A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe by Addison Moore & Bellamy Bloom

Author:Addison Moore & Bellamy Bloom [Moore, Addison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hollis Thatcher Press, LTD.
Published: 2020-08-27T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Sunday dinner.

I’ve seen Stephanie kick into gear and do her fair share before, but never like she is now. It’s the big S—Sunday. And any Italian worth their Mediterranean Sea salt knows the intrinsic importance of this sacred day.

Stephanie and I have been joining Shep at the local church on Sundays, but since my sister thought we should start cooking dinner at seven in the morning, we opted to have a TV preacher on in the background instead. Dinner isn’t until three, but she’s right, we’ve got to get a move on.

We started the mangia madness with stockpots covered with olive oil before we sweated the holy grail of Italian ingredients: chopped onion, celery, and carrots. By the time those were lucent and ready to go, the cabin already smelled glorious.

On the menu for today is spaghetti and meatballs—the meatballs of which are simmering in our Nana Rose’s meat sauce knockoff, a pretty good second if you ask me. Stephanie and I also made the spaghetti from scratch because Sunday dinner is no joke.

We found a great stainless steel pasta press at the restaurant supply store, and we’ve made yards of golden heaven with it. Pasta isn’t all that hard to make, and once you have a taste of the fresh stuff, you’ll never go back.

We’re also serving braciole, sirloin pounded out thin as a wafer and filled with parsley, breadcrumbs, and pecorino cheese. And if you think finding cheese made from sheep’s milk in Starry Falls is tough, you’d be right. Stephanie and I had to venture out to some frou-frou market in Sterling Lake yesterday to procure that dairy-riddled miracle. I told Steph we could have substituted it with Parmesan and Romano, but she said we had to pull out the big guns because the men were coming. And I’m guessing Shep wasn’t included in that testosterone-based equation. Stephanie is moving heaven, earth, Italy, and Starry Falls to make sure everything is just right for the two mobsters on their way to break bread with us.

Shep helped us haul in the elongated picnic table from outside, and we moved our sofas out of the way, transforming our living room into a veritable Italian eatery. We threw a red and green quilt over it in lieu of a tablecloth and set down red placemats and gold charges we picked up on the cheap at the thrift store last week. Steph also set out our best dishes and the cranberry glass goblets Opal let us borrow for the occasion.

And what Italian meal would be complete without Sinatra playing in the background? We’ve got him, too.

It’s almost two-thirty—T-minus thirty minutes until go-time, and just as I’m about to create an antipasto platter that will put every other antipasto platter I’ve ever created to shame, Shep asks if I could help him outside for a minute.

“Anything for you, Stud Muffin.”

“Thanks, Kitten.” He gives a sly wink.

Shep has on a forest green flannel paired with jeans. That dark scruff peppered over his

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