LITMIR.BIZ

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again. The ghost was standing behind me, so she didn’t see it.

      “Okay,” Betty finally agreed, still not sure if she was in on the joke or the butt of it.

      I don’t know if Rita was ever allowed to make the dishes, but Betty and Bob did refer me to several other people, so apparently their nights were easier after I’d helped the two spirits cross over, if nothing else.

      Spanish Corn

      2 cups canned corn

      ¼ teaspoon sugar

      2 tablespoons chopped green peppers

      1 egg, well beaten

      2 tablespoons chopped pimientos

      ½ cup cracker crumbs

      1 tablespoon finely chopped onion

      ½ cup milk

      1 tablespoon salt

      2 tablespoons melted butter

      Combine ingredients and pour into a buttered baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Serve in baking dish.

      Spanish Zucchini

      1 medium onion, finely chopped

      1 clove garlic, finely chopped

      2 tablespoons olive oil

      1 pound small sliced unpeeled zucchini

      1 can tomato paste

      ½ cup boiling water

      1 4-ounce container pimiento cheese

      Salt and pepper to taste

      Simmer onion and garlic in oil until tender. Add zucchini; cover and cook until tender. Add tomato paste, water, and cheese. Season to taste. Cook slowly for 5 minutes. Serves 6–8.

      STIR-FRIED SUGAR SNAP PEAS

      EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE a story comes along that reminds me what I’m dealing with. I know it sounds odd, but when you can see and talk to ghosts every day, like I can, you sort of forget sometimes what that really means: It means these people lived and died. It means they left loved ones behind. I know they say police detectives get calloused to the crimes they witness day in and day out, so it shouldn’t be surprising that I’ve developed a certain amount of detachment. Just like with the police, it’s a coping mechanism. But every now and again there is a story that still hits me, even when I retell it decades later. This is one of those stories.

      When I was about 22, I was referred to a man, Tim, who had married a Japanese woman, Kim. This would have been the late 1960s, and back then I wasn’t on TV or the radio, and no one wrote about me in newspaper or magazines. If you’d heard of me, it was because someone you knew had met me. And if you called me, it was because you were honestly at your wit’s end, not because you were curious or skeptical.

      Tim called me because he was worried about his kids. He heard them late at night, when they should have been sleeping, talking to their mother. They’d laugh and giggle, pause as if listening, then reply. It was his wife who told him who it was they were talking to, because they were speaking to their mother in Japanese. Their mother, Mia, was Kim’s sister, and she was dead.

      Tim and Kim were in the process of adopting the children. They’d come to the U.S. with their parents and their baby sibling to visit their Aunt Kim, but on the way from the airport they were in a terrible car accident. Their parents and the baby were killed, leaving them in the care of an aunt and uncle they’d never met in a country they’d never seen before.

      When I got to the house I knew there was a ghost there, but it wasn’t with us. Tim told me what had happened and that Kim was convinced it was her sister. They were both also adamant that she had to go.

      “The kids aren’t adjusting. They’d never met us before, and now they just wait to see their mother at night,” he explained. “I know it sounds horrible, but if they’re going to stay with us, they have to get used to us. They won’t even eat our food—they want their mother to cook for them.”

      The kids were upstairs sleeping, so I went up to see their room, and sure enough, there was Mia. One of the things I don’t understand about my ability, but that I am certainly thankful for, is that I can understand ghosts when they speak to me, no matter what language they speak in, and they can understand me.

      “Mia?” I checked. She nodded and sort of half-smiled. “Can you come downstairs with me?” She nodded again and followed me.

      When we got downstairs, I asked her why she was here.

      “My husband took the baby into the White Light after the crash,” she said. “We agreed that I’d stay behind and watch over the other two.” It was all I could do not to start crying at that point, but I kept my composure.

      “Do you want Tim and Kim to have the children?” I asked.

      “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “Very much. They can’t go back to Japan. We wanted to move to America anyway.”

      “Mia, you aren’t helping them, though. They need to get used to how things are now. They can’t do that with you here. And you just sap their energy when you’re around—that makes them sick.”

      “I know,” she agreed sadly. “But I just can’t leave my babies.”

      “I know,” I replied—it was getting tougher to stay calm. “You know, once you cross over you can come back and check on them any time you want, and it won’t bother them.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes.” I paused, making sure she understood what I was saying. “Now is there anything I can tell Tim and Kim before you cross over? Anything to help them help the kids?”

      “Of course,” she said kindly, and listed all their favorite things, all their likes and dislikes, all their favorite activities. She also said that she had been a chef with her husband in Japan, and she wanted Kim to make some of her recipes for them.

      “Their favorite is sugar snap peas,” she said.

      “Well let’s start with that one, then,” I suggested, and she gave me the recipe.

      Stir-Fried Sugar Snap Peas

      ¼ cup chicken broth

      2 tablespoons dry sherry

      2 teaspoons oyster sauce

      3 tablespoons peanut oil

      ⅔ cup thinly sliced scallions

      1 pound sugar snap peas (snow peas)

      Combine chicken broth, sherry, and oyster sauce; set aside. Heat a wok over high heat and add the peanut oil. Add scallions and then peas. Stir-fry for 2 minutes. Add the broth mixture and toss until the snow peas are well coated. Cook for no more than 2 minutes. Peas should be crisp-tender. Serve hot in a heated dish.

      STUFFED KOHLRABI

      MY BOHEMIAN GRANDFATHER used to grow kohlrabi, also known as German turnip (even though it’s actually a type of cabbage). I remember going out into his garden and picking it fresh, then we’d clean it, salt it, and eat it raw. I thought it was delicious, and because that was how my grandfather always served it, I never thought of cooking it. Furthermore, I never thought of stuffing it with meat and cooking it—but that changed when I met Hannah.

      Hannah was Emma’s mother, and she’d been dead about six years. Emma lived in rural Ohio in a place known locally as the Dumpling Valley. She was Amish, and her friend, Sharon, who was not Amish, had called me for her.

      “It’s terrible for them,” Sharon told me on the phone. “You have to come out.”

      “Does Emma know you’ve called me?” I asked before we got too far in the conversation. I’d done some work with the Amish before, and as in many devoutly religious communities, someone who could see and talk to ghosts wasn’t always welcome.

      Sharon

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