Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence

thinks he’s Franklin D. Roosevelt.”
    Mrs. Calamatti glanced at Angie and frowned. “Hmph. If he’s FDR, I’m Jimmy Carter.”
    Paavo did a double take. He couldn’t figure out if the woman was kidding or not.
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    Angie extended her kitchen table to its full width, then spread a clean sheet over it. Her oldest sister, Bianca, slapped half of the mound of dough they’d mixed onto the cloth. She beat it down flat, and Angie took their grandmother’s three-foot-long wooden rolling pin and started rolling out the dough. Bianca was an older version of Angie by fourteen years, her dark brown hair straight instead of wavy, worn in a chin-length blunt cut instead of short, and the only color she put in it was to hide the gray, not to add blond highlights.
    â€œHenry LaTour’s pompous with nothing to be pompous about,” Angie said, pulling and stretching the dough to make it thinner. Then she picked up the rolling pin again. Using her forearm, she pushed her bangs away from the perspiration that was already forming on her forehead. “His nose is so high in the air I’m surprised he doesn’t get frostbite.”
    â€œAll those radio types think they’re such hot stuff. I don’t know why you bother with them.” Bianca whacked some cloves of garlic with the side of a cleaver and then peeled and minced them. “You need to take charge of your life. Stop frittering it away.”
    â€œI don’t think I’m frittering anything away.”
    Bianca reached for an onion. “Teaching adult ed classes on San Francisco history is more a way for you to keep senior citizens off the streets than to build a career.”
    â€œI also do Henry’s radio show and tutor Hispanic kids in English at the Youth Center, I just sold a magazine article on San Francisco Victorians, and I’ve got an editor interested in my interview with the retired chef of the St. Francis Hotel—the one who worked back when presidents stayed there.”
    â€œWell, lah-di-dah! I still think you need to settle down.”
    â€œGive me a break, Bianca! You sound like Mamma.”
    â€œSo? She’s right. What about Chick Marcuccio’s son, Joey? You adore Chick, Joey’s sister’s one of your best friends, and he’s always liked you.”
    â€œThat’s why he used to steal my dessert out of my lunch box. I can’t stand Joey Marcuccio. Anyway, I am seeing someone, you might recall.”
    Bianca didn’t answer. Angie knew all four of her sisters and all four of their husbands didn’t approve of her interest in a homicide detective: too dangerous a job and not enough money in it. Her mother, on the other hand, was very fond of Paavo. Her father hadn’t met him yet.
    She rolled the dough harder, and in no time it reached about three feet around. Spreading a layer of flour over the top so it wouldn’t stick, she rolled it up and pushed it aside. While she did this, Bianca sautéed the garlic and onion in olive oil and added a pound each of ground beef and veal.
    â€œIs Henry LaTour young?” Bianca asked.
    Angie spread more flour on the sheet, slapped the last half of the dough on it and attacked it with renewed vengeance with the rolling pin. “No, and he’s married.”
    â€œToo bad.”
    â€œToo bad? Give me a break! That man should be selling snake oil instead of dinners. He’s so slick he’s lucky he wasn’t sucked up along with the Exxon Valdez oil.”
    Bianca was opening and closing all the drawers.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” Angie asked, tugging at a particularly thick hard-to-roll portion of the dough.
    â€œDon’t you have a Ginsu knife? Like on TV? I’ve got to chop three bunches of spinach.”
    â€œSorry. You’re going to have to make do with one of my professional-quality German ones.”
    â€œNo need to get snippy.” Bianca continued to cook, not