CHAPTER 9

Ethyl Esther crawled out of her hall closet back-side-first, dragging a large cardboard box that looked like it had been dragged many times before.  She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and gave a little sneeze.  Then, brushing the cobwebs and dust off with a worn dishrag,  she began digging through various towel-wrapped items until she found one that was the right shape.  She gave a triumphant yip and yanked it out, scattering the other packages on the floor.

And there it was:The French Whisk.  Her grandma Swartz had bought it in Chicago at the World’s Fair.  A picture of the giant Farris wheel was embossed around it’s porcelain handle and over that waved the slogan: “Meet Me  At White City.”  Her grandma had double wrapped it in winter coats, and carried it in the back of a horse-drawn wagon from Illinois to Montana. Never had she seen such an amazing tool, it cast a spell over her. 

When her beloved Hubert had died eight years before, she had put it under the stairs because she felt that she wouldn’t ever be able to make anything light agin.  But now she held her precious whisk and her thoughts turned inward to the culinary creations she could whip-up.  Visions of brown-crusted pies and thick bubbling stews filled her head:  layered cakes, meringues with cherries on top, pies piled high with whipped cream.  Maybe she could even create a signature item like Mrs. Fields. Ethel Ester’s Gems.  Maybe a pumpkin muffin glazed with a brush of ginger syrup and then she would be discovered and go on T. V.  She was, after all, a professional now and at least as good as Julia Child - just not as high falootin’.