“Della’s Killer Mousse”

 7 oz. semi-sweet chocolate + 1 oz. Grated

1 oz. unsweetened chocolate

1 pt. whipping cream

4 eggs, separated

4 Tbsp. sugar

4 Tbsp. milk

1 tsp. vanilla

 Melt chocolate in top of a double boiler

Add sugar and milk to egg yolks and mix.

Add egg mixture to melted chocolate (put a little warm chocolate into egg mixture first, to warm the egg mixture, then add remaining melted chocolate.)

Pour into large bowl to cool.

Beat egg whites until stiff. Fold into chocolate.

Beat cream until stiff. Fold into chocolate.

Add vanilla and one half of the grated chocolate.

Refrigerate for at least two hours.  (If it’s more convenient, you can make it in the morning)

Top with the rest of the grated chocolate and serve.

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KILLER MOUSSE

Chapter 1

Through my earpiece, I heard the director’s voice: “Ten seconds to air…”

Remembering earlier instructions, I sent a smile at the thirty faces in the studio audience. To my shock, I recognized a woman in her late fifties, with platinum hair piled in a meringue-like swirl on top of her head. The seams of her purple satin dress strained against her ample curves, making her look somewhat like an eggplant. Her name was Mimi Bond, and after the fit she’d thrown at me less than an hour ago, I thought she’d gone home, or headed for the nearest bar. No such luck. Now she was sitting in the middle of the first row, not twenty feet away from me.

I had been in the tiny dressing room behind the set, alone and nervous, trying to keep my hands steady enough to put on TV makeup when she burst in without knocking. Reeking of alcohol, she’d shouted, “You ruined my life!”

Although I’d never met her, I knew this was Mimi Bond. Until recently, she’d been the Better Living Channel’s Cooking Diva. The rumor was that she’d been fired for putting too many 100 proof liquids into the food she made on camera.

            “You must be sleeping with him!” she screeched.

That accusation surprised me more than her sudden appearance because there hadn’t been a man in my life since my husband died two years ago.

“Who?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Don’t try to deny it!  Mickey Jordan is who. Why else would he give you my TV show?”

Her face had been red with anger, and I saw a hint of wildness in her unusually large brown eyes. Even though I was more than ten years younger, and in pretty good shape, this woman was scary. I hoped that if I stayed calm and spoke in a gentle tone, it would pacify her. “I only met Mickey Jordan once,” I said, “and his wife was with him.”

She wasn’t pacified.

“Well, you must have slept with somebody to get my job! When I find out who it is, I’ll make the bastard pay!”

She’d grabbed the leopard print makeup bag with the initials M.B. that lay on the end of the table and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Forget her, I told myself. Remember what’s at stake. If the public likes this show, I’ll be able to keep paying the rent on my cooking school space. Unfortunately, I’m a better chef than businesswoman.

The only friend I had among the people sitting between the two big cameras in The Better Living Channel’s low-tech, no-amenities cable TV production facility was Iva Jordan. She was the wife of Mickey Jordan, the owner of the network—the man Mimi had accused me of sleeping with. With her pale face drawn tight with tension and her knuckles pressed under her chin, Iva was trying to smile encouragingly at me, but she looked as anxious as I felt. It was Iva who had talked her husband into hiring me for television. If this show failed, she would only be embarrassed—I would lose my entire business.

Camera One’s red light came on. We were on the air! My face was appearing on thousands of TV screens.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Della Carmichael. Welcome to In the Kitchen With Della. Tonight, I’m going to make a main dish, a veggie side, and a really fabulous dessert, and all three won’t take any longer to fix than the hour we’ll be spending together. First up, because it has to chill in the refrigerator after we put it together, is my own special chocolate mousse. Some UCLA students, at a party I gave, nicknamed it ‘Killer Mousse’ because they said the taste was ‘to die for.’ If you can’t write down the instructions while you’re watching, don’t worry. You can go to my website, DellaCooks.com. All the recipes are there.”

