Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “And there’s something I should tell you,” Mrs. Schoening’s soft touch on her arm, and sweet whisper reeled in her attention. “Robert hates cabbage. You didn’t know, but now you do.”

  Missy’s gaze narrowed. Was she telling her to make it again, or giving her inside courtship information?

  “Since he was young, it’s always tested his gag reflex.”

  Missy knew her cooking tested most men’s gag reflexes. She inhaled deeply. The idea of serving a beautiful meal with Gary in the kitchen was somehow appealing. She’d put her hair up and wear high heels and a dress and one of Mama’s lacy aprons and maybe even a dab of lilac perfume like Mrs. Schoening.

  Across the foyer, Daddy bellowed, “The corn feed sounds awful fine. I like this church. This is a fine church, and you are all fine people.” Daddy wore the widest grin, and he had his arm strewn about Robert’s shoulders.

  For a moment, Missy saw her future stretching out in front of her. Daddy was mowing a wide strip of tall grass, and she was slowly, dutifully walking behind him. The field rolled west where they often stood to gaze out over the Columbia River and watch the herons land, and there in their tranquil little viewpoint, Robert stood waiting. She wondered if she had any control over her own destiny. Perhaps Daddy was in entire control of the lawn mower.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Didn’t you hear a word of what I was saying, Missy?” Daddy looked across the cab at her as he drove home. “I was reborn back there. When the preacher talked about salvation and how if we confess with our mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts that God raised Jesus from the dead, we’ll be saved. I said it and I believed it! Missy, I was saved!”

  Missy didn’t remember that part in the sermon. At one point, the church felt so awful hot that she’d only wanted to escape. Her shoes were unbearably tight, and sitting against the hardwood pew with the knot in the back of her dress was bothersome, and well... she had to admit she simply hadn’t been listening after the preacher just kept preaching.

  “I felt a little tingling throughout my entire being,” Daddy said with great emotion. “I gave my soul to Jesus. Your mama’s Bible is somewhere in the attic—in one of those boxes. We’re going to find it and we’re going to start reading it as a family.”

  Missy stared blindly out the window.

  “This probably means I can’t say crab anymore, doesn’t it, Daddy?”

  “Wow!” he said with awe. “It almost hurts to hear my little girl say such a vulgarity.”

  She’d heard about people being reborn. Her mama’s sister, Aunt Helen, said it happened to Great-Grandma. Once Great-Grandma was saved, she couldn’t stop talking about fire and brimstone before she died. Aunt Helen said it was difficult on the entire family being raised without religion and then all of a sudden their mama expecting it of them.

  Robert Schoening was responsible for this. Robert Schoening. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about him waiting for her at the end of the long swath of grass.

  CHAPTER 17

  While Missy made sandwiches, Daddy found Mama’s Bible in the attic. He dusted it at the table.

  “I remember the red words are the words that Jesus said.” Daddy took a drink of iced cold water. “A fellow at that fine Felida church said that being a new believer, I need to start with the book of John. I’ll read a little before lunch.”

  Missy set a toasted tuna fish sandwich in front of him and hoped his appetite would dismiss reading for a spell. Instead, he slid the plate aside and flipped through the pages. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John... found him.” He smoothed Mama’s Bible open on the table.

  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” He scratched his head. “They keep capitalizing word like it’s a polite noun. And you thought your Daddy didn’t know nothing about English.”

  “Polite noun, Daddy? Here, let me take a look.” He handed her the black leather-bound book. Missy read The Book of John, chapter one, verse one.

  “You’re right; they purposely capitalized it like it’s a proper noun.”

  “Your mama used to read this book all the time.” Daddy’s wide shoulders rounded. “She used to want to go to church. Used to want me to be saved.” Tears pooled in his baby blues.

  Missy placed her hand on his shoulder and pulled a chair next to his at the table.

  “Her folks always told us we were unequally yoked. I used to write her poetry.” He paused to search Missy’s eyes. “Did you know that? The other day, I found an old poem of mine on a yellow slip of paper in her nightstand. I’d written something about her smile, her eyes, and her flowered apron. She turned strawberry red when I gave it to her. One day she was reading my poetry and the next day she was gone.”

