Betty Crocker had let her down. Life was letting her down.
And Connie Sandrelli-she'd crossed her.
The woman should've done some research, asked around, respected seniority. But no. Connie had jumped Ethel's claim. Soon she was bringing Bud new food nearly every day: cioppino and baked ziti and all kinds of supposedly Italian food that Ethel had never seen in a Chef Boyardee can.
Ethel retaliated by upgrading to a more expensive cookbook.
Bud's bulging stomach went from tub to barrel.
The culinary brawl raged for weeks with no clear victor. Always Sunny's oddsmakers pegged the outcome as even money: Connie had youth and looks on her side, Ethel had raw determination.
The Christmas party changed everything. As always, it was the highlight of the trailer park's social calendar. Everyone gathered in the rec hall for caroling and eggnog and presents. And Santa Claus, of course.
It was obvious who should suit up as St. Nick. There was only one man in the park whose belly really did shake like jelly when he laughed.
So an hour into the party, Bud Schmidt ho-ho-hoed his way through the door in the park's ancient red suit and cotton ball beard. And he wasn't alone. Santa Claus had a helper this year. Connie Sandrelli.
She was wearing a Santa hat and black boots and a red frock that didn't quite reach her knees. Ethel thought she looked like an elf hooker. She was helping Bud hand out all the dime store gifts in his sack. She even brought one to a fuming Ethel.
Connie smiled as she handed Ethel the little brightly wrapped package, but all Ethel saw were fangs. She didn't bother to open the gift. She wrapped it in her paper napkin and left it sitting next to her plate like something unpleasant she'd picked out of her food.
And then, the presents distributed, Santa took his place on his "throne"-a metal folding chair at the front of the hall.
"Ho ho ho! Who wants to come and sit on Santa's knee?" He turned to Connie. "How about my little elf first?"
Connie hesitated, blushing.
"Come on!" Bud patted his lap. "Come here and tell old Santa what you want for Christmas!"
There were shouts from the audience-"Yeah!" and "Go, Connie!" and "Ignore that dirty old man!" Ethel barely fought back the urge to screech "Don't you dare, you cheap floozy!"
Connie grinned at the crowd for a moment before taking her place on Santa's lap. There were a few cheers.
"So what can Santa Claus pull out of his sack for you, little girl?" Bud boomed.
Connie whispered in his ear.
Bud waggled his eyebrows and gave out a hearty "Ho ho hoooo!" And then he kissed her.
Some people laughed. Some people applauded. And one person walked out of the room, went to her trailer and began plotting Connie Sandrelli's demise.
Ethel scoured her trailer for instruments of death. Soon she had assembled on her kitchen table a pistol (for shooting), a steak knife and knitting needles (for stabbing), a hammer and a scorched bust of former Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight (for bludgeoning), a pillow and a plastic Winn-Dixie bag (for smothering), a toaster (for dropping into a water-filled bathtub) and a fruitcake (for eating-Ethel was hungry).
The pistol wouldn't work because Ethel couldn't find any bullets: Ralph had hidden them somewhere, though he refused to explain why. He just said it was "a precaution." The steak knife, knitting needles, hammer, bust, pillow and bag were out due to Ethel's arthritis. Some nights, she could barely get her dentures out. A life-or-death struggle with a woman five years her junior definitely seemed like a bad idea.
That left the toaster. Ethel sat at the table for fifteen minutes, chewing on her fruitcake, running various scenarios through her mind. But no matter how she imagined it, she couldn't quite see a toaster attack panning out. She'd have to wait until Connie was taking a bath, break into her trailer, creep into the bathroom and plug the toaster in without being noticed-and then hope that the electrical cord was long enough to reach the tub.
No, she needed something easier. Something less risky. More sneaky.
She took another bite of fruitcake. Her false teeth clamped down hard on something brittle. It crunched. She cursed.
The cake had come from the grocery store, that was the problem. Those big chains put all kinds of crazy things in their fruitcakes-candy and cherries and whatnot. You never knew what you were going to bite into.
Ethel stopped chewing.
Her chief weapon in the war for Bud Schmidt had been food. Why change strategy now?
The next day, she baked a fruitcake.
1 cup diced candied orange peel
1 cup diced candied lemon peel
2 cups diced citron
3 cups raisins, chopped
1/2 cup two-year-old leftover red wine from back of fridge
1/2 cup amaretto (because brandy is too expensive and what's the difference, really?)
1/2 cup peppermint schnapps (because it's been sitting around forever so why not use it?)
3 cups flour
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 teaspoons nutmeg
2 teaspoons cloves, ground
2 teaspoons allspice
1 cup rat poison
1/2 cup Ajax
6 teaspoons dead husband's heart pills, ground
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter
2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
1/2 cup molasses
1 teaspoon spittle
Mix fruit in a large bowl; pour in wine and brandy substitute. Stir and set aside. Start sipping leftover schnapps.
Sift flour with spices, Ajax, rat poison and pills. Add baking powder and salt and sift again. Start second glass of schnapps. Throw in more spices just to be safe. Then more poison. Then more spices.
Cream butter, add sugar and eggs, mix thoroughly. Add molasses and stir. Spit in batter. Sprinkle with more rat poison. Start third glass of schnapps.
Heat oven to 300 degrees. Feel queasy. Pour remaining schnapps down drain. Lie on couch for twenty minutes.
When head stops swimming, get up and put cake batter in oven. Bake for three hours. Lie down on couch again. Vow never to touch another drop of schnapps. Imagine painful, pleasing death of husband-snatching Jezebel wench.
It baked up quite nicely. Ethel thought it was the most beautiful fruitcake she'd ever seen. She was almost sorry she couldn't try a slice.
Her alarm clock beeped her awake at four a.m. the next morning. She rolled out of bed, put on her darkest outfit (a navy blue polyester pantsuit she'd purchased in 1979) and walked to Connie Sandrelli's trailer. She left the fruitcake on the doorstep. It was covered in wrapping paper with a red bow on top. Attached to the bow was a note.
Merry Christmas, beautiful!
– Your Secret Admirer
Ethel walked away humming "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen." When she got home, she climbed back in bed expecting to be awakened soon by the sweet sound of sirens.
When Connie Sandrelli found the fruitcake next to her morning paper, she knew immediately who it was from.
Bud Schmidt.
A week before, Bud got it into his head that it would be cute if he started cooking for her for a change. The first dish he brought her was something called "cheeseburger Italiana"-or, as Bud called it, "cheeseburger Eye-talian." It was a casserole. He'd found the recipe on a box of Bisquick.
As a serious, marinara-in-her-veins Italian-American, Connie had to try very hard not to be offended. She had to try even harder when she tasted it.