Beyond Delicious: The Ghost Whisperer's Cookbook. Mary Ann Winkowski
very appreciative, and she gave him some of her peppers and onions, so he gave her some of his tomatoes. Angelo told her about the recipe, too.
“I bet Daddy gave you his recipe for Creole tomatoes,” Annie had said wistfully. “Everyone loves that recipe!”
And even Angelo agreed that it was “pretty good.”
Creole Tomatoes
4 large tomatoes
2 green peppers, finely chopped
Salt and cayenne pepper
1 small onion, finely chopped
4 tablespoons butter or meat drippings, divided
½ cup water
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup milk
4 slices toast
Cut tomatoes in half crosswise; place, cut sides up, in baking pan; and sprinkle with onion, green pepper and seasonings. Dot with half the butter or drippings, pour water into pan, and bake at 400 degrees until tomatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Melt remaining butter or drippings and brown flour in it; add milk and liquid from the baking pan, stir until boiling, season and cook 3 minutes longer. Serve tomatoes on toast, pouring sauce over them. Serves 4.
MUSHROOM PATTIES
CARL WAS A MUSHROOM HUNTER. He picked mushrooms as a hobby—not to examine them, but to eat them. My parents used to do that, too, but it’s not a hobby you can take lightly. When it comes to mushrooms, you really have to know what you’re doing and you have to be really careful. If you pick the wrong mushrooms—and they may even look like the “right” mushrooms to pick—you can end up violently sick, or worse, dead.
Carl was an avid mushroom-picker, and the best time to go out was in autumn, when it was cold and rainy. Carl would go out with a group of fellow pickers and his wife, and they’d come back with baskets full of mushrooms, which they’d clean, can, and freeze. One October there was a new guy in the group, someone Carl had never seen before. In fact, no one seemed to know him, which wasn’t that strange since they publicized their outings at the library.
The new guy settled right in with them and seemed to know quite a bit about mushrooms. At one point, he stopped them to pick a group of mushrooms none of the others recognized. They asked him about them, and he assured everyone they were delicious and perfect for canning because they had a good, strong flavor. Carl picked some, as did another guy, but most of the group, not knowing the variety themselves, passed.
That had been October. When Carl called me in May, he said things hadn’t been right in his house since then.
“Did you eat the mushrooms?” I wondered.
“No. That’s one of the odd things,” Carl replied. “We fried a couple and tried them, and they did have a good flavor, so we canned the rest. Neither of us got sick or felt the least bit bad, so we didn’t think any more of it. But come December, there was this absolutely horrible smell coming from the basement. Turns out those mushrooms had popped the cans and were completely rotten, so we threw them out.”
Carl did have a ghost in the house. He was a rugged, outdoorsy-looking man with a full beard and a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He nodded slowly at me and said, “I did that.”
“You ruined the mushrooms?” I checked.
“I popped the cans. Those mushrooms were poisonous,” he said evenly. “I also ruined that other fella’s cans. But I can’t find the last guy to ruin his.”
“Carl, did anyone else say those mushrooms went off?” I asked him.
“Yes!” Carl answered. “The same exact thing happened to the other guy who picked them!”
“The guy who told you about them?”
“No, no—he never came back to the group. The other guy who picked them that day, from our regular group.”
“Oh,” I looked back over at the ghost. “And how do you know they were poison?”
“I picked mushrooms, too,” he said. “That’s my land they were on. I don’t mind them out there foraging, but I won’t let anyone hunt. Those hunters come out there, I scare off everything they try to shoot at! Oh, and they don’t know how to cook mushrooms right.”
“Okay,” I said evenly and relayed the critique to Carl.
“That’s ridiculous!” Carl protested. “I know every recipe there is!”
“No you don’t,” the ghost said with a grin, and proceeded to give me a recipe for mushroom patties!
“So you came home with Carl because of the mushrooms?” I wondered once he was done giving me the recipe.
“That’s right. Those mushrooms were bad. I just wish I could find that other guy ….”
Carl had no idea how to get in touch with him, though, so I asked the ghost if he was ready to move on. I was shocked when he said no, more so because his tone was not at all argumentative, just very matter-of-fact.
“I wasn’t a religious man,” he explained. “And I enjoy walking the earth.”
“Well, you won’t be able to come back here once I leave,” I warned him. He just smiled and winked.
“That’s okay—I’ll see him when he’s out picking mushrooms!”
Mushroom Patties
1 medium onion, grated
Butter for frying
1 pound mushrooms
2 white rolls, moistened in milk and mashed
2 whole eggs, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
Breadcrumbs for rolling
Salt and pepper to taste
Wash, clean, and chop mushroom caps and stems. Cook grated onion in a little butter, and when onion begins to brown, add the mushrooms. Season and simmer, covered, for about 5 minutes. Mix thoroughly with mashed rolls, eggs, and parsley, and shape into patties. Roll in breadcrumbs and fry in hot butter to a golden brown. Serves 4. Serve with panfried potatoes.
SECRET HARVARD BEETS
JOANN’S HUSBAND, MIKE, was a social worker at a group home, and to be honest, I’m amazed there was only one ghost that had come home with him. Those who work around troubled people—like the police and firemen and paramedics—tend to bring home ghosts more often than other people. I suppose it makes sense. When someone dies in a high-stress situation, maybe they just tag along with the person who had been trying to help them in the hopes that they can still set things right.
The ghost’s name was Jerry, and he certainly needed help. At first he just sort of gave me the chills. He had this odd stare and way of looking through you that made you uneasy. In fact, that’s why Joann had called me in the first place. Nothing specific had happened, but she felt watched. No matter where she was in the house, she could sense Jerry’s eyes on her, watching her but looking past her in the odd way he had. It was an intense stare, and I’m sure even the least in-tune person would have been able to feel his eyes on them. He just gave you the willies. He made you think of someone in a Stephen King book.
“It feels like someone’s playing with my hair at night,” Joann whispered. “I even feel like he’s watching me in … the bathroom.”
“I’m sure he is,” I agreed slowly. Then I said to the ghost, “So why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” he said in an odd cadence. “I came home with Mike. I like Mike. Mike is my friend. He’s my friend so I came home with him. He likes me. He’s my best friend.”
“Oh,” I breathed with