Puddin' on the Blitz

by Tamar Myers

  ‘So? Your six-year-old granddaughter lovingly decorated your plain white bonnet with rose petals this morning. You blew the incident all out of proportion and blamed it on me. Clearly something is bugging you.’

  ‘Bugging?’

  ‘Yes. The way you were slamming pots and pans around when you came in – why, you were so worked up about something that I thought you were going to have kittens.’

  Freni managed to drag a gargantuan enamelled pot off the stove and hoisted it onto our wide granite island. I suppose that she gave me the evil eye, although given the fact that she wears bottle-thick glasses, it is hard to be sure.

  ‘Always with the riddles, Magdalena,’ she said. ‘Bugs and kittens. Who has time for such nonsense?’

  ‘They’re metaphors for asking what has gotten you so riled up.’

  ‘Ach, again with the riddles.’ Freni grabbed two handfuls of flour from a canister and expertly spread a thin layer across the long granite island. Next, she uncovered the white enamel pot and hauled out an enormous blob of semi-sticky dough. Although I am an essentially humourless woman, I couldn’t help but snort with mirth.

  ‘What is so funny now?’ she demanded.

  ‘The dough,’ I said quickly. ‘Last summer Gabe took us up to Lake Erie for a couple of days, and this big glistening lump of dough resembles the bellies of most of the men on the beach. Lots of the women too.’

  Freni’s head turned on her sliver of neck. ‘They were naked?’

  ‘No, dear. The men were wearing short pants, and the women were wearing – well, it is hard to describe if you’ve never seen a bikini. But trust me, three men’s handkerchiefs and a few bits of string are the only things needed to make one. You wouldn’t believe how much it all jiggles when the women walk.’

  Freni clapped her hand over her ears. ‘Stop! If your dear mother, my best friend, could hear such sinful talk, she would wash your mouth out with soap and hang it out to dry in the chicken yard.’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t get your knickers in a knot.’

  ‘Ach du leiber! Will these riddles never stop?’

  ‘Certainly, dear,’ I said, ‘and I’m sorry.’ I meant it too, because I knew full well why Freni was upset. I’d hired her much disliked – in a Christian way, of course – daughter-in-law Barbara to be the chef for Asian Sensations. I concede that the word ‘chef’ might be too grandiose a term for an imitation Asian establishment, but overstatement is the American way of life, and I am, without a doubt, a patriotic citizen.

  Freni didn’t acknowledge my apology. Instead she expertly cleaved the massive lump of dough in two equal halves with the side of a small, calloused hand. One half she pushed toward me with a grunt.

  ‘That woman, Magdalena. Why that woman?’

  I sighed. ‘Freni, you know as well as I do that, with the exception of you, that woman – whose name is Barbara – is the best cook in the county. She can make anything taste Chinese. Even Amish food.’ All right then, perhaps that was what our daughter Alison calls a ‘fib’, but nowhere in the Bible does it say, ‘Thou shall not fib.’

  ‘Yah?’ Freni said. ‘You have eaten Amish food made to taste Chinese?’

  ‘Let’s not split hairs, dear – oops, look at me, riddling away again like nobody’s business. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Freni didn’t possess a drop of English blood, upper class or lower; she was merely quite vexed. She began to vigorously knead her massive lump of dough with her strong little hands in controlled, rhythmic motions. Because I’d forced myself to watch a minute or two of the video that Gabe rented in the hotel on our wedding night, I hastily concluded that what Freni was doing to her dough ball was vaguely pornographic.

  I felt rather awkward just standing there, and since idle hands are the Devil’s playground, I decided that I should also assault the glistening glob of gluten in front of me. However, perhaps I did so with a bit less fervour than Freni.

  ‘May we at least talk about it?’ I said.

  ‘Talk is cheap,’ Freni said. ‘Is that enough riddle for you?’

  ‘Not really dear; everyone knows that saying.’

  ‘Yah?’ Freni stopped massaging the dough and began punching the dough with her tiny fists. Under normal circumstances, this was actually the method by which she broke up the air bubbles trapped in the dough that had accumulated during the overnight leavening process. However, on those other occasions she neither grunted, nor threatened to send the dough back to the State of Iowa for misbehaving.

