker or was immune from acting the fool.
There had been that silly business about stashing a goat in the dean’s office when he was a senior at Tulane. In addition to consuming a perfectly good leather couch, the goat had committed a nasty indiscretion on the dean’s Aubusson carpet. Besides rating a couple inches in the newspaper, that goat incident had almost kept Shamus from being admitted to graduate school. But then his family had stepped in. God forbid the pride of the Meechum clan didn’t continue on and earn his MBA.
There had also been some problem with a belly dancer from Meterie that Shamus had hired for Joe Bud Kerney’s bachelor party. Besides her penchant for Casbah-style dancing, Miss Meterie also had a nasty little habit of picking pockets. So, while she’d been charming her audience with the dance of the seven veils, she’d also been pocketing Rolexes and pinching Diners Club cards.
Shamus had also been involved in something a few months ago, just before he’d walked out on her. Carmela recalled hearing Shamus on the telephone, angry and insistent, telling Seth Barstow, one of Crescent City Bank’s corporate lawyers, to handle it. It being something that had to do with construction loans and land zoning. She’d asked Shamus what the heck was going on, but he’d never made her privy to any of the details. Again, his family had swooped in and supposedly taken care of things. The big fix, as he always called it.
Will they be able to fix things this time?
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