by Tamar Myers
As if on cue, the front door opened and in stepped a real live Amish man. This was not planned, I assure you, but the timing could not have been better.
I recognized the man as Jacob Troyer. There are perhaps seven Jacob Troyers in the county, but none so handsome as the man standing in my lobby. The standard Amish beard, sans mustache, and inverted bowl haircut detracted little from his symmetrical classical features. Tall, dark, with broad shoulders, this Jacob was better looking than most of the movie stars I’d had as guests over the years.
Amish garb varies within the denomination according to sect and region. Jacob’s dark gray pants, long-sleeved white shirt, and black suspenders were typical of workday attire for a local man in his twenties. As does every good Amish man, Jacob wore a hat at all times. Local custom dictates felt hats during cold weather, straw hats in summer. A simple black band is permissible, although some of the older generation view it as “proud.”
The Jacob Troyer in question didn’t have a clue that he was gorgeous, and his straw hat was unadorned. He smiled bashfully when he saw us.
“Miss Yoder?”
“Please, call me Magdalena.”
“Yah. Miss Yoder, may I borrow your telephone?”
Our Amish are strictly forbidden to own telephones, but they may use the telephones of the English, as they call outsiders, to conduct their business. There is a public phone in nearby Hernia that is constantly in use.
“Is everything all right, dear?”
He blushed at my careless use of the endearment. “Yah. My Gertrude’s sister in Ohio is having a baby. Twins, they say. Gertrude is a twin herself. Anyway, I am supposed to call an English woman there and see if the babies have come, but the phone in town is not working.”
“Well, you’re certainly welcome to use mine. In fact, I was just about to show my guest to her room. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
He blushed even deeper. “Thank you, Miss Yoder.”
“That’s Magdalena,” I said firmly.
“Yah, Miss Yoder.”
“Never mind.” I turned to Darlene. “Well, dear, shall we go upstairs?”
The big girl trotted gamely after me, but left her suitcase behind. I made her turn around.
“You carry your own suitcase, dear. That’s part of A.L.P.O., remember?”
“Who is he?” Darlene whispered when she caught up with me.
“Down, girl,” I said gently. “He’s a married man. The Gertrude he mentioned is his wife.”
Darlene sighed. “All the good ones are taken.”
“You can say that again.”
“You ever been married?”
“Once—to a bigamist, so I guess that doesn’t count. But I’m seeing someone now.”
“Is he as dreamy as that Amish man?”
“Even dreamier,” I said, sounding for all the world like a schoolgirl.
That so excited Darlene she nearly dropped her suitcase. “Details,” she demanded. “I want details.”
Unlike Darlene, I wasn’t about to share my life with a perfect stranger. I can, however, be very good at small talk. We chatted amiably about men and life in general as I showed her around. She was pleased with her room, which she called “charming,” but when I suggested she might want to give the toilet a good scrub before using it, she yawned.
“It was a long drive from Philadelphia,” she said. “I think I’ll take a nap first.”
“Suit yourself, dear. But I expect the powder room off the lobby to be spic and span by supper.”
She yawned again. “Will do.”
I returned downstairs to await the arrival of my remaining guests, as well as to check on the handsome Jacob Troyer. Alas, the lobby was empty.
A good Magdalena would have spent the time wisely, perhaps reading the Bible. It was, after all, Sunday afternoon. Instead, I sat on my chair and twiddled my thumbs. When I got bored with that, I reached down my dress to play with my pussy.
My pussy is a purebred chocolate point Siamese named Little Freni. She was a gift from Gabriel Rosen, the dreamy man I’ve been seeing. The day I got her, Little Freni crawled up my dress and climbed inside my bra which, as you should know, has lots of wasted room. Little Freni took an immediate liking to her surroundings, and now spends most of her time next to my heart.
You may think it a strange place to keep a kitten, but I assure you, I am not the only woman to harbor pets in her underwear. My sister Susannah, Melvin’s wife, has been toting a dinky dog around in her bra for years. That pitiful pooch, which my sister calls Shnookums, is not nearly as cute as Little Freni, and has a nasty temperament.
At any rate, Little Freni preferred to nap that Sunday afternoon. I tried getting her attention by dangling a rubber band down my dress, but my pussy would have none of it.
“Just play for a few minutes,” I coaxed.
Little Freni purred contentedly, too lazy to open her eyes.
I gave up my quest for a playmate and stroked her silken head. “You’re so soft,” I whispered. “I could pet you all day.”
“Ach!”
The short, stout Amish woman standing behind me was my cook, Freni Hostetler. It is she after whom my kitty is named. Freni is my mother’s double second cousin, once removed. Or something like that. After Mama died in that tunnel, Freni has been like a mother to me. At seventy-five Freni is the same age Mama would have been, and every bit as cantankerous.
The woman threatens to quit at least once a week, and actually does quit about a dozen times a year. On several occasions I’ve taken the liberty of firing her. But since I can’t boil water without directions, and Freni despises her live-in daughter-in-law, Mama’s replacement and I are doomed to each other’s company until the day she can no longer stand on her feet, or I decide to retire. But don’t get me wrong, I am immensely fond of the stubby woman with the wire-rim glasses and perpetual frown. She is, in fact, my dearest friend; it’s just that we don’t get along.