  I tried my hardest not to even smile. ‘Freni, dear, just because Barbara is from Iowa, that doesn’t make her a bad person.’

  She gave an extra hard punch with her left fist. ‘You have been to this Iowa?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘That woman is too tall.’

  ‘How can anyone that the Good Lord made be too tall? Barbara’s six foot two, has eyes of blue, chickens cluck and cows go moo. Skippity-dippitiy-do-da-doo.’

  Freni pummelled the dough with both fists. ‘Forgive me, Magdalena, but you talk crazy, yah? For another thing, who will take care of my grandchildren when this woman is working in your Asian Sinsation?’

  Having been somewhat coerced into bread-making without having time to put on an apron, I wiped my hands on my skirt before spinning Freni around to face me. Given that she’s stout, with elephantine ankles, it was no easy task, so perhaps ‘spinning’ is not the best word, but at least that was my intention. Freni squawked in protest and took a large amount of our future bread supply for the next three days with her. Had she not been born Amish, I’m quite sure that Freni could have had a bright future as a professional discus thrower. I base that observation on the incredible strength which she exhibited, and the height that she achieved, when she managed to sling, quite accidentally, approximately five pounds of wet dough squarely into my face. The impact knocked me to the floor where, thank heavens, I landed on my bony behind. Remarkably, but not surprisingly, the airborne slab did not break my prominent Yoder proboscis. (By the next morning, however, a large portion of my heinie had turned as black as bituminous coal.)

  Freni has been like a mother figure to me ever since my parents were squished to death between two trucks in the infamously long Allegheny tunnel when I was just twenty years old. Thus, I was surprised, saddened, and a bit miffed that she appeared unfazed by what had just happened. Instead of offering to help me to my feet, or simply inquiring after my well-being, she merely retrieved the erstwhile missile of wheat and flour and returned it to her work surface. There she folded it into the main body of dough and resumed her abuse of our future comestibles.

  ‘Freni, don’t you have anything you need to say to me?’

  ‘Yah. Do not grab me like that. I get the jumps, yah?’

  ‘You could say that you’re sorry. The English are always saying sorry. We could learn from them.’

  ‘Yah? Maybe Barbara is English. Are there many English in Iowa, Magdalena?’

  ‘I think that Barbara is terrified of you, Freni. Maybe that’s why she’s always apologizing.’

  Freni was able to achieve a textbook quarter turn on her thick Yoder ankles. Frankly, I was gobsmacked. For the most part I consider television to be the Devil’s toolbox, but the Babester once coaxed me to watch ice skating in the Winter Olympics along with his old movies. Given her physical and cultural handicap, Freni’s maneuver was every bit as impressive as any of those skaters.

  ‘That woman, she is twice as tall as a real person. How can she be afraid?’

  ‘The Bible says that Goliath was also a giant,’ I reminded her, ‘and yet a little shepherd boy named David managed to kill him with a single stone from a slingshot.’

  Freni is a faithful Bible reader, although she reads it in the German tongue of her forbears, not the King James English that Jesus spoke. Nonetheless, she understood my reference and burst out laughing. The rarity of such an event can only be likened to the Republicans and Democrats holding a slumber party in pink pyja
mas, or the British people overwhelmingly proclaiming their love for Americanisms. I came so close to fainting in astonishment that I was barely able to enjoy the moment. Truthfully, all that I can report is that a laughing Freni sounds a bit like a cross between a drunken bullfrog and a strangled magpie. Not that I’ve ever encountered either creature in that condition before.

  ‘So,’ she finally said, ‘you think I am like King David?’

  Not wanting her head to swell too large to fit inside her bonnet, I had no choice but to answer appropriately. ‘Not when he was King David, but when he was the shepherd boy, David, yes.’

  Surprisingly, that satisfied her. ‘Yah. Still, about my grandchildren, who will watch them when the giant is away at Sinsations?’

