Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  “You’re quite right. Thank heavens, that was never my intention. But now storytelling I’m rather good at that, if I must say so myself. So ladies, feel free to eat your tasteless pizza, while I amuse you by telling you a story I heard recently, and thought you might all enjoy.”

  I ignored the moans.

  “Once upon a time,” I said, “there was a handsome prince named Conrad, who lived in a castle in the center of town. He was the richest man in the kingdom, and every maiden longed to be his wife. The prince, however, had no intention of settling down—”

  “Yes, he did,” Priscilla practically shouted.

  I glared at her. “This is my story, and in my story he never intended to get married. So anyway, the maidens could be rather pushy, but the prince, being a man, didn’t really mind. He set up a schedule and saw the women on a rotating basis, somewhat like in a harem, and might have gone on doing that forever. However, one of the fair maidens grew intensely jealous of the others, and whenever it was her turn to see the prince, she managed to slip a drug into his mead—there, I’ve always wanted to use that word in a sentence. At any rate, the drug wasn’t potent enough to cause any harm by itself, but the prince, you see, had a heart condition. One day this drug triggered a heart attack and the handsome prince died.”

  “Was the prince misbehaving with the village constable?” It was Alice Troyer, of course, but no one laughed.

  “That wasn’t funny,” Thelma said. “I loved the prince—I mean—well, you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed, I do,” I said. “That’s why you’re all here. Now back to my story, dears. You see, unbeknownst to all the women in the prince’s life, he was a very paranoid man. I have heard that great wealth sometimes does this.”

  Drustara tossed her fiery mane indignantly. “Who better to know this than you, Miss Yoder?”

  “I wouldn’t talk,” Priscilla said. “I hear that you made a million dollars just from being on the Oprah show.”

  “You heard wrong; it was closer to two million.”

  Everyone gasped, except for yours truly.

  “Then what,” said Thelma Unruh, “are you still doing in this backwater town? If my bed-and-breakfast takes off, I’m out of here. I can’t wait to leave this pitiful mind-set behind me.”

  “Magdalena stayed,” said Caroline Sha.

  “That’s because she has family here,” Alice said, much to my surprise. “And that’s why Drustara is still here, even though her family doesn’t speak to her.”

  “And don’t you presume to speak for me,” Drustara snapped.

  I tapped my glass again, as much for the irritating noise it produced as to get their attention. “Ladies, please. I haven’t finished my story. As I said, the prince was paranoid, and installed hidden video cameras in each room. After he died, the village constable found the cameras and was able to catch the woman who had slipped him the drugs.”

  “Bull,” Thelma said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. There weren’t any hidden cameras in that house.” She turned to the others. “She’s just trying to scare us.”

  Alice snickered. “You meant palace, didn’t you, Thelma?

  Thelma removed her tinted glasses, the better to glare. “I meant what I said. Come on, girls, don’t be stupid. You know she’s up to her games, and we all know we’re the mice she’s trying to catch.” She turned to me. “And you’re the big old Cheshire cat, Magdalena. That big grin of yours makes me sick. Just because we loved a man who was incapable of loving us back, that’s no reason to mock us.”

  “But he did love me back,” Priscilla said, sounding on the verge of tears. “We were getting married. In just three more days.”

  “There, there,” I said comfortingly. Of the five of them, she was my favorite. Thanks to her, and Dr. Skinner, I had an entirely new self-image.

  “Face it, Priscilla,” Alice said. “Take away the silicone implants, collagen injections, artificial bone implants, cadaver skin grafts, not to mention the fat either sucked away or relocated, and Cornelius would never have looked at you twice. You were to be his trophy wife—all sixty percent of you.” She leaned forward, pretending to examine Priscilla closely. “Joan? Joan Rivers? Are you in there?”

  “Alice is full of malice,” Thelma hissed.

  Caroline stood, her fluttering robes creating a soft breeze. “I’m not sticking around for this. There’s enough bad karma here to hold me back for another two lifetimes.”

  I smiled kindly, ever the generous hostess. “Would you like some pizza to go?”

  “No, I would not. Magdalena, you are what you eat, you know. Processed flour, animal milk cheese—it’s a wonder you look as good as you do.”

  “It’s all in the genes, dear, and I don’t mean my Levi’s. Of course I don’t own any pants, because pants are men’s clothes, and the Bible wants me to dress like a woman, which is really confusing if you ask me, on account of all the pictures of men in my King James Bible show them wearing long dresses, but I digress. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I’ve always heard that it’s not what you put into your mouth that counts, but what comes out.”

  “And I don’t disagree with you. I don’t gossip, or call people names, and I try really hard not to let negative emotions, like jealousy, take over. So if you’re still bent on catching Cornelius’s killer by provoking someone into a confession, or even just a slip of the tongue, you won’t be needing my presence.”

  “Nor mine,” said Drustara. She stood as well. “I had a hard time finding a babysitter on such short notice, and may have imposed upon my neighbor too much. I thought this evening was going to be one of remembrance, not a mystery dinner theater.”

  “Here, here,” Alice said, as if she wasn’t to blame for anything.