            As I explained what ingredients I’d be using, Mimi Bond stared at me with the intensity of a vulture waiting for something to die. Much as I tried to ignore her, she succeeded in rattling me. The stainless steel mixing bowl I was holding slipped from my fingers and clattered to the studio’s concrete floor.

“Oooops!” I swooped down to retrieve it and heard a nervous titter from the studio audience. Ernie Ramirez, operating Camera One, swung the big glass eye around to follow me to the sink on the right side of the set.

Quickly washing the bowl, I flashed the audience an embarrassed grin. “I was about to tell you that this is my very first time on television, but I guess I don’t have to do that now.” 

There were a few sympathetic chuckles from the spectators in the studio, but not so much as a twitch of the lips from Mimi.

Her hostile attitude was exactly what I needed for my fighting Scottish spirit to kick in. Stage fright and concern about Mimi’s being there vanished. I smiled at the audience with genuine pleasure and said, “Okay, people, let’s get cooking!”

Increasing the flame under a pot of water, I said, “I’ve been making meals since I was ten. As the oldest of four kids, with folks who both had to go out to work, it was my job to fix dinner. Growing up, I read recipe books while the other girls were reading movie magazines. A few years ago I realized a dream when I opened a cooking school in Santa Monica. I chose the name The Happy Table because I think that’s what family mealtimes should be.”

I was comfortable moving around on the set because the studio designer had duplicated my old-fashioned kitchen at home. The TV kitchen for Mimi’s Cooking Diva show had been as high tech and as full of expensive gadgets as a restaurant.

“We start the mousse by melting seven ounces of semi-sweet chocolate and one ounce of unsweetened chocolate in the top part of a double boiler.” I demonstrated. “You don’t have to own an actual double boiler. Just put a heat-safe bowl over a pot of boiling water, like I’m doing here. In my family I was known as the Queen of Making-Do.”

The yellow light next to the stove started flashing. That was my signal to get out of the way so the overhead, automated “stove cam” could show a close up of the melting chocolate.

Camera Two, operated by a young African-American woman named Jada Powell, followed me as I moved to the preparation counter.

For the next few minutes, I talked and demonstrated until all of the ingredients of the mousse were folded together.

 “Now we pour the mixture into a pretty serving bowl.” I flicked the rim with my fingernail and produced the ping that identified genuine crystal. “A fancy presentation doesn’t have to be expensive; this bowl cost five dollars at a yard sale. I love yard sales. You can find real treasures, and I like pieces with history, that look as though they might have stories to tell.”

The director’s voice came through my earpiece. “Ten seconds to commercial. Nine…eight…seven…”

I said to the audience, “I’m going to put the mousse in the fridge, and when I come back I’m going to make our baked chicken main dish, and then I’m going to show you how to get children and those meat-and-potatoes men in your life to eat vegetables.”

Music up. The camera’s red light went off. In the glass-enclosed control booth above the audience, the director flipped switches and sent the scheduled commercials out over the air.

Carrying the just-made chocolate mousse, I hurried around behind the set to put it into the large refrigerator backstage, where two hours ago I’d placed the mousse I’d prepared at home. That one had to be kept refrigerated until time to show the audience the finished version, and let volunteers taste it.

I cleared a place among the plastic-wrapped sandwiches, cups of yogurt and cans of soda that the studio staff kept there and shoved in the un-chilled mousse. This one would stay here at the studio. After the show, I’d tape a little note to the bowl, inviting the staff to enjoy it tomorrow.

This area behind the set gave me the creeps. Used mostly for storage, it was a jumble of old furniture, props and machinery, covered by sheets and canvas drop cloths. A path had been cleared that stretched from the set, past the fridge, past a small dressing room and the partitioned-off toilet, all the way to an outside door leading to the loading dock. I didn’t linger; it was too dark back here for comfort. The only illumination was from a low-watt bulb in the ceiling.