  A vice-like-grip tightened about Missy’s heart. She patted her father’s large hand. He wasn’t a flippant man. She knew that on account of his going to church and being saved, reading the Bible was now a tradition in their home.

  “I’ll read aloud for a little while so you can eat.” She pulled the Bible toward her. “He was in the beginning with God.” She looked at Daddy. “I think the He is in reference to the Word. But how could a He be a Word?”

  “We’re going to have to ask that preacher some questions when we see him at the corn feed tonight.”

  Missy wore her clean bib overalls and parted her hair into two long pig tails. She sat in the truck, a plate of deviled eggs on her lap, and waited for Daddy. When she’d sprinkled paprika on top of the eggs, it got a bit heavy, but they didn’t look too awful bad.

  On the way to Frank Carlton’s corn feed, Daddy whistled. It was the tune to one of the songs sung in church that morning.

  “If Bobby Boy asks to drive you home, you let him drive you home,” Daddy said.

  “Why? You’re driving home.”

  “’Cause I told you to let him drive you home.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

  “I told you there’s no spark.”

  “You’re not used to being around a gentleman. This here Bobby Boy...” Daddy paused to clear his throat. “Robert has a gentlemanly like way about him. The way I’d like a young man to treat my daughter. Give the spark a little time.”

  “Daddy, you keep trying to set me up with Jerry Boy, but I’ll never like him.”

  “Then I’ll be quiet.”

  The Carltons’ farmhouse was painted sunflower gold and sat nestled in a bright green field with a large red barn right behind it. Missy set the plate of deviled eggs on one of the long food tables. There was already another plate of deviled eggs. Whoever had made them had used some kind of fancy piper. The filling was perfect with a nice little ripple to it. Hopefully, no one had seen her set down her platter.

  A lean, elderly man handed her an ear of corn to husk. After husking seven ears of corn, she sat down on an overturned apple crate inside the barn and husked some more. She glanced up to see Robert. While he walked toward her, the clamor inside the barn stilled for a moment. A wide smile lit his face. Missy looked at the ear of corn she was husking, thankful that the volume of chatter and noises in the barn had returned to normal.

  About three feet in front of her, Robert stopped. He cleared his throat. “I overheard Big John tell Pastor Norris that he accepted Christ today.”

  She tilted her head back to look up at him. “He said he felt a tingling.”

  “Not everyone feels a tingling. Sometimes it’s simply a peace that’s hard to describe.”

  She focused on the corn and pulled off the pale yellow hair. Robert knelt down to the right of her and picked up an ear.

  “I didn’t think it happened like that,” she confessed.

  “Like what?”

  “A man going to church and coming home saved. Thought it took more time, more study.”

  “The Holy Spirit can do that.”

  “It’s all new to me.” She wondered why he was kneeling beside her. Why wasn’t he sitting in the nearby lawn chair?

&nbs
p; “How can a Word be a he?” she whispered.

  “He’s already reading the Bible?” Robert’s eyes shone like dark gems.

  “The chapter titled John.”

  Robert smiled. “Jesus is described as the Word. He was in the beginning with God. The Word of God is powerful; it’s not only words, its action.” His voice was soft and steady.

  “And it takes faith.” She looked at the husk-strewn dirt floor. “That’s another word of mystery.”

  “Faith means believing in things you can’t see.”

  Missy wrestled with it all. “Like air?”

  “Yes, like air.”

  “And because I can’t see God, it takes faith to believe he’s there?” The middle of her chest knotted up like a polymer knot, Daddy’s favorite one for fishing.

  “Yes.” Robert took his time peeling back the husk. “God gave us his creation. He gave us his Son to die for us on the cross, to bear our sin. He gave us the Bible—his Word—so we can know him.”

