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Prologue
Los Angeles, California
Memorial Day Weekend
Present Day
Devon Winger stared at the nightscape of LA. In the distance, a red river of taillights indicated yet another major traffic jam. Horns honked.
In the apartment below, an enthusiastic midnight tuba player took his chances at getting pummeled by a disenchanted audience member. Devon grabbed a broom, turned it upside down, and pounded on the floor. The tuba music stopped mid-toot.
Devon’s apartment was not in a luxurious area, but it was costly. He looked at his email inbox again. Yup, it was still there. The message hadn’t disappeared.
Subject: Overdue Rent.
Devon Winger, this is our third attempt to reach you. Per your contractual agreement, rent is due on the 15th of every month. If you are unable to pay the past-due amount in full, we will work with you to pay it off with my partner’s company, EZ Credit, at a generous 25% interest rate. If you are unable or unwilling to work with us or to pay the past 3 months’ rent in whole or in part, our collection agency will contact you, and eviction proceedings will begin in accordance with the City of Los Angeles’ laws.
Please respond to this email to acknowledge receipt.
Your generous overlord and landlord,
Skeezy McWheezy
Overlord and landlord, indeed. Why had Devon allowed himself to be talked into renting from the sleazeball? Oh, that’s right. Skeezy had been a friend, and the apartment, according to his buddy, was cheap. As in, so cheap, Devon should have wondered why a fully-furnished, two-bedroom, one-bathroom flat with a balcony and view of the LA skyline went for such a low, low price. Hook, line, sinker—and the next thing he knew, per the contract’s very small print, the rent went up like a balloon. Signed, sealed, and stuck in this rat-infested place with a leaky sliding glass door that let the rain and bugs in. His roach motels were so full, they were convention centers.
Devon had tried to keep the place clean, but had become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the hovel in which he lived. The refrigerator reeked of dead fish, despite the fact that he had never left so much as an unopened can of tuna in it. The toilet ran day and night, and the shower dripped in syncopation with the kitchen faucet. The wooden kitchen table had so many water rings, it looked as if an over-sexed octopus had made love to it.
One of the two bedrooms was a closet. If he could find a narcoleptic roommate who slept standing up, he could almost afford the place. Every night, he dreamed he was being devoured by a monster. In reality, it was the pull-out sofa bed and its sagging center forcing him to sleep with his butt on the floor and his head, arms, and feet in the air. The capper on this apartment of landfill rejects was the dresser with no drawers. His clothes, when clean, folded, and stacked on top of the bureau, leaned against each other like drunks at a frat party. When dirty, they simply piled up in the “second bedroom” and gathered six-legged groupies. Every day, Devon kicked himself for allowing Skeezy to sucker him into this rat trap.
A gamer friend from college, Skeezy had inherited a block of questionable real estate from a sketchy uncle. Rumor had it the uncle had been whacked for not paying off a gambling debt. When Skeezy had inherited the apartments, he’d been informed that he now had to pay off his uncle’s overdue bills and the vig. Skeezy had tried to sell the real estate, but these same “friends” of his uncle had blocked the sale.
They didn’t want a one and done. No, these scary dudes desired an annuity, if you will, a steady income to support their other ventures. They had become not-so-silent partners with Skeezy, as collectors and enforcers.
Devon shook his head. He liked Skeezy. It wasn’t his friend’s fault his uncle had dropped all this baggage on him a year ago. He wished there was some way Skeezy could get out of this mess, too. Maybe lightning could strike the place when no one was in it and burn it down? Ha! What was the likelihood of that happening? Now they were both lemons in the mobsters’ game of making lemonade.
If only Devon could come up with an idea for a new series on ShowFlix. They loved his work. His last series had run for almost two seasons—and been killed by a badly behaving actor. Maybe it was time to do a reality TV show. Less likely to have megastars and their egos.
Devon’s production team had abandoned him, moving on to paying work. With a year from idea development to a sale to a streaming service, time was not on his side. If he didn’t come up with something soon, he’d be forced to go back to valet parking and sleeping in his car.
He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Okay, World Wide Web, let’s see what you have for me tonight.”
He clicked on the data forum. Pounds of cheese by state. Number of cockroaches per city. Ha. LA was only number thirteen. Shocker. Number of funeral homes by state. Mmm. Of course. It’s God’s waiting room. Number of nursing home residents by state. Wait. He hit the back button. Well, duh, of course, they go together. Proportion of males to females by state. Gentlemen, stay out of Alaska if you ever want to get a date.
Meh.
“Lady Luck,” he whispered. “Where are you? Are you dead? In a coma on life support? I need you. Now.”
His VideoGo subscription was running out. He’d take one last shot at it before they cut him off the list for non-payment.
Idiots doing dumb stunts. Yes, we know that show.
He clicked on the title DIY Wedding Gifts. This ought to be interesting.
