Malcolm Goldman and The Mystery of the Haunted Leaf Pile
It was a crisp October afternoon, the leaves rustling in the breeze like they were hiding secrets. Winston, our basset hound, was nose-deep in the biggest leaf pile, snuffling around with the intensity of a pig hunting truffles. I was halfway through raking the rest of the yard when Malcolm made his grand entrance.
Not walked—made an entrance! Malcolm Goldman, my seven-year-old son never did anything part way. Like Cary Grant in a big budget noir picture, Malcolm strode over, decked out in his “detective” uniform: oversized trench coat, plastic magnifying glass, and a paper mustache taped under his nose for added gravitas. He looked up at me with the intensity of a man who’d just stumbled onto a major conspiracy.
“Dad,” he began, voice lowered, “this leaf pile is haunted.”
I leaned on my rake, already half entertained. “Haunted, huh? And how do you know?”
He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I didn’t see it—I heard it. Rustling… all by itself.”
I looked at Winston, his tail sticking up from the leaves, wagging like mad. “You sure that wasn’t just Winston?”
Malcolm shook his head, his voice grave. “No, Dad. This is something bigger. I think… there’s treasure inside.”
Just then, Mrs. Kowalski, our neighbor, appeared on her front porch, waving at us with that warm smile she reserved for Malcolm’s “cases.” She was wearing her apron, hands dusted in flour, and Malcolm eyed her like she might be in on the conspiracy.
“Malcolm! Sam! Winston!” she called, coming over. “What are you all up to today?”
Malcolm turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “Mrs. Kowalski, we’re investigating a haunted leaf pile. I think there’s treasure hidden inside.”
Mrs. Kowalski chuckled, fully prepared to play along. “Well, if it’s treasure you’re after, I may have just the thing. I was about to make a batch of my special zucchini bread. Ever had that before?”
Malcolm’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Zucchini bread? That doesn’t sound like treasure.”
Mrs. Kowalski winked, waving us toward her house. “Ah, but you never know where treasure might be hidden. It’s a magical recipe, you know. And if you help me, you might just find out why.”
Malcolm glanced at me with a torn look on his face, but the chance to investigate “magic” was too tempting. He nodded, slipping his notebook into his coat pocket. “Alright. But I’ll need to see all the ingredients.”
Mrs. Kowalski agreed to the terms and we made our way toward her front door. Just as we were about to step in, the Johnston’s orange tabby cat emerged from under the leaf pile. Mystery solved.
Inside Mrs. Kowalski’s cozy kitchen, Malcolm climbed up on a chair by the counter, investigating the ingredients like he’d just stumbled upon a witches’ brew. She gathered each one with the careful precision of a chef—or, to Malcolm, a sorceress.
“First, we start with the magic ingredient—the zucchini,” she said, setting one down in front of him. “We need to shred about a cup and a half of it.”
Malcolm looked at the zucchini, unimpressed. “You’re telling me this… makes bread?”
“Oh, yes. But once it’s mixed in, you won’t even know it’s there. That’s the magic.”
Mrs. Kowalski handed him a grater, guiding his hands as he shredded. Malcolm’s frown deepened as he grated, clearly growing more suspicious of the “magic” as the green pile grew. Soon enough, he had zucchini shreds all over the counter, his shirt, and somehow even his hair.
“Next,” she said, handing him a measuring cup, “we add 1 and 3/4 cups of flour.”
Malcolm poured it into a large bowl with all the care of someone defusing a bomb, a small cloud of flour rising up to dust his face. He gave a sneeze that sent another puff of flour into the air, covering him like a ghost.
“Very good,” Mrs. Kowalski said with a chuckle. “Now, we’ll add 1 teaspoon of baking powder, a 1/2 teaspoon of salt, and 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda.”
Malcolm scooped the powder and soda, sprinkling them in as if expecting the bowl to start bubbling. She passed him a teaspoon and a half of of cinnamon, followed by 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg next, and the warm, spicy scent filled the kitchen. He sniffed, momentarily thrown by how good it smelled.
“What’s next?” he asked, a little less skeptical.
“Now we add our wet ingredients,” she replied, setting out a small bowl. “First, 1/2 cup of oil, 1/4 cup of applesauce, and 2 tsp of vanilla extract.”