  ‘It is Sensations, dear,’ I said, tiring of her game, for I knew her well enough to know it was just that. ‘You will take care of your grandchildren. Isn’t that what you’ve been whinging about – I mean something you’ve been wanting to do ever since they were born? Don’t you think that you can do a better job of turning them into good Amish than that giant from Iowa, who might really be a secret Englishwoman?’

  I waited expectantly for another glorious belly laugh from the taciturn woman, but none was forthcoming. She merely nodded and continued working.

  SEVEN

  Later that morning I rang my best friend Agnes, but when I couldn’t get her on the phone, I hopped into my rather ancient, but quite reliable, Ford and motored over to her farm on the opposite side of Hernia. Incidentally, my second-hand car was originally painted a proper Christian black, but over the years the sun has faded it to fifty shades of grey. Sadly, my mode of transportation hasn’t always been so modest. I once drove a sinfully red BMW that, you can be sure, was the talk of the town. The Presbyterians and Episcopalians expressed a mixture of admiration and envy. Most of the Baptists and liberal Mennonites kept mum, but as for the conservative wing in our community – well, I did hear the phrase ‘harlot with the scarlet car’ bandied about. Anyway, the phrase was a misnomer given that my then much-cherished ‘chariot’ was more of a red-orange than scarlet.

  Agnes Miller Shafer and I have known each other since we were infants. We were bathed together as babies. We were classmates together through high school. Just like Freni, Agnes is a cousin of mine in some degree – related to me through both my parents. We both like to read, to meet interesting people, and discuss the events of the day. However, the similarities stop there.

  While I resemble a beanpole with perhaps a few sticks tied across it to represent human limbs, dear sweet Agnes is shaped more like a bowling ball that rests atop a pair of shoes. This is mere observation; there is not an inkling of judgment intended. Of course, Agnes possesses a head, albeit a very small one, and deep green eyes, rather like the colour of magnolia leaves. What Agnes doesn’t have are wrinkles. She claims that’s because ‘fat don’t crack’. In short, Agnes is prettier than I am.

  At any rate, she only recently became the owner of this farm when her husband Doc Shafer died. Doc, by the way, was another of my dear friends, and quite frankly, he was a would-be paramour of mine. In fact, I am quite certain that he fancied me much more than he ever did Agnes.

  Every time that we were alone, the wily octogenarian attempted to talk his way past my sturdy Christian underwear and thick woollen stockings, in order to gain access to my treasure chest of purity – if you get my drift. Because Doc was merely persistent, and I knew that he would never force himself on me, we had had some wonderful deep discussions. Frankly, and I will admit this to no one, when eighty-seven-year-old Doc Shafer married Agnes Miller after dating her for just a fortnight, I might have felt a wee bit of jealousy. I mean, let’s face it, Agnes may be a liberal Mennonite with a four-year college degree under her belt, but at the risk of tooting my own horn, I’m a mite scrappier, and the old coot always liked to take as good as he gave.

  Never mind all that, Doc was dead now, and the woman who was arguably my best friend was now a freshly minted widow, and I was in need of comfort. Still, as I drove up the long dirt lane to the traditional Pennsylvania farmhouse, I couldn’t help fantasizing what life would be like if I’d married Doc instead of Gabe. Doc had been the community’s veterinarian for sixty-plus years, and had birthed a goodly number of human babies, as well as assisted in difficult animal deliveries. Our police chief estimated that well over a thousand people attended Doc Shafer’s funeral up on Stucky Ridge, making it the largest send-off of its kind in the county. Even the governor made a brief appearance.

  Please don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that Agnes doesn’t deserve to be old Doc’s widow – but truthfully, how well did she know him? Did she know him well enough to get the female lead in the biggest public drama ever to play itself out in Hernia, Pennsylvania? More to the point, it was Magdalena who had held Doc’s hand – literally – after his first wife died twenty-five years ago and put him back together – metaphorically – after their only child, an alcoholic son, committed suicide in New York City.

  After a quarter century of enduring friendship, and fending off his advances, was it unreasonable for Magdalena to expect that Doc might bequeath her a few pennies in his will? Not that I needed it; in fact, I would have given away everything that Doc left me. The only thing that Agnes ever did for my beloved old friend was to succumb to his advances within two weeks of their first date. If you must know, fifty-year-old Agnes was a virgin when they started dating, which leads me to conclude that she was either an incredibly fast learner of the ‘mattress mambo,’ or else Doc felt guilty for having robbed my friend of her maidenhood.