Grabbing the package of chicken pieces I needed for the next demonstration, I closed the refrigerator door and rushed back into the bright lights of the set. I heard another count-down, Camera One’s red eye went on, and we were broadcasting again.

“For our main dish, we’re having Easy Cranberry Chicken. It’s easy to fix and easy on the budget. All you do is stir together a sixteen-ounce can of whole berry cranberry sauce, one envelope of onion soup mix and half a cup of Russian Dressing, then dip your chicken pieces into the blend and swish them around a little.”

With the chicken pieces swished, I tore a piece of foil from a roll on the preparation counter, quickly lined a baking sheet with it and placed the dredged chicken pieces on the foil-covered surface. “If you have any liquid left, drizzle it over the chicken pieces. About the ingredients: you don’t need any particular brands. I save money using manufacturer’s coupons and taking advantage of in-store specials. That’s how I buy shampoo and laundry detergent, too.”

I washed my hands and wiped them on a paper towel. “The chicken goes into our pre-heated three-hundred-and-fifty-degree oven to bake for about an hour to an hour and a half.”

            Time for another commercial break. “I’ll be right back, and then I’ll show you how to transform a basket of vegetables into an unexpected treat.”

As soon as I was off the air, Liddy Marshall, my best friend for two decades, quick-stepped up to the right side of the set and motioned frantically for me to join her at the sink. Liddy, an attractive redhead who’d been Miss Nebraska twenty-four years ago, had been watching the show from the shadows a few feet behind Camera Two. She whisked a brush from her shoulder bag and tamed loose strands of my hair as she whispered, “Listen, you’re always telling me I shouldn’t eavesdrop but this time you’ll be glad I did. During the first commercial break when you went backstage, I overheard your producer talking to the girl on Camera Two. He told her Mimi Bond—that blowsy blonde in the front row—is going to be your taster at the end of the show tonight. He wants her to be sure to keep the camera on Mimi.”

I felt my mouth drop open in shock.

Liddy said triumphantly, “I didn’t think you knew about it.”

“No.” And I wasn’t happy to find out this stunt had been kept from me.

“By the way, you look great,” Liddy said. “I was afraid your dark hair would photograph dull on TV, but it doesn’t. The lights are catching all the little shades of brown in there. And aren’t you glad I talked you into wearing that light blue shirt?”

“Yes, I am, but do I sound okay? Am I making sense?”

“You were a little nervous at first, but maybe only somebody who knows you well would catch that. After you dropped the bowl—and that was a hoot!—you seemed more like yourself. Natural.”

“Can you believe this? At the age of forty-seven I’m starting my third career.”

“And no one’s going to shoot at you, like they did when you had to teach at that awful high school in gang territory.”

If I lose my cooking school, I’ll have to go back to teaching, anywhere the district sends me.

In my earpiece, I heard, “Ten seconds to air, Della. Nine…eight…”

“Gotta go.” I gave Liddy’s hand a quick squeeze of affection.

Liddy scurried back into the shadows and I took my place behind the counter. When the camera light went on, I said, “Now we’re going to take this eggplant—”

I had to force myself to keep a straight face, because the vegetable I was holding really did resemble Mimi Bond in her purple dress. I put it down and indicated the rest of the ingredients lined up in front of the camera. “—and turn these into a beautiful one-crust pie.”

I kept up the conversational patter as I sliced, chopped, sautéed, and seasoned. Setting aside the pan of cooked vegetables, I began to put together a simple piecrust.

 “Here’s a secret to making a crust so flaky it’ll dissolve in your mouth. To moisten the dough, I use three or four tablespoons of ice water. A lot of cookbooks will just say water, but the colder the water, the lighter the crust. And if you don’t happen to have a rolling pin, use a wine bottle or a beer bottle—just soak the label off first. If it’s an empty bottle, fill it with cool water before using it.”