Malcolm poured each in, his face intense as he watched it slip into the bowl. She handed him a half-cup of white sugar, and then a half-cup of brown sugar. He muttered something about how much sugar was going into this “potion,” but he measured it anyway, keeping one flour-dusted eye on Mrs. Kowalski.
Finally, she handed him two eggs to crack, and he cracked them with such concentration that it was a miracle only a small bit of shell slipped in. She fished it out with a wink and handed him a whisk.
“Now we stir. And it is super important that we stir it really really really well,” she instructed. She paused and lowered her voice confidentially, “It make the magic work better.”
Malcolm took in this information solemnly and whisked with enthusiasm, sending little splashes onto the counter, the bowl, and somehow even Winston, who had wandered in to investigate. But he stirred with determination, and when Mrs. Kowalski told him it was time to add the shredded zucchini, he hesitated only a moment before stirring it in too.
“Now, the secret ingredient,” she said, setting a bowl of chocolate chips on the counter. “About a cup should do.”
Malcolm eyed her, but the chocolate chips won him over. He poured them in and gave the mixture a few final, vigorous stirs. By now, he looked like he’d been through a flour storm, but his look of concentration hadn’t budged.
Mrs. Kowalski poured the batter into a loaf pan, patting Malcolm on the back. “Now, Detective, we wait for the final bit of magic to happen. We’ll put it in the oven for one hour at 350 degrees. But first we will preheat the oven so that it all bakes evenly!
“A whole hour?” Malcolm asked suspiciously.”
“A whole hour!” she repeated.
“Sounds like witchcraft,” he declared. “Have you ever cooked children in this oven?”
Mrs. Kowalski and I gave each other a conspiratorial grin. “Not yet,” She said definitively. “I can never figure out the right temperature setting to use, but they sound delicious!”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “I suspected as much,” he said somberly. “Well you’re not gonna’ eat me!”
Malcolm paced the kitchen as the bread baked, casting suspicious glances at the oven every few minutes. When the timer finally dinged, Mrs. Kowalski pulled out the golden loaf, and the rich, spicy aroma filled the room.
“There it is,” she said, setting it on a cooling rack. “Our treasure.”
Malcolm sniffed the air, but his detective’s expression didn’t falter. He watched as Mrs. Kowalski put on a pot of coffee for the adults and tried to hide his excitement as he watched her carefully prepare a tall glass of cold chocolate milk, the suspense building with every minute he had to wait. After the bread cooled, she sliced a piece and set it on the table in front him, eyebrows raised as if daring him to taste it.
He took the slice with utmost caution, turning it over like he might find a clue hidden within. Finally, he took a small, deliberate bite, chewing slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.
“It’s… edible,” he finally declared, his voice heavy with suspicion, as if letting the “witch” know he might enjoy her concoction was out of the question.
Mrs. Kowalski chuckled. “Well, that’s high praise coming from you, Detective.”
Winston, who’d been watching from the doorway, barked hopefully. Mrs. Kowalski grabbed a treat from the jar she kept for her special visitor, making sure to tease him into thinking it was the prize zucchini bread everyone else was munching. He inhaled it in a single gulp, tail wagging like he’d just discovered the true treasure.
That night, I was sitting up in bed with a book when Sarah came into our room, laughing quietly. “Guess what your son told me? Apparently, Mrs. Kowalski is a witch with ‘magic zucchinis.’”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “That’s right. Today’s case: haunted leaf piles and a zucchini sorcery project that even got the detective covered in flour.”
She laughed, settling in beside me. “Did he actually eat it?”
“Oh, he ate it, alright,” I replied, grinning. “I’m surprised he had room left to eat his supper. But he certainly did his best to keep up appearances. Can’t let the ‘witch’ know he might actually like her ‘potion,’ you know.” I winked and continued “For a moment, I honestly thought the kid might put ketchup on it! He puts it on everything else.”
She giggled. My wife has a great giggle. Sometimes, I think she might be a magic witch herself. She snuggled in to my shoulder “Well, at least she’s a ‘friendly witch,’ according to Malcolm.”
I put down my book, chuckling. “Thank goodness. I don’t think he’s ready to tackle ‘evil’ witches… not until he’s mastered zucchini bread.”
We both laughed, and as I turned off the light, I could still picture the flour-dusted detective casting suspicious glances at his slice of zucchini bread. With Malcolm, there was never a dull day—and tomorrow, I was sure, would bring a new case— or at least a new adventure.