  It was all too much. “You must think you’re quite the salesman.” She stood, brushing corn silk off the front of her overalls. “I need a little fresh air.” She walked out of the barn into the bright sunlight. Thankfully, Daddy didn’t see her as she rounded the back of the building. Tractor parts were strewn about a bumpy field which sloped down to a large thicket of blackberries. In the shade of the barn eaves, a wooden sawhorse caught her eye. She plunked herself down on it and sighed deeply. She’d needed to be alone, to breathe.

  Just because Daddy’s world made a 180 degree turn in one day, it didn’t mean the same would happen to her. Robert knew his Bible, and when he’d explained things, his voice had a gentle, even keel to it. It wasn’t condescending but was nice and soft and slow. Getting her wits about her, she inhaled deeply and returned to the gathering.

  Ears of corn bobbed in huge cauldrons of boiling water. As elderly people and families with children made their way around the food tables, men with long tongs held out golden ears of corn. Missy piled her plate with potato salad, macaroni salad, raspberry Jell-O with miniature marshmallows, fried chicken with a cornflake coating, and of course, one thick ear of corn rolled in butter and sprinkled with salt. She sat down in a lawn chair beside Daddy.

  “I was hoping I’d see some of that fluffy light green salad Jean makes,” he said. “That’s one recipe I really want you to learn.”

  “I got the recipe the other day, but I didn’t have all the ingredients.”

  “I hope the little lady who made this. . .” Daddy pointed his fork to the potato salad on his plate. “Is not married. Would you be embarrassed if I stood up this minute and asked?”

  “Forever.”

  Daddy let out a deep hearty laugh.

  A hint of pickle juice in the potato salad immediately pleased Missy’s palate. She told herself that she’d also ask who made it. Everything tasted delicious until she saw Robert. He was looking in their direction as he stood in line at the food table. Her stomach turned; her appetite disappeared. She slid a dollop of red Jell-O onto Daddy’s plate.

  “Do you know who made the potato salad?” Missy asked a young woman wearing a straw hat, seated in a nearby lawn chair.

  “No, but Bertha will. She wrote our church cookbook.”

  “Bertha?” Missy scanned the crowd. There appeared to be more people at the corn feed than there had been at church.

  “Bertha’s the lady looking under the lid of baked beans.” The young woman pointed toward the food table.

  A plump, elderly woman with gray hair pulled into a low bun lifted a lid off a large enamel pot. Using a serving spoon, she gave the mixture a good stir. Bertha wore a blue and green paisley print polyester dress and bright green canvas deck shoes.

  “Thanks.” Missy rose and thinking she’d get a little more potato salad, took her plate with her.

  “Excuse me.” She stopped near Bertha’s elbow. “Do you know who made this potato salad?” She pointed to the mound still on her plate.

  Bertha turned to look at her. “I did, and who are you?” Her round face was filled with energy and kindness.

  “Missy Stuart. What’s your secret?”

  “First corn feed?”

  “First day attending Felida Church,” Missy said.

  Bertha wiped a plump forearm across her brow.

  “First you boil the potatoes until they’re not hard and not soft, until you can barely get a fork in them,” she said with a Minnesota accent. “Because before you know it, they’ll be mashable. Drain them. Cool them. Chop them. Add mayo, a little pickle juice—that’s my secret ingredient—salt, pepper, chopped dill pickle, chopped black olives, oh, and yellow mustard. Don’t have to be dry mustard. Can be regular hamburger mustard. Start checking the potatoes after ten minutes.”

  “How do you make good mashed potatoes?”

  “Honey, let’s sit down.” Bertha ambled around the side of the table.

  Missy followed her to two empty lawn chairs. Lifting her hand, Bertha shaded her sparkly eyes.

  “Whatever’s on your hands?” She studied the dark oil stains on Missy’s hands.

  “I help my father in our auto repair shop.”

  “You’re Robert’s Missy.” There was a lilt to the elderly woman’s voice. Bertha scanned the crowd. Her gaze landed on Robert—Robert Schoening—who was now seated in a lawn chair next to Daddy.

  “Crab,” Missy heard herself mumble.

  “Did someone bring crab?” Bertha glanced toward the tableful of food, before she eyed the macaroni salad on Missy’s plate. “I think it’s that imitation stuff.”

