Beyond Delicious: The Ghost Whisperer's Cookbook. Mary Ann Winkowski

at her told her they were making fun of her in a language she didn’t understand. All except Helga, Jon’s aunt. She was the exact opposite. She went out of her way to make Nancy feel welcome, to teach her useful phrases and words, to show her around when they were there.

      Then the baby came along. The baby not only forced the Swedish family to come to terms with it—that the marriage was real and was for good—but it also meant they were going to visit them in New York. Nancy was petrified. Not only was she a new mother, but Aunt Helga had recently died and so she would not be there to comfort Nancy. And to top it all off, their house was suddenly haunted.

      Nancy and Jon had lived in the same place for years, and Nancy had lived there before that “forever,” and there had never been anything amiss before. Now, however, she could hear footsteps in the house when she knew she was quite alone, and things would move. Sometimes when her back was turned, she’d hear a scrape or a whoosh, and when she’d turn back, a chair would be pulled out from the table or a pot or pan would be taken down from the pot rack. Not to mention the baby, whose eyes seemed to follow the air as if watching someone walk by.

      This was too much for Nancy, so she called me and I went out to visit her. Nancy expected the worst, like a demon or something—too much TV, I suppose—but what she got was the best: Aunt Helga had been hanging around and she still wanted to help.

      “They’re coming to visit,” Aunt Helga explained. “My sister and her husband are convinced Nancy doesn’t keep a good house, and they are quite certain she isn’t a good cook. They will pick and pick and pick at her when they’re here.”

      “So what can she do? How can you help?” I wondered.

      “Pea soup,” Aunt Helga replied with a proud smile.

      “Pea soup?”

      She nodded dramatically. “They love my pea soup. If Nancy makes them my pea soup, she will win them over for good.” I opened my mouth to reply, but Aunt Helga held up a hand to stop me so she could finish. “Maybe not at first. Maybe not right away. But trust me, that soup will win their hearts.”

      “Okay,” I agreed. “Give me the recipe.”

      Aunt Helga made sure I took it down with exacting detail—she was very sure this soup would help. I called Nancy back a few weeks after I knew the in-laws would be gone, to see how it went.

      “You wouldn’t believe it!” she said. “Aunt Helga was right! They loved the soup and they were so surprised that I’d gone out of my way to learn to make it that they melted almost after the first bite. Jon’s mother even hugged me when they left!”

      Swedish Pea Soup

      1 medium onion, diced fine

      2 celery ribs, diced fine

      2 carrots, diced fine

      2 leeks, diced

      ¾ pound butter

      ¾ pound green split peas

      3 quarts chicken stock

      1 ham hock (fresh, not smoked)

      2 bay leaves

      2 teaspoons thyme

      Salt and pepper

      1 medium potato, diced fine

      In heavy sauce pot, simmer onions, celery, carrots, and leeks with butter over low heat. Add peas, chicken stock, ham hock, spices, and seasonings. Bring to a boil. Add potatoes and simmer slowly for 2 hours. If soup is too thick, add more stock.

Vegetables and Sides

      CREOLE TOMATOES

      ANGELO HAD A TINY PLOT in a community garden in one of the close-in suburbs of Cleveland. He was a big Italian man, about 75, and he’d lived in the neighborhood his whole life, watching it slowly deteriorate over the years as people moved out to the newer suburbs.

      Angelo’s wife had died long ago, but one of the traditions he’d kept up that he’d shared with her was cooking. They had both enjoyed cooking and also canned their own vegetables, but lately he had stopped experimenting and stuck primarily to tomatoes.

      “He has no imagination,” the ghost in his home told me. The ghost was an older African American, and he tutted with pity and shook his head. “He grows peppers sometimes—he could do so much with all those tomatoes he grows! Annie would give him some of her onions, too.”

      I looked at Angelo and decided that criticizing his cooking might not be the best way to broach the ghost’s concern. “Do you know an Annie?” I finally asked. He sort of paled, then caught himself and sat up straight.

      “Sure,” he said. “She’s a black woman from my street. She has the garden plot next to me. Why?”

      “This ghost thinks she might be willing to trade some of her vegetables with you, for some tomatoes.”

      “Yeah?” Angelo checked. “And who’s this guy, then?”

      “My name’s Arthur,” the ghost told me. “I’m Annie’s father.”

      “It’s Annie’s dad.”

      “Well, tell him to get out!” Angelo said, but he seemed to be protesting just a bit too much. I could tell he was secretly scared, and it only took a look to get him to continue. “Annie told me once she sees her dad in her house from time to time. He’s been dead for a while. I figured she was, you know, crazy.”

      “She’s not,” I assured him.

      “She’s been asking me a lot about my tomatoes lately,” he added thoughtfully. “Like, what I plan to do with all of them and if I ever made fried green tomatoes—stuff like that.”

      “And?” I asked, seeing the perfect way to bring up the reason for Arthur’s visits. “What are you going to do?”

      Angelo shrugged. “Make spaghetti sauce. You know, these black folks don’t know what to do with tomatoes.”

      I glanced at Arthur apologetically then said to Angelo, “I think they might. Arthur says he has a good recipe for tomatoes.”

      “I know what to do with tomatoes!” Angelo replied defensively.

      “Sure he does,” Arthur disagreed. “He knows how to cut them up and put them on things. He cuts them up and puts them on eggs. He slices them and puts them on a sandwich. He has no imagination! Look, ask him to give a message to my Annie. Tell him to let her know that I love her and Della and Peg, and I’m very proud of all of them.”

      Angelo balked at the idea. “She’d think I was nuts!” he exclaimed.

      “Did she ever tell you her father’s name?” I wondered.

      “No.”

      “Did she ever tell you that her mother was also dead, and that her name was Margaret?”

      “No.”

      “Well, that’s the other part of the message—he said he wants me to help him cross over now so he can see Margaret again. Now, how else would you know that stuff—and you already said Annie saw him herself!”

      I could see it was getting nowhere, so I turned back to Arthur. “Did you ever see Angelo’s wife around, Arthur?”

      “Carmella? Sure I did.”

      I turned back to Angelo. “Do you think Carmella would want you to do this?”

      Angelo practically fell out of his chair. “How’d you know her name?”

      “How do you think?”

      At that moment I realized that despite him calling me and having me come out, until that second he hadn’t fully believed any of it. “Now if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m going to get Arthur’s tomato recipe before he crosses over. Are you going to give Annie his message?”

      “Yeah,”