Antiques Swap by Barbara Allan Page A

Equipment blouse I’d snagged 75 percent off at Nordstrom Rack, my damp hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
    Mother was in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring a pan, the aroma of Great Grandma Osher’s Danish pea soup wafting toward me. Suddenly I felt like I could eat something.
    About our kitchen—everything in it (except for the stove, fridge, and dishwasher) is 1950s vintage, purchased at garage sales and flea markets. Or almost everything. After Mother got shocked by an old waffle iron (“Yipe!”), we gave up the notion of being 100 percent authentic when it comes to small electrical appliances.
    Mother pushed the step stool with its red vinyl seat over to the counter, and pulled out a recessed cutting board to use as a small table—just as she had done for little Brandy, who hadn’t wanted to eat at the big table. Then she poured the steaming hearty soup into a green jadeite Fire-King bowl.
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    GULE AERTER (Yellow Pea Soup)
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    2 cups yellow split peas
1 quart chicken stock
1 pound chopped Canadian bacon
2 stalks chopped celery
3 chopped leeks
3 chopped carrots
3 chopped medium potatoes
1 chopped large onion
1 pound chopped Vienna sausages
salt and pepper to taste
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    Combine all ingredients in a large pot and simmer one hour.
    Serves 4 hardy Danish men, or 6 dainty Danish women.
    While Mother left me alone to slurp my soup with a red Bakelite-handled spoon, Sushi stood watch below, hoping for a bite of sausage (and, yes, her vigilance was rewarded).
    Finished, I put the empty bowl in the sink and went to join Mother in the living room, where she was seated on our particularly uncomfortable Queen Anne needlepoint couch.
    â€œDear, I’ve put together some things for you to take to the interrogation—I mean, interview. ”
    â€œLike what?”
    She gestured to the tote bag at her feet. “Everything you’ll need—a cushion for the hard chair, tissues, a sweater . . . they keep it so cold in there . . . and a thermos of coffee, because theirs is undrinkable swill. And of course, my secret recorder necklace to record what they’re recording.”
    As a police interviewee of long standing, Mother was well versed in the necessary preparations for a grilling.
    I waved that off. “Thanks but no thanks. I won’t be there that long.”
    â€œDon’t be so sure, dear. Brian Lawson is likely to give you the third degree for dumping him.”
    â€œI didn’t dump him.”
    We’d split up over my decision to be a surrogate mother.
    â€œAnd anyway,” I said, “that’s not why I’m being called down to the station.”
    â€œJust the same,” Mother said, “it’s better to be prepared—like a good scout!”
    â€œThat’s the Boy Scouts, and anyway, I was a Brownie.”
    â€œDon’t say you weren’t warned!”
    I just shook my head, gathered the car keys, and went out so quickly Sushi didn’t have time to do her little take-me-along dance.
    The police station was located in the heart of downtown, or maybe the spleen. Anyway, it was next to the new county jail, across the street from the old courthouse. A person could get arrested, brought to trial, and remanded to the clink all within a one-block radius. Talk about efficiency!
    Night was descending like a bad simile as I parked the Caddy in the station’s lot, then entered the one-story redbrick building.
    I strode up to Heather, the female dispatcher behind the bulletproof glass. She had reddish-brown hair and red glasses, and was Mother’s latest snitch in a long line of snitches, all of whom had either been fired or transferred for revealing inside information. Heather had not benefitted from her predecessors’ experiences.
    Mother was a master at exploiting the weakness of any perceived stool pigeon. Some examples of her bribes include: offering a part in one of her plays; obtaining an autographed