Free Macaroni and Freeze by Christine Wenger

breath. “I’d like to thank Gamma Gamma Gamma, along with their husbands and significant others, for all of their helpbefore and during this event. Without them, this weekend wouldn’t have been possible. And I’d like to thank the entrants—chefs from all over the Northeast—who braved these horrible weather conditions for a chance to re-create their signature mac and cheese dish on TV with our final judge, Priscilla Finch-Smythe.”
    â€œBoo! Hiss! Plagiarizer of cookbooks!”
    Ty sent the ladies of the Church of Saint Dismas a stern look, and they quieted instantly.
    I read on, wondering why Megan didn’t want to read her speech herself. “Our prizes are two thousand dollars for first place, eighteen hundred dollars for second place, and twelve hundred dollars for third place. Our preliminary judges are: Mayor Rick Tingsley, Fred Henderson of the Gas and Grab on Route 3, and high school senior and computer expert Ray Meyerson, representing the younger crowd. Pause for laughter.”
    Huh?
Oh! Oh, no! Did I really read “pause for laughter” out loud?
    With the exception of Priscilla, everyone in the room started laughing hysterically, and I actually
did
have to pause and wait until it subsided. As I stood there, I had to laugh myself. Then I was laughing so hard, it took me a while to be able to talk again.
    Thanks to my gaffe, the sticky situation between the church ladies and Priscilla was forgotten for a while. And the tension in the room eased dramatically.
    Megan hesitated, looked at me, and then added, “While our preliminary judges are tasting the entries,Priscilla will be autographing her latest cookbook,
Comforting Comfort Food by the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food
. Please form an orderly line for purchase and autographing.”
    The ladies stood up, looked at Ty, but didn’t say a word. Instead they formed an orderly line as instructed, but not one person picked up Priscilla’s cookbook.
    Ty moved next to them. So did the media. One of them interviewed the woman in the purple coat, who spelled her name for the reporter twice and repeated it twice: Marylou Cosmo. The lady with the orange earmuffs was right next to her and said her name was Dottie Spitzer.
    Those two seemed like the ringleaders of the church ladies.
    Priscilla held out her hand for the microphone. “No one asked me if I’d like to say a few more words before they put me to work.” She laughed, and it sounded like a rusty hinge. The audience remained silent, not suspecting that Priscilla had attempted a joke.
    At least, I thought it was an attempt at a joke.
    â€œI’d like to thank the lovely people of Sandy Harbor for inviting me here. Everyone has been so nice. And thank you to everyone, especially to the wonderful Tri-Gams. Now, I’d like to proceed without any more immature heckling.”
    Ty and I made eye contact across the room, and we both raised an eyebrow. It seemed that we were both thinking the same thing—that Priscilla shouldn’tantagonize the ladies who were already unhappy with her and who’d driven here on a bus in a blizzard to confront her about stealing their recipes.
    The church ladies were lined up and waiting for Jill Marley to finish setting up her equipment for credit-card payments and whatnot. Peter McCall was arranging piles and piles of Priscilla’s books.
    Judging by the lack of interest from at least the church ladies, Peter would soon be putting all those books back into their cartons.
    Priscilla waved one of her arms in the air. “Without further ado, let’s get started with the book signing while the preliminary judges begin tasting.”
    She turned to me, and I thought she was going to shake my hand. Instead she handed me the microphone and adjusted her red silk scarf.
    Oops! I looked at the microphone and took the opportunity to remind everyone that the judging would take a while with the number of