  “Bull,” Thelma said. “You’re probably having a blast dredging up material for your comedy routine. Well, I have news for you, missy, there’s nothing funny about this, just like there’s nothing funny about your show.”

  Alice’s radish-shaped nose was now radish-colored. “You little—”

  Thank heavens the phone rang. While I ran to answer it in the kitchen, I waved at the women.

  “Run along, dears. Shoo, shoo!” As the door swung shut behind me, I grabbed the phone. “Magdalena’s love palace,” I trilled into the receiver. “Brotherly love, of course, not the other. Although sisterly love would be more appropriate, given the circumstances. Then again it wouldn’t apply at all, so I take it back. So, hello?”

  “Magdalena, are you sitting?”

  It was Deacon Leonard Kirschbaum from Beechy Grove Mennonite church. When the Good Lord created Leonard, He omitted any brain cells that have to do with humor. He did, however, receive an extra dollop of wisdom, which makes him invaluable as a church board member.

  I pulled up a chair. “Yes.”

  “It’s about Reverend Fiddlegarber.”

  “Oh no! Not him too!”

  “I’m afraid so. Even though it didn’t come as a complete surprise, it’s still unbelievable. Magdalena, what are we going to do now?”

  “First catch a deep breath. Then see if Reverend Lantz from First Mennonite Church can preach at the funeral, and then—”

  “Reverend Fiddlegarber didn’t die.”

  “Of course he did. You just said—”

  “Magdalena, he took over your church.”

  35

  “Jammin’” Gulab Jamun

  For the syrup

  2½ cups water

  ¼ teaspoon yellow food color

  2¼ cups sugar 1 pinch saffron

  ½ teaspoon rose essence or 1 tablespoon rose water

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

  For the Gulab Jamun

  Ghee for frying

  1½ tablespoon self-rising flour

  Light oil for jamun platter and for shaping jamun

  ½ cup warm milk 1 teaspoon ghee (clarified butter)

  2 cups Carnation milk powder or any brand nonfat
milk powder

  ½ teaspoon crushed cardamom seeds ¼ teaspoon crushed saffron

  Yield: 8 servings

  Preparation

  1. Prepare the syrup: Combine water, sugar, saffron, nutmeg, rose water, and food color in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and bring to a boil, constantly stirring till sugar is dissolved. Raise heat and allow syrup to boil for 5 minutes, then lower and let simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

  2. Prepare the jamun: In a wok or wide-mouth pan, add enough ghee to reach 2½ to 3 inches deep. Heat ghee over very low flame.

  3. Set aside a platter brushed with a very thin film of light oil.

  4. In one bowl combine the milk powder and flour.

  5. In a separate bowl combine the warm milk and ghee; set aside.

  6. Gently sprinkle enough milk-ghee mixture into the dry ingredients, mixing all the while, till a soft dough consistency is achieved.

  7. With clean hands covered with light oil, separate dough into 24 equal portions. Take each portion and roll in your palm using both hands till a smooth ball shape, jamun, is achieved. Set jamun on oiled platter. Shape remaining dough in the same manner.

  8. Make sure the heat for frying is on low (you may need to raise the temperature a bit).

  9. Gently lower jamun into ghee (they will fall to the bottom).

  10. Very gently move the jamun with a wooden spoon to ensure even browning on all sides. This will take some time.

  11. The jamun will rise; continue to cook gently as the oil temperature rises. Proper cooking should take around 30 minutes total.

  12. Remove and drain jamun with slotted spoon and gently lower into syrup. Allow jamun to soak in syrup for at least 1–2 hours before serving; stir with spoon to gently coat. Jamun may be refrigerated in a tightly sealed container for a few days. Be sure to warm or return to room temperature before serving. Some even like them cold.

  13. Decorate with crushed cardamom seeds and a few sprinkles of saffron.

  Notes

  The trick to making really nice jamun is to fry them over low heat. Be careful not to brown the jamun too quickly and be sure to cook them long enough. You may break the first fried jamun to ensure the inside is done, but after 30 minutes, it should be.

  If the jamun collapse in the syrup, fry them for a few minutes longer and try to soak again. Do not refry soaked jamun.

  Be sure each jamun is thoroughly soaked in the syrup before enjoying.

  Use only ghee or unsalted butter for frying the jamun; do not use oil.

  36

  Allow me to explain. Beechy Grove is not my church. Well, it is—but it’s not just mine. True, I was dedicated there as an infant, then baptized when I supposedly reached the age of reason, and I was married there (albeit illegally), but lots of other people have celebrated their life stages there as well. Okay, so I am a deaconess, and a board member, and the church’s largest contributor, and when I say jump, the pastor usually asks me how high, but can I help it if the Good Lord chose to bless me monetarily?

  “Leonard, what do you mean he ‘took over’ my church?”

  “Tonight was the board meeting, remember? We were supposed to vote on which direction this congregation is going to take for at least the next three years.”

  “No, dear, that’s not until—oh, my heavens, oh, my stars! I wrote it on the calendar in the wrong square, so I drew arrows down to the square beneath it—never mind. Tell me what happened!”

