“Gigi, here in the fudge—bacon grease in this can?”
“Yes, I save it. Can be useful.”
“Can indeed! And I see two eggs.”
“Well, yes. But two eggs split three ways is sort of feeble. But I’ll fry one for you and one for Joe.”
“Go soak your head, cuddle baby; I’m going to teach you Depression cooking I learned in the nineteen-thirties.”
Gigi Branca suddenly looked upset. “Joan, you gave me goose bumps. I can’t realize how old you are-but you’re not, really—are you?”
“Depends on which rubber ruler you use, dear. I remember the Great Depression of the thirties; I was about as old as you are now. By that scale I’m ninety-five. Looked at another way, I’m only weeks old and not able to crawl without help. Always making mistakes. But by still a third way to measure it I’m the age of this body—Eunice’s body—and that’s how I like to be treated. Don’t let rue be a ghost, dear—hug me and tell me I’m not.” (What you got against ghosts, Boss?) (Nothing at all, some of my best friends are ghosts—but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one.) (Very funny, Boss—who writes your gags? We did marry a ghost—in Dr. Olsen’s examining room.) (Ouch! Sorry about it, Eunice?) (No, Boss darling, you’re just the old goat—old ghost, pardon me!—I want for our little bastard.) (Love you, too. Busybody.)
Gigi hugged her.
“First we melt the bacon grease and make sure it’s not rancid—or not too rancid. Then we soak the bread in it and fry it. We scramble the eggs and since we don’t have cream to stretch them, we use what we find. I’ll settle for powdered milk, or flour, or cornstarch. Even dry gelatin. We don’t salt the eggs, the grease may be salty enough—salt to taste, afterwards. But if you have Worcestershire sauce, or A-l, or anything like that, we add a little before we scramble. Then we spoon this goop onto six slices of fried bread, two to a customer, and garnish with paprika, or dried parsley, or chopped most anything, to make it look fancy.
This is creative cookery a la W.P.A. We set the table the best we can manage—fancy cloth and real napkins, if you have them. A flower, even an artificial one. Or a candle.
Anything to swank it up. Now—do I fry the bread while you stretch the eggs? Or vice versa?”
Joe reluctantly came to the table, absentmindedly took a bite—looked surprised. “Who cooked?”
“We both did,” Joan answered.
“So? Tasty.”
“Joan showed me how and we’ll have it again sometime, Joe,” Gigi amended.
“Soon.”
“All right. Joan, you can read, can’t you?”
“Why, yes.”
“Thought you could. There’s a letter from Joe’s mother, been here three days. I’ve been meaning to find somebody to read it, but Joe’s kept me busy posing and Joe is particular who reads his mother’s letters.”
“Gigi, Joan’s company. Not polite.”
“Joe, am I company? If I am, I won’t finish breakfast and I won’t pose—I’ll call Anton and Fred and go home!”
(‘That’s telling him, Fat Lady!’) (That’s a vulgar joke, Eunice.) (I’m vulgar, Boss. Come to think about it, you’re about as vulgar as they come yourself, though I wasn’t sure of it till I woke up inside your head.) (I give up. But Joe can’t make us ‘company.’) (Of course not. Quiver your chin and make him kiss you—he’s never kissed you with the lights on.)
Joe said soberly, “Sorry, Joan Eunice.”
Joan pouted her lip. “You ought to be. You ought to kiss me and tell me I’m family. Not ‘company.’”
“She’s right,” agreed Gigi. “You’ve got to kiss and make up.”
“Oh, hell.” Joe stood up, came around to Joan Eunice’s chair, took her face, tilted it up and kissed her. “Family.
Not company. Now eat!”
“Yes, Joe. Thank you.” (He can do better.) (So we both know.) “But, Joe, I won’t read your letter unless you want me to. Gigi, you startled me when you indicated you could not read. I thought I could tell by the way a person talks. Is it your eyesight?”
“Eyes are okay. Oh, I’m a real Talking Woman. Had some coaching, done some little theater. Probably should have learned to read—though I can’t say I’ve missed it. Computer fouled up my pre-school test records and I was in sixth grade before anybody caught it. Then it was sort o’ late to change tracks and I stayed on the ‘practical’. There was talk of putting me through a remedial but the principal put his foot down. Said there wasn’t enough budget to handle the ones that could benefit from it.” She shrugged.