Read Tough Cookie for Free Online Page B

or Eileen softened the butter? Did "room temperature" at eleven thousand feet mean forty degrees? The butter was hard as a brick.
    Arthur's gloomy 'Visage loomed behind the camera. He looked as if his best friend had just gone down in the Hindenburg.
    The mixer ground gears, stuttered, and made a small sound along the lines of kerpow! before spewing a cloud of dark smoke in my face. I coughed and choked. What had Arthur said to do? Tell a Joke. Somewhere in my brain, I had surely stored half a dozen funny stories of culinary mishaps. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of one.
    Fanning away the smoke, I blinked at the bank of lights. Arthur furiously scribbled a command, then, scowling, held up his clipboard: COOK!!!
    I locked the bowl into the behemoth backup mixer. Bigger, more powerful beaters roared into clumps of butter and dark brown sugar. Encouraged, I tentatively cracked an eggshell on the bowl's rim. Although I expected the egg to rupture, the first yolk and white plopped politely into the swirling mixture.
    "As easy as cookies are to prepare," I announced nonchalantly to the crimson camera light, "some skiers would prefer to spend their day on the slopes. So they'll turn dessert preparation over to their personal chef!" I added with a two-hundred-watt smile. I was prevented from further self-advertisement by Arthur, who was waving his clipboard at me. Faster!!! it screamed.
    The second egg was uncooperative. When I cracked the shell, the egg exploded. Arthur went to overhead cam in time to shoot errant eggshell daggers floating briefly on the batter before being gulped into the creamy vortex. I could imagine perplexed viewers calling in to ask: Does the recipe call for eggshells.? How long has this woman been in the food business?
    Cursing silently, I stirred molasses into the batter and slapped in a tumblerful of vinegar. I brandished a flat grater and insisted that grating whole nutmeg was essential. While demonstrating, I unfortunately grated three of my right knuckles, and blood spurted onto the nutmeg flecks. Without bothering to sift or whisk the flour and spices together, I dumped the whole mess into the molasses mixture and clicked the mixer over to "stir." The mixer moaned and sent up a windspout of spicy flour. I groped for a towel to wipe the powdery mess off my face. My microphone squealed.
    I wondered if Arthur had opened the bottle of dessert wine, and if he'd let me chug it after the show.
    Muttering, I scooped the fragrant dough into Ping-Pong-ball-size spheres. The phone volunteers raised eyebrows at each other: Some caterer! I slapped the uncooked cookies into what Arch called the "pretend" oven and struggled to compose a last enthusiastic pitch about new equipment for PBS.
    Two lights above the phone bank flashed as the ringing halfheartedly resumed. I rinsed my hands and wiped them on the towel. Volunteers murmured to the donors. How much longer? My watch was obscured by gingersnap batter. I plunged back into my monologue, urging viewers to tuck crab-cake sandwiches into their packs before a full day of skiing.
    Camera One swept a wide-angle panorama of the hot line burgeoning with the completed, cooked dishes. Then the cameraman focused on the volunteers manning the phones, which had once again, drat them, gone dead. Arthur, pale with panic, shifted to a visual with the phone number viewers could call. He then ran a prepared tape of avalanche - avoidance safety tips. Shun steep, leeward slopes. Listen for broadcast warnings of avalanche danger. If you're caught in unstable snow, grab a tree and hold on. And never, ever ski out of bounds.
    Too bad Arthur hadn't run safety tips for cooking live. I felt acutely, painfully embarrassed. You don't know a thing, Goldy. No kidding.
    I looked for Rorry Bullock.
    She was gone.
    Mexican Egg Rolls with Spicy Guacamole Dipping Sauce
    2 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus additional oil for deep-fat frying 1 1/2 pounds chicken breast, trimmed of fat and finely