“Take a bar of soap,” a middle-aged blonde with a seventies bouffant and black eyebrows as wide as his thumb squealed. “Any color, but I love, love, love this green one because it smells fresh! Use four pushpins to make little feet for the bar of soap. Now, wrap a contrasting-color ribbon around the sides and secure it with a piece of double-backed tape. Add your plastic flowers by sticking them into the top of the soap.” She held the final product up to the camera. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
No, it is not. It is ugly. In fact, it is so bad, it has possibilities.
He looked at the number of views of the DIY video. Ten, including himself. Good grief.
Going to the search bar, he entered the word “trending” and hit return.
Cats, cats, cats. Who watches all these cat videos? He stopped. Aww that’s cute. No, not cute, a time waster.
Dogs, dogs, dogs. Pigs. Elephants. A veritable zoo of animal antics, not one marketable.
Toddler meltdowns. Go to the grocery store if you want to see those.
Off-key singers. No. No. No.
More pranks. “Ouch! That had to hurt!” Are these people working for the emergency rooms of America?
Devon took a deep breath and beseeched Lady Luck. One, please. All I need is one hit show.
He closed his eyes and hit enter.
A woman cackled. “Hello! Welcome, and thank you for joining Grandma’s Witchin’ Kitchen, where you eat what you’re served!”
He blinked and stared at the screen.
A round-faced elder with short salt and pepper hair wearing a shell necklace beamed at the audience. “I’m Grandma Redbird, and this is my friend and co-star, Madame Jinniyah.” She waved a hand at a woman wearing a gold lamé blouse and a feather-topped red turban.
Madame Jinniyah grinned. “We have a special recipe to share with you this evening, one that is sure to become a family favorite.”
“Indeed,” Grandma chirped. “My grandkids can’t get enough of this and beg for it at every meal.”
The feather in Madame Jinniyah’s cap quivered as she pointed at the counter. “All the ingredients are right here, and we’re going to show you how to make the magic.” Lined up before her were a row of cans. “Two fourteen-ounce cans of spaghetti and meatballs, opened; one can of green beans, drained; one can of diced carrots, drained; and four rolls of biscuit dough.”
Grandma pointed to the oven. “We’ve preheated the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees, and we’ve greased this fluted bundt pan. You can use a tube pan, but this one makes a prettier presentation.”
Madame Jinniyah popped the biscuit tubes and lined the bundt pan with two cans of the white dough. “Be sure to crimp the dough over the edges to keep this in place for the next step.”
Grandma poured the spaghetti and meatballs into the pan. “Even this layer out for the vegetables.”
Madame Jinniyah sprinkled the cut green beans and the diced carrots over the pasta. “Take the rest of the biscuits and place them evenly over the top. Now we’re ready to bake.”
“Wait!” Grandma shouted. “We forgot an ingredient!”
“Oh, yes.” Madame Jinniyah waved her hand over the prepared food. “We make every dish with a dash of magic and love.”
Grandma smiled and placed the creation in the oven. “Bake it until the biscuits turn light brown.”
Madame Jinniyah gave Grandma a sly smile. “We can’t wait to show you the results, so we made one ahead of time for our viewers.”
The camera panned to another counter where a basketball-sized puff ball sat in a pan.
“Beautiful!” they yelled in unison.
“It smells like fresh baked bread.” Grandma grabbed a pair of oven mitts. “Now let’s get ready to slice this into individual portions.”
Madame Jinniyah slid a platter under the bundt pan, and Grandma flipped the metal container over. Amid “oohs” and “ahhs” of the chefs, the bundt pan was lifted away, leaving the gleaming, golden mold of the inverted fluted bundt pan resting in grandness.
There was a moment of silence—and then the golden globe erupted like Mount Vesuvius, spraying bits of bread, spaghetti sauce, tiny meatballs, diced carrots, and green beans all over the kitchen—and the chefs.
Stunned, they stood there for a moment, red rivulets mixed with chunks of orange and green running down Grandma’s face and Madame Jinniyah’s turban. Grandma flicked a green bean off Madame Jinniyah’s eyebrow—and burst out laughing.
Giggling so hard she snorted, Madame Jinniyah gasped, “That’s it for today! Thank you for joining us at Grandma’s Witchin’ Kitchen, where you eat what you’re served!”
The screen rolled to a video of bears jumping on a trampoline.
Devon hit replay and scrolled down. The comments ranged from “Holy crap, what are they doing?” to “I think I’m going to hurl, but I can’t stop watching!” to “Imma gonna try this recipe!” and “When is the cookbook coming out?”
The views! Holy cow, the views. A million views. No, two, three, four million—he couldn’t keep up.
He knew how to pitch this show: a mashup of cooking and comedy with two quirky old ladies destined to steal America’s hearts.
“Lady Luck, thank you! I owe you a big one. Now, where are these women?”
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Sharon Buchbinder has been writing fiction since middle
school and has the rejection slips to prove it. A retired RN and professor, she
is the author of the Hotel LaBelle Series, the Jinni Hunter Series, and the
Obsession Series. She also has seven books in the Cats Paw Cove Series, a
magical place where anything can happen–and does! When not writing, she can be
found walking her dogs, herding cats, or breaking bread and laughing with
family and friends.
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Recipe For Love
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