Chapter 1

It started at Budget Buy. I was in there buying my groceries for the month like I usually do, on the last Sunday of the month, middle of the afternoon, after the post-church crowd had lunched off the free samples and the dollar hot dogs.

I pushed one of their huge carts, the only kind they have, but I’m a big man. Well, okay, I’m five ten, but I’m built. Well, I’m decent-looking, okay? You can’t miss me, though, because my hair is bright blue.

Why is my hair blue? I have nieces, that’s why. Spoiled little princesses who turned their big baby blues on me and asked if they could do my hair. When they got to the “Please, Uncle Jake,” I had to give in.

I had no idea. My brother is still laughing at me, but my sister-in-law thinks I’m wonderful

I hate cooking, but my father is coming over, so this evening I will cook up huge vats full of what I call Grandma’s White Trash Hillbilly Beans. I’ll serve some and freeze what’s left. Voilà! I’ll be all set for whenever I can’t go out to Lenny’s or Roy’s Diner. It’s really a type of fabada, to be honest, but that sounds so gay

It’s not even really white.

When my nieces come over, they ask for Crap on Crullers. My specialty, though we tell their parents it’s really creamed fish on toast. It’s cream, butter, flour, a drop of—

What’s this? A Channel Six camera crew filming some guy in a suit and tie. The Real People’s Cooking Show with Pierre de la Rhubarb? Never heard of it, or him.

“Now this braised hogget with buffalo milk cheese and crushed artichoke thistle puree over whipped crème de crushed cobnuts saupoudréis…”

Thanks to me, they had to stop the cameras and start over. He lisped and flipped his ascot, batted his eyelashes and then rolled his eyes when he saw me. Wait, was that eye liner? Yes! I burst out laughing, a sort of blue-hair laugh. All right, it’s an elephant-sized guffaw.

The director said cut, and everyone turned and stared at me.

Some lumberjack, who looked familiar, probably just in from the woods for his monthly fill-up, glared at me, his mouth twitching. I recognized him from Gillie’s, the gay bar one town over. He caught my eyes and started giggling. His lip quit twitching, and he roared. It was all over then. And all over the newspaper the next day, too. We almost got arrested. Just before the manager called security, the two of us were bent over double, laughing and holding our stomachs, trying not to pee our pants, failing to not attempt mimicking the star.

I eventually recognized the star. Some of the guys at the bar loved his show, although a couple were more given to saying what they’d like to get hot with him rather than what they’d like to cook with him. Some of their comments came back to my lumberjack friend, whose name I finally remembered, Larry.

“Braised hogget, my ass!” gasped Larry.

I stammered out, “Whip it, baby. Hoo hoo—whip me!”

I thought I heard some passerby add in, “He said crushed nuts,” but I may have been hallucinating by then.

Just as two beefy security men came over (one of whom Larry and I both knew quite well from Gillie’s), the star of the show got pissed off, grabbed his can of the whipping cream he was there to sell, screamed something in French, and aimed the can at the person closest to him. It would have been me, but security guy number one (the one we didn’t know) stepped in between us and took the shot of creamy white goodness right to the face. With the star chasing behind us, still screaming in French, Larry and I bolted out the door. I have never laughed so hysterically in my life as I did when I saw that that guard get creamed in the face by that chef.

Hiding behind a delivery van, Larry wheezed, “He got a facial!” Then he whooped for a while and was finally able to go on. “It’s not my fault he had just suggested spicy stuffed sausages in baked buns when I caught sight of you. I even said it out loud, but I thought very quietly, now there’s a man whose baked buns I’d stuff a sausage in, but he heard me! He was staring right at me, turning all shades of red, probably thinking I meant him, the skinny little Brooklyn twat. All I added was, it’s the Budget Buy way, and then all hell broke loose! That was fun, wasn’t it? Except now I have to go to Lindon’s instead to do my shopping. My Lord, my housemate Andy eats like a race horse.”

“Larry,” I wheezed back, because I was still giggling, too, “You have a package of sausage in your hands. Did you pay for that?”

Larry looked mortified, then laughed and pointed. “And what’s that in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?” He grinned, and I realized he was a hot looking bear, not that that was my type…normally. I reached into my pocket. Half a pound of bacon. My face flushed. “Whelp, time to go!” I laughed. “I’ll see you at Lindon’s, right?”

And we parted ways. As I drove home, I was grateful I’d gotten the bacon, as it was the only thing I needed for dinner. I was sorry I’d stolen it—I hadn’t lifted anything since I was twelve years old. And that had been a pack of Kentucky Kings, which had made me so sick I’d never smoked again. Halfway home, my cell phone rang. As there weren’t any cops around, I answered.