  “Well, there are seven people on the board, as you know, and the reverend. But tonight Fred Fisher wasn’t there; he’s on vacation in Baltimore—his wife always wanted to visit someplace exotic. And Mabel Plank wasn’t there; she’s helping out her sister in Intercourse—the one who broke her hip. Of course Jimmy Spegootz is still up in Canada, trying to wrap up his father’s estate—I don’t think he’s going to inherit very much because the old man was a drinker. That’s it for our faction.”

  Our faction. Shame, shame, triple shame on us, the members of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, for having such things as factions. It wasn’t always this way. Under Reverend Schrock our unified flock prospered. But with his passing—if one can refer to a murder in such peaceful terms—fissures immediately appeared, and even before I hired Reverend Fiddlegarber, our congregation had essentially aligned themselves behind two ideologies. One—the correct one, I must add—was the traditional. Believe me, there are plenty of folks like myself who believe that some of the more progressive Mennonite groups have thrown the baby out with the bathwater. The other faction was, as one might have guessed, more contemporary in their observance.

  My beef with the latter is that they are free to join First Mennonite if ladies in pants, television, and waggling hips while dancing is what they want so badly. Why do they want to change the status quo when an alternative already exists for them? What are the rest of us supposed to do? Join the Amish? I don’t think so! Big Bertha is one of my few delights in life. As an Amish woman I wouldn’t even be allowed the electricity with which to operate her. Bye, bye, Bertha; that’s what my option would be.

  Unfortunately, relaxing the rules is not all the faction wants. They want a large screen at the front of church, upon which they can project the words of the hymns, and they want the freedom to jump up and down like Holy Rollers, and they want to start banging on doors seeking converts like Jehovah’s Witnesses. Charismatic evangelicals, that’s what they call themselves. C.E., for short.

  “Magdalena, Magdalena—Magdalena! Are you still there?”

  “Of course, dear. I’m in the state of Shock, and the capital city is Dismay. So what happened at the meeting?”

  “It was a slam dunk for the other side, that’s what happened. All four of the others voted for going the C.E. route.”

  “All four? But that means Reverend Fiddlegarber—”

  “That’s exactly what it means. The reverend didn’t waste any time fiddling around, did he?”

  “But this can’t be!”

  “Of course it can, and it is. But it’s only half of it.”

  “Shall I prostrate myself on the floor for the rest of the news?”

  “That might be a good idea. You see, Reverend Fiddlegarber turned out to be more of a Fiddlegrabber.”

  “You mean he sexually assaulted someone?”

  “No, he hijacked the church.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Beechy Grove Mennonite Church is no more, that’s what it means. He and his three puppets are now calling it the Voice of Armageddon Cathedral.”

  “But that’s impossible. Four people can’t hijack an entire church.”

  “Not to hear them tell it. They claim to have polled the membership and that one hundred sixty-three families are joining them in what they call ‘a spiritual revolution.’”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re not calling me a liar, are you, Magdalena?”

  “Of course not, Leonard. But this is the first time I’ve heard about this. Don’t you think that if they’d really polled the membership, someone would have told me? You know that a Hernian entrusted with a bit of gossip is like a Cornish hen trying to hatch an ostrich egg on the sly. Sooner or later, something’s got to pop out and give the show away.”

  “Yes and no. I don’t think they’ve polled everyone—certainly not me—but I have no doubt they’ve approached a good number of like-minded members. They seemed pretty confident.”

  “Then I’ll sue. I have more money than a Christian has a right to have, and I’ll spend every last penny of it recovering what’s left of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Even if it’s just the building—wait just one egg-hatching minute! The building! The deed is made out to Beechy Grove, not VAC.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Voice of Armageddon Cathedral. You just said it. Please, Leonard, stay with me.”

  “Actually, Magdalena, I’m one step ahead. Before calling you, I pulled out my copy of the deed. There’s a clause that says, in effect, t
hat the actual name of the congregation is subject to change, given the nature of Protestant churches, which, sad to say, is one of division.”

  “Division indeed. How many Protestants does it take to change a thousand light bulbs?”

  “One for each denomination in America.”

  “So you’ve heard the joke. Leonard,” I wailed—and wailing is appropriate at times like this—“what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. One option is to join First Mennonite; another is to stay and fight—I just don’t know.”

  “How can we stay and fight when they’ve already wrested the church away from us?”

  “We could fight from within. By that I mean fight spiritually.”

  “Of course.” Leonard was free to mean anything he pleased, even if it didn’t make a lick of sense. But I knew another way to fight, and dyed-in-the-wool pacifist that I am, I’ve never been known to back down from a good fight.

  “Magdalena, I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Don’t worry, Leonard. You crank up your praying machine—there’s always room for prayer—while I drag out the big guns.”

  “The big guns? I don’t like the sound of that either.”

  “When I’m through with Reverend Fecklessgrabber, he’ll rue the day he stepped foot into Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.”

  “May I remind you, Magdalena, that you’re the one who brought him to Hernia.”

  “To say touché would be cliché. I take full responsibility for this, and I will rectify my mistake posthaste.”