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Helen C. Downey

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Featured Book
Soldier's Gap
by David Schwinghammer

When high school principal Jerry Egge is brutally murdered, Deputy sheriff Dave Jenkins begins an eerie investigation. Just about everyone in Soldier, Minnesota, is a sus..  
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Quick Fixins
By Helen C. Downey
Monday, January 22, 2007

Rated "G" by the Author.

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A fictional story about a clutsy and emosional wreck woman.


Quick Fixins


 


My name is Ronda and I was scheduled to appear on the Oprah Show to discuss my new cook book. My book, "Quick Fixins," had been on the market for eight months and left book store shelves empty weekly. Now I am going to get a chance to show the world how to make Southern Cooking in a snap.


 


     Traveling to New York via bus had been a long nerve wracking adventure. My hair was disarrayed from continuously combing it back with my moist fingers.  Why hadn’t I listened to my mother and flown? Either way I still would have been left alone for several hours rehearsing how to act properly. I wasn’t use to being in front of a large group of individuals, not even a few people. The bus stopped at The Ritz, time to get off.


 


     I looked into my compact mirror, "Oh my. I better get to my room and redo my self." saying it loud enough that several travelers looked up at me. Walking past them with my six inches of red hair reaching for the ceiling of the bus, I noticed they quickly put their hands to mouths and heard their giggles.  The bus driver turned to warn me to watch my step and burst out laughing half way through his speech. He then rushed to the side of the bus to retrieve my luggage.


     "Here is your luggage Miss." He laughed again and nearly dropped my heavy luggage on my feet. "Do have a nice time in New York."  With a large grin slapped on his face he re-entered the bus.


     I looked up at the bus windows and noticed everyone seemed to be laughing at me. Quickly I turned to walk towards The Ritz but found myself on top of my luggage. "Why did I have to pack everything but the bathroom sink. I am sure they have all of these amenities, but I didn’t want to chance it."


     There was only an hour before my appearance on the Oprah Show. I needed to be there in thirty minutes. I dug in my suit case and threw clothes, curlers, hair dryer, shampoo, and make up all over the bed until I found my hair brush. Sweat trickled from my temples and I realized that my blouse was sweat stained and the first three buttons were undone exposing my bra while the rest of my blouse was buttoned unevenly. I removed everything and showered quickly.


     I attempted to dress in a timely manner and believed I had chosen coordinating jacket and slacks with a white blouse. The telephone rang and I never did get to check out what I looked like. The studio reminded me that I had to be present behind stage in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t worried as the studio was only two doors away.


     I found my brush again and managed to find a white clip as well. I brushed the snarled mess and clipped my hair tightly in a bun. No time to check my appearance so I grabbed my purse and made it to the back stage of Oprah with one minute to spare.


     My name had been called from a speaker in the room before my rump even touched the seat of the chair. I went to the speaker and asked, "Can I help you?"  "Miss Ronda, when you go out the door, please turn to your right and stand along side the curtain. When you hear Oprah say your name please walk out on stage to her sofa." Who knows if I even answered but I did as I was told.


     In a fog I did hear my name being called. Slowly I shuffled my feet and approached Oprah. We shook hands and she told everyone about my cook book. Instead of sitting down on her sofa she redirected me to a kitchen set up.


     "We’d like you to cook up the Chicken Ombre, which in your book you stated it would only takes ten minutes to prepare."


     My mouth dropped open and a squeak emerged. I wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt, which happened to be dark green, it was then I noticed I had on my brown plaid jacket. I tripped, missing the step up to the kitchen, but caught myself before I fell on my face. The room felt warm. I grabbed the eggs to start the batter. One broke in my right hand. Immediately my hand went to smooth my hair.


 


 


© HCD 1/2007 

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