“Good afternoon, Freni,” I said pleasantly. “I was just talking to your namesake.”
“Ach! Such an insult to have an animal named after me.”
“There are those who would consider it an honor.”
“Yah, you would know about honors,” Freni said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.
The dear little woman was referring to the recent birth of her grandchildren—triplets. The two male children were named after their father and grandfather, but the girl was named after me. The proud parents, Jonathan and Barbara, named the baby after me because I was instrumental in saving her life. It was not because Barbara was trying to slight her mother-in-law. Alas, there is no convincing Freni.
“How are the little dears?” I asked cheerily.
Freni frowned. “She picks them up every time they cry. Is that any way to treat a baby?”
I shrugged.
“Of course, you would not know.”
Boy, did that strike a nerve. I am acutely aware that I will never give birth to a child, that I will forever be as barren as the Gobi Desert.
“As a matter of fact, Freni, I read in a magazine that a baby can never be held too much.”
“Ach, maybe that is true of English children.” Freni waved a plump hand, signaling a change of subject. “How many vegetations this time, Magdalena?”
“Excuse me?”
“Ach, you heard me!”
I smiled slowly. “You must mean vegetarians.”
“Yah.” My kinswoman is culinarily challenged. For her, the four food groups are fat, sugar, starch, and meat. She has only recently begun to make a distinction between meat and vegetables, and still finds some foods, such as cheese, hard to place. Since the Amish normally serve a slice of cheddar with apple pie, she had, until recently, just assumed that cheese was a fruit.
“Freni, dear, only three of the guests have arrived, and I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask them.”
Freni shook her head and muttered something unintelligible in her native Pennsylvania Dutch.
Freni made a face.
“And if it turns out we do have some vegetarian guests, don’t—”
The front door opened and in walked two more guests. Freni’s eyes lit up like lightning bug tails. I instinctively grabbed for her apron straps, but the woman is remarkably agile for someone her age. She got to them first.
“Are you vegetarians?” she demanded.
The pair giggled. They were the cutest little couple you have ever seen. Each was barely five foot tall, and plump as a goose the day before Christmas. They both had snowy white hair and wire-rim glasses not unlike Freni’s. The man was beardless, and I am a believing Christian, but with the slightest bit of encouragement I could easily have believed they were Mr. and Mrs. Claus on a summer vacation.
Freni stared the couple into silence. “Well? Are you vegetarians or regular people?”
“Please excuse her,” I said, and tried to push Freni aside, but she seemed to have taken root. Perhaps my floors were even dirtier than I believed. “This woman is my cook and is trying to take a head count.”
The couple giggled again. Freni stared harder, but that only sent the couple into spasms. At last, my plucky little cook flapped her arms in disgust and barreled off to the kitchen. The vagaries of a wood-burning stove are within her ken, but the English will forever be an enigma.
I, on the other hand, have more experience with the ways of the world. I singled out Santa.
“Shame on you,” I said sternly. “You have just upset that nice little Amish woman.”
The man blinked and searched for a speaking voice. “Uh, uh, we certainly didn’t mean to.”
“Well, you did. All she wanted to know was whether or not you ate meat. You didn’t have to laugh at her.”
He turned the color of the real Santa’s suit. “We weren’t laughing at her. It was a private joke. You see, my honey bunch and I were just discussing how we were going to explain the new diet we’re on.”
I felt the makings of a headache. “Which diet might that be?”
“We’re carnivores.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We eat only meat. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Only meat?”
“The rarer the better,” Mrs. Claus chortled.
I grimaced. “Surely you’re joking.”
“Oh, no,” Santa said. “We’ve each lost ten pounds on this diet.”
“When’s the last time you saw a fat tiger?” Mrs. Claus asked.
“Well, never, but on the other hand, not that many tigers pass through Hernia.”
“Good one.” He extended a pudgy paw. “I’m Keith Bunch, by the way, and this is my wife, Honey.”
“You’re serious?”
“We are now.”
I took a nervous step back. “You’re not part of some Satanic cult, are you?”
That brought guffaws. “Oh, no,” Honey Bunch said after a great deal of wasted time. “We’re just two old retirees out to see the country.”
“Retirees? Surely you’re aware of my rates.”
“We were both lawyers. Personal injury cases.”
“Well, in that case, I have some wonderful news for you,” and went on to explain A.L.P.O.
The Bunches thought the plan delightful. They signed up for every chore and even offered to make their own meals. I told them the latter was not only unnecessary, but inadvisable. The Good Lord Himself would have a hard time distributing loaves and fishes in Freni’s kitchen.
“But what about our special cake?” Honey asked.
“What special cake?”
“Tomorrow is our fifty-fifth wedding anniversary,” Keith said, putting his arm around Honey.
She nodded vigorously. “It’s a very simple recipe really. You just take a rolled rump roast—two if they’re small—and cover it with liver pâté. If the roasts are small, you see, you stack them one on the other with a layer of pâté icing between.”
“I want green icing,” Keith said and giggled.
