Beyond Delicious: The Ghost Whisperer's Cookbook. Mary Ann Winkowski
CHICKEN NOODLE CASSEROLE
MEN RARELY CALL FOR MY HELP, mostly because most men don’t believe in what I can do. It doesn’t bother me—it’s just one of those facts I’ve learned along the way. I swear, a ghost could hit some of the husbands I’ve met over the head with a broomstick and they still wouldn’t believe. Ralph believed, though.
Ralph’s dogs had been acting strange, as he put it, for about the last six months. He lived alone—never married, no kids—with his dogs, and they’d got used to each other’s rhythms pretty well. He was usually home from the factory where he worked by two in the afternoon, and he’d take the dogs for a walk or just run them around in the backyard. He had three dogs. Two were mother, and son and the other was a stray female he inherited. Life was pretty routine for Ralph, so he tended to notice even the slightest thing that was peculiar.
The first thing that clued him in to something being amiss was that his male dog took to rolling over and exposing his belly when they were in the backyard. He’d done that as a pup for his mother, of course, but he didn’t do it very often anymore. Now he did it all the time. He’d be running across the yard after a ball, and he’d suddenly just drop and roll over, a sheepish, ears-back look on his face.
There were other things, too. All three of the dogs would growl in the house when they’d never growled before. Usually it was the male, and Ralph’s first thought had been that the dog was going funny, but then he noticed the females doing it, too. They’d just stand and stare at the air in an empty room and growl.
“Yup. There’s a ghost here,” I agreed, looking the man standing before me with a giant Rottweiler at his feet. “And he’s got a dog with him.”
“Are you kidding?” Ralph checked. “I didn’t think dogs had, you know, ghosts.”
“Oh sure,” I said. “I’ve seen all kinds of animal ghosts. And it’s that dog that’s making your dogs act strange.”
“Rocky don’t mean no harm,” the ghost said. “He’s just no good with other dogs, especially ones that took his house. I’m Ernie, by the way.” He actually extended his hand to me to shake before he caught himself and withdrew it, chuckling nervously.
“Ralph, how long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years, at least.”
“Do you remember who you bought the house from?”
“No, not this house,” Ernie cut in. “Rocky’s protecting his house, out in the yard.”
“Did you buy a doghouse recently?” I asked Ralph. He narrowed his eyes and thought for a second.
“You know, I did. I built the other two, but I saw a great price on a used one and figured I couldn’t make a third for less, so I bought it.”
“How long ago?’ I checked. “About six months?”
“Yeah …” Ralph agreed.
“Well you got more than a bargain, Ralph. You also got a ghost named Ernie and his dog, Rocky.”
Once the mystery was solved, Ralph was ready to see that Ernie and his dog crossed over, and Ernie had no problem with that. What he did have a problem with was Ralph’s cooking.
“If you can call it cooking,” he elaborated. “He just eats sandwiches and hot dogs. You know, I lived alone, too—well, except for Rocky—and I used to cook. I used to make this great chicken noodle casserole. He could even make it the night before and warm it up when he got home.”
I gave the recipe to Ralph. He took one look at it and smiled widely. “This looks great! No veggies! I hate veggies!”
Chicken Noodle Casserole
1 medium-sized chicken
1 pound egg noodles
1 tablespoon flour
½ cup milk
¾ cup buttered bread crumbs
Stew chicken until tender. Replenish water while cooking so that there will be 6 or 7 cups of broth. Take out 2 cups of broth. Add noodles to the remaining broth; cook gently until noodles are tender and the broth is absorbed. Meanwhile, dice the chicken and place in a good-sized casserole. Pour over it 2 cups of reserved broth thickened with flour and softened with milk. Spread the cooked noodles on top, cover with buttered breadcrumbs, and bake until brown at 350 degrees. This can be prepared early in the day, placed in the refrigerator, and put in the oven just in time to heat through and brown before serving.
HAM PANCAKE CASSEROLE
YVONNE HEARD THE TELLTALE PATTER of little feet in the hallway, heading for her room. Sure enough, seconds later the bedroom door glided all the way open, and in came Lanie and Laurie, her three-and five-year-old daughters. They’d lived in this house two years now, and Yvonne couldn’t remember a single night when the girls had slept in their own room.
Ed, Yvonne’s husband, grunted and rolled over when the girls clambered into the bed. He surfaced long enough to register that Lanie, the youngest, was crying, and that got him fully awake.
“What is it, honey?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“She pulled my hair again,” Lanie grumbled.
“Who did? Laurie?” Both girls shook their heads. Ed glanced at his wife. They knew what was coming next, and they’d had about enough of it.
“No! That girl did it! The girl in our room!” Lanie cried. Ed hugged her and tried to calm her. It was the same old story by this time: “That girl”—whoever she was, because no one but the girls could see her—had pulled their hair or pinched them, or tugged their feet or was jumping on the bed or banging in the closet. At least the last two Yvonne and her husband could corroborate: They’d heard the noises themselves from time to time. As for the rest, who could argue? The girls were clearly not making it up. Something had them scared and confused, to the point that they no longer even took naps in the daytime in their room.
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