Fed Up - By Jessica Conant-Park & Susan Conant Page 0,70
and we don’t all run out and kill the reviewer. If we did, there’d be a trail of evil-reviewer bodies spread out across the country. I still think it was one of Evan and Willie’s stupid pranks that turned deadly.”
In the spirit of full disclosure, I recounted the stories I’d heard at Ade’s shower. In describing Evan and Willie’s unfunny practical jokes to Josh, I again started to worry about their guilt.
“You see? That’s what I’m talking about,” Josh said. “Dropping rocks on someone’s head? Sending their brother skateboarding toward a death trap? Owen is lucky he survived growing up in a house with those two.”
“God, you don’t think they’ll do anything at the wedding, do you?”
“Well . . .” Josh spoke slowly. “I talked to Owen the other day when he dropped off Simmer’s seafood order.”
“And?” I said, panicking.
“He told me that Evan and Willie have been threatening to show up at the wedding with shotguns. You know? Shotgun wedding.”
“What? They’d better do no such thing! The last thing those two nutballs need is to get their hands on shotguns. Does Ade know about this?”
“No, and you’re not going to tell her. Owen said he’d convinced them not to do anything stupid like that on his wedding day. It’ll be fine.”
My lovingly crafted script for the wedding service made no provision for any such vile interruption. What if they made good on their threat? They’d catch hell from me, but I had no idea how I’d give them hell without ruining the wedding. As for Adrianna, she might just turn the shotguns on them.
By late afternoon, Josh, having finished the preparations he could do three days before the wedding, was crashed out asleep on the couch while The Usual Suspects DVD played on the television. To avoid awakening him, I went to the bedroom and spent an hour and a half on the phone confirming wedding arrangements. The white tent would be set up tomorrow, Thursday, and then the tables, chairs, linens, china, glasses, and silverware would be delivered on Friday. The order for champagne, wine, liquor, and ice was set, as was the delivery on the day of the wedding, when the floral decorations, bouquets, and boutonnieres would also arrive.
My fridge was brimming with gourmet food and fresh ingredients. I rooted through the produce, decided that Josh could spare a few items, and made a quick trip to the local seafood store to pick up a bag of mussels for a simple but aromatic mussel bouillabaisse. Josh was still snoozing when I returned. I thinly sliced green and red peppers, fennel, and onions, and then quartered a few tomatoes and began sautéeing the vegetables in butter. I added tomato paste, wine, and garlic, and let the mixture cook for ten minutes. The smell was already wonderful, and when I added clam juice, it got even better. I turned the heat down a bit to let the pot simmer. About an hour later, when Josh woke up, I tossed in the mussels and a pinch of saffron. An advantage of having a chef boyfriend who cooked in my kitchen was that Josh routinely left interesting spices and seasonings, including luxury items like saffron.
When the mussels opened, I dished out large bowlfuls for both of us and was pleased to get a compliment: “These mussels rock, babe.” But when we’d finished eating, Josh fell back asleep on the couch, so I crawled into bed by myself.
On Thursday morning Josh continued with his wedding preparations, but my own wedding duties meant that I couldn’t stay to smell his latest creations. When I was about to leave, the two cats sat poised on the small kitchen table, following Josh’s every move in the hope that he’d drop a piece of meat.
“Inga, Gato, and I have this all under control. Don’t you worry about us!” Josh was slightly manic today. Waving an oversized wooden spoon around, he announced, “Inga is in charge of cutting the pasta, and Gato will supervise her.”
“That’s reassuring. What are you working on this morning?”
Josh checked his prep list for the wedding. “Tabouleh, fruit chutney, celery root soup, butternut squash puree, fennel puree, and pickled peppers. That’s just to start. Easy stuff, though.”
Leaving Josh to cook and, evidently, to train cats as sous-chefs, I went to a boutique in Brookline to pick up my dress and my mother’s. Adrianna had wanted us to choose our own dresses, and she hadn’t wanted us in traditional bridal-party wear, so we were