I gagged. Thank heavens I was just steps from the powder room, and the delightful Darlene Townsend would be cleaning it later that day. When I was quite through being sick, I plastered my best hostess smile on my face, for I had yet to get a credit card or check from the plump pair.
Unfortunately the couple paid in cash. Green cash. I streamlined the transaction and hustled their bustles into the elevator. No impossibly steep stairs for litigious elves with a fondness for flesh.
Alone once more, I made a mental note to prescreen my guests. In the old days, when I catered almost exclusively to the rich and famous—and often infamous—my primary concern was money. Well, the Bible warns us about greed, doesn’t it? Over the years I’ve had to pay dearly for flagrantly fleecing the fortunate. On several occasions I’ve almost lost my life, and I’ve lost my dignity more times than Dennis Rodman. In the future I would at least ask a few basic questions of potential guests—like what flavor icing do you prefer?
I was lost deep in thought, Little Freni snuggled peacefully against my meager bosom, when the last of my expected guests arrived. I didn’t even hear the door open, and nearly jumped out of my cotton hose when I glanced up and saw them standing there.
“Gracious sakes alive!” I clutched my chest, waking Little Freni.
“Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mercifully I remembered to switch to my fake German. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn. My nommen ist Magdalena Yoder und I see by my reservations list zat you must be zee Hansons. Zee Herr Doktor Hansons, yah?” I looked closer at the book. “Ach, zee Herr und Herren Doktors.”
Dr. Margaret Hanson and her husband, Dr. George Hanson, exchanged amused glances. They were an attractive, well-dressed African-American couple, the kind of folks I love having as guests.
I scrambled for more words to mangle. “Vat vell it be today, zee Visa or zee MasterCard?”
Their looks of amusement turned to pity.
Honesty may be the best policy, but unfortunately it is often my last resort. I sighed miserably.
“Okay, so I’m not a native Pennsylvania Dutch speaker, and maybe I’m only a Mennonite, but I am a native of Pennsylvania and all my ancestors were Amish, so I have a right to pretend to speak like them, don’t I? That isn’t so weird, is it? I daresay you English are not without your foibles.”
The doctors raised their eyebrows in tandem.
“English is a generic term for ‘outsiders,’ ” I hastened to explain. “People not of the faith. You aren’t Mennonite, are you?”
They shook their well-groomed heads.
“Now, your names, address, and phone number are the only things I have on your reservation card, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask a few simple questions.”
I waited an appropriate length of time for them to respond, and when they didn’t, I barreled on. “You two wouldn’t by any chance be carnivores, would you? Or practicing mediums?”
The doctors exchanged worried glances.
“I know those might sound like silly questions to you, but you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. It started at three in the morning with the postmistress tapping on my window like a giant raven. Then one of my guests had a vision of the world’s worst cook lying on her back on a purple cloud. Minutes later my brother-in-law, the praying mantis, asks me to help him solve a murder case while he runs for public office. As if that weren’t enough, Santa and his wife ask me to make them a meat cake for their anniversary. Thank heavens the world’s tallest woman is friendly, although whom she expects to recruit in Hernia is beyond me.”
Dr. Margaret Hanson glanced nervously at the door. “Uh—I think we may have left something in the car.”
“Ah yes, the car.” Dr. George Hanson put his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulder.
“D
on’t go!” I wailed. “I’m really a very normal woman.”
At that precise moment, my one-pound bundle of joy wailed piteously from the depths of my bosom. As you may know from personal experience, Siamese cats have loud, clear voices, and can sound uncannily like a human baby.
The doctors stared at my chest.
“She’s hungry,” I hastened to explain. “Either that, or she has to use the litter box.”
Dr. Margaret Hanson smiled kindly. “Miss Yoder, have you taken your medications for the day?”
“What? I’ll have you know I’m as sane as the next person!”
As if on cue, the front door opened and in swirled my sister, Susannah. Behind her trailed fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric. Over her head was a cardboard carton with a square hole cut out to frame her face. Black knobs had been drawn on either side of the box and a pair of bent metal rabbit ears were taped to the top.
“Hey, Mags, how do I look on TV?”
5
How to Make Crepes
Basic Crepe Batter
4 eggs
2 1⁄4 cups milk
1⁄4 cup melted butter
1⁄8 teaspoon salt
2 cups flour
Combine all ingredients in a blender and blend well. Scrape sides and blend again for 10 seconds. Or you may mix all ingredients together in a mixing bowl with a whisk or mixer.
Crepes can be made in a greased 6-, 7-, or 9-inch skillet or special crepe pans. If you use a crepe maker, follow the manufacturer’s directions since some require the crepe to be cooked on both sides, and others just browned on one side.
If you are using a skillet, grease it with oil or butter if it is not a nonstick pan. Heat the skillet first, then pour 2 or 3 tablespoons of batter into the skillet, tilting the skillet quickly so that the batter covers the bottom of the pan before it sets. Return the skillet to medium-high heat and cook until the bottom is brown, about 1 minute. Turn the crepe carefully with a spatula and cook the other side for about 30 seconds. If the crepe tears, patch it with a little batter and continue cooking.