  Little chunks of imitation crab meat surfaced in the salad’s mayonnaise dressing. Missy’s mouth watered. She’d always liked that kind of salad.

  “Try soaking your hands in lemon juice, ought to come clean.”

  Hmm . . . it was worth a try.

  “What do you make when you only have venison, onions, and cabbage?” Missy asked. “Happened to me the other day.”

  “The secret, honey, is to never only have venison, onions, and cabbage. Keep your pantry stocked with staples like canned tomatoes, rice, sugar, flour, cream of mushroom soup—important items.” Bertha glanced toward the food table. “Remind me to check my baked beans. I have another batch to set out. If you had tomato sauce, you could have made my delicious cabbage rolls. The recipe’s in our church cookbook, which is only three-dollars. It was five-dollars, but we printed too many.”

  “I’ll buy one from you next Sunday.” It was evident from the potluck table that the ladies at this church really knew how to cook.

  “I’ll leave one for you on the foyer table with your name on it. I’d get you one right now, but I’m plum out of ‘em at the house.” Bertha glanced toward the gold painted farmhouse.

  “This is your house?”

  “Yes.” Bertha smiled. “I’m Bertha Carlton.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday morning, Missy took a notebook into the walk-in pantry. First, she dusted everything, and then she alphabetized everything and threw away any canned goods that were ‘68 or older. To her surprise, she found four jars of her mama’s famous bread and butter pickles. Daddy still raved about them. They were over ten-years-old and were probably botulism in a jar. She hid them in the bottom of a wood crate.

  There were plenty of canned peaches and blueberries. Missy was good at canning. There were also plenty of canned green beans and canned salmon from Daddy’s trip to the Columbia River last year with Baker. That was about it in her pantry. She remembered Bertha saying a cook is only as good as her pantry. When she went to town, she was going to get everything that Bertha had referred to as a staple. She was going to make Daddy such a happy man that he would never go to a church picnic again and ask, “Who made this?”

  When Missy was halfway to Ziegler’s in Vancouver, she realized today was the day she’d planned to get her haircut. There simply wouldn’t be enough time, and besides, she was too excited about her perfectly stocked pantry.
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  Three hours later, she returned home with the back end of her pickup full of groceries. After everything was unpacked and put away, she sat at the kitchen table with a glass of lemonade and contemplated what she’d make for dinner.

  “Guess what Douglas found near the garbage?” Daddy bellowed as the screen door bounced behind him.

  “Ten-year-old pickles.”

  “Your mama’s famous bread and butter pickles. Why’d you throw away perfectly good jars of pickles?”

  “They’re ten-years-old. I don’t want you dying.”

  “Never heard of anybody dying from bread and butter pickles. Now that’s one recipe I want you to learn. No more big, soft pickles. I like a good crunch.”

  Keeping Daddy happy meant a lot more time in the kitchen.

  A pretty little picture flashed in Missy’s head. She was wearing a frilly apron; her hair looked amazing as she carried a beautiful meal to the table. And if she looked closely, even her hands were lovely because she’d soaked them in pure lemon juice.

  In her vision, there was no ribbing, or ketchup, or trips to the garbage can holding a folded napkin. Bertha’s potato salad and Daddy’s response to it had inspired her. Anyone can cook something edible, but to make a meal memorable took a stocked pantry... and plenty of time.

  When Gary stayed for dinner that night, she was too tired to care much about her straight hair or appearance. She made toasted cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup, and strangely no one complained. After doing dishes, she parked herself in front of the television and watched an entire episode of Gunsmoke.

  CHAPTER 19

  Thursday evening, Missy made Daddy and Douglas scrambled eggs and toast before she left for Elderly Angels. Marilee Schoening had called her earlier in the day to remind her of the time, location, and comfortable dress code. At seven o’clock sharp, Missy pulled into Bertha’s long gravel driveway. More than a half dozen cars were already parked near the sunflower gold farmhouse. Butterflies flew fighter planes in her stomach. The only reason she was here was because of Daddy, Gary, Bertha, and of course, the Ginsu Knives. She breathed deeply and kept walking.