With the dough rolled out and draped in a pie pan, I demonstrated how to layer the vegetables, adding Parmesan cheese. “Last, I take the red and the green pepper that I’ve cut into strips and arrange them on top, alternating the colors in a sunburst pattern.”   

In my earpiece, I heard, “Ten seconds to the last commercial break.”

I told the audience, “I’ll keep putting this together, and pop it into a three-hundred-and fifty-degree oven. When I come back, I’ll show you how the three dishes I’ve made are going to look when they’re all done.”

            While the commercials played, I made another quick trip backstage to the refrigerator, took out the pre-prepared chocolate mousse and brought it onto the set. As the director had rehearsed me, I moved the other two pre-prepared dishes that I’d had sitting on the rear counter up to be displayed next to the mousse. The overhead camera would take a close up of the food for what I’d learned was called “the beauty shot.”

            As soon as we were back on the air, I said, “Here’s are the Easy Cranberry Chicken and the Sunburst Vegetable Pie—all baked and ready to eat.”

Enthusiastic applause from the audience, but when I glanced at Mimi I saw her hands remained in her lap, her fingers curled into claws.

“If you’re like me,” I said, “the star of any dinner is dessert. I just have one more thing to do before we can dig into the chocolate mousse.”

I picked up a piece of semi-sweet chocolate and grated it over the mousse. “You can be extra fancy and decorate the top, but this is how I like it best—with just a dusting of grated chocolate.” That last touch completed, I put down the grater. Now I asked the question to which I already knew the answer: “Who’d like to have a taste?”

            “I would!” Mimi Bond propelled herself out of her front row seat and rushed to the set. But a second before she’d spoken, I saw Camera Two swing in Mimi’s direction. It was absolute proof that Liddy was right about this being pre-planned.

The former Cooking Diva smiled broadly as she waved at the camera. “Hello, everybody. I’m taking a little vacation, but I wanted to be here tonight to help Della, so I’m volunteering to be the very first one to taste her famous ‘Killer Mousse.’”

            Mimi bustled around the counter, subtly elbowing me out of the TV frame. Jada Powell pulled Camera Two back so that her shot included both of us.

            Pretending that I was delighted to have her there, I scooped some mousse into a

dessert dish and handed it and a spoon to Mimi.

            “Oh, it looks so yummy,” she cooed. She took a big mouthful—and suddenly screwed up her face in disgust. “Eeeewwww! This is awful.”

            “It can’t be! When I made it this afternoon, I scraped the sides of the mixing bowl and licked the spatula clean. It was delicious.”

            I snatched up another spoon and plunged it into the mousse, but before I could taste it, Mimi gasped and dropped her dish. It landed sharply on my foot. Some mousse plopped onto the floor, but the bowl rolled off onto the floor without breaking.

“Mimi? What’s the matter?”

Her answer was a deep moan. She pressed her fists hard against her chest as her face twisted into an expression of agony.

Heart attack?

I yelled, “Somebody call 911!”

Mimi’s body stiffened and her eyes rolled back in her head. She started to sway. I reached out to keep her from falling, but she was too heavy for me. She slipped from my fingers as she fell forward and crashed facedown onto the studio floor.

A woman in the audience screamed, unleashing a torrent of babbling voices.

I fell to my knees beside Mimi. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I lifted her head to help her breathe.

But she wasn’t breathing.

I felt for a pulse in her neck.

No pulse.

The show’s producer suddenly loomed above me on the other side of the counter. I hadn’t seen George Hopkins since a half hour before the show began. Now he had a cell phone pressed against his head as he barked out the address of the studio and demanded an ambulance.       

Still connected to 911, George asked me, “Do you know CPR?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” I said.

George, his globular face—usually red but now as white as my roll of paper towels—lowered his voice and told the 911 operator to send the police.

Mimi Bond had just died during the debut of my show, in front of thousands of people—on live television.

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