  At any rate, it used to be that one couldn’t drive up the lane to Doc’s farmhouse without having one’s heart skip with joy at the sight of all the animals frolicking about in his rich green pastures. Also, despite the fact that he really was of pure Swiss stock, as were the rest of us Amish descendants, old Doc claimed to be one eighth English. This, he claimed, was the reason he was not embarrassed to enjoy growing flowers, as are many other so-called ‘red-blooded’ American men. And what a garden Doc had! Every summer he exhibited specimens in the Pennsylvania State Fair and collected blue ribbons. Why, one year he perfected his own variety of black dahlia that he named ‘Satan’s Bride’, which caused an enormous sensation in gardening circles everywhere, even across the Pond. But apparently the Good Lord was not pleased with the flower’s name. Before Doc could propagate enough specimens to ensure its survival in the trade, his billy goat, Gruff, crawled under a fence on his knees, his massive horns notwithstanding. Free to wreak havoc on Doc’s garden, Gruff devoured Satan’s Bride while Doc was away delivering a calf that had presented itself in a breech position.

  On the day I drove out to see Agnes there was no sign of Doc’s garden, nor did I spot any frolicking animals. Not anymore. Finally, at his age, old doc had been forced to choose between performing his husbandly duties and caring for his livestock. To everyone’s surprise, Doc’s resident four-legged critters, barnyard fowl, and prize-winning flowers, all lost out to his rotund bride. Oh, what a horrible word for me to use when describing the very best friend a gal could ever have. Thank the Good Lord that He made it impossible for anyone to read our private thoughts. I, for one, couldn’t stand to know what others thought of me. I take that back; I would like to know, but only if the thoughts were truly lovely.

  That said, upon arriving at the house I was a trifle concerned to find Agnes’s solid wooden door standing wide open, and the screen on the outer door torn almost completely out of its frame. The correct response should have been for me to call the police on my cell phone. On the other hand, as mayor, and as unofficial lady detective for the freakishly high rate of murder in our otherwise happy hamlet, I am essentially an extension of our little police department. Besides, I would have bet dollars to doughnuts (if I were the betting sort), that the torn screen on the door was Agnes’s doing.

  The truth of the matter is my dear, spherical friend is about as accident
prone as a rogue elephant in a Limoges factory. She also is slow to tidy up after herself, which meant that the rip in the door could have happened weeks ago. She once dropped a jar of beef gravy on the floor the evening before leaving on a two-week holiday and left the mess laying there until she returned. Tell me, who on earth does such an appalling thing? (I mean, who buys beef gravy in a jar?) No good Mennonite of Amish descent, that’s who!

  Anyway, after I called Agnes by name a few times, and then called her a few names a couple of times, I ventured in for a semi-official investigation. I am not licensed to carry a gun, nor would I use one if I had one. That said, I do wield a mean broom if need be when it comes to fending off vicious field mice who have invaded my kitchen – well, that’s not quite true either. I can, however, use the bristle end of the broom to guide the little darlings as I sweep them gently out the door and into the field from whence they came.

  As it happened, I spotted what looked like a brand-new broom just inside the kitchen doors, so I armed myself with that, gripping it in my right fist. Next to the broom was a metal, colour-coordinated dust bin, which I scooped up with my left hand to use as a shield. As long as Agnes’s perpetrator was firing nothing more lethal than paper clips, and aimed for the centre of my shield, I might come out of the skirmish just fine.

  Oh, silly me. There wasn’t just a new broom in Agnes’s kitchen, there was a new stove, a new refrigerator, a new dishwasher, new granite countertops – why even the Doc’s disgusting, cracked and curled, fifty-year-old linoleum flooring had been replaced with ceramic tiles. In the middle of the kitchen, where Doc used to serve me lunch (with a side dish of wisdom) on his Formica table, was now the de rigueur island, without which no modern house is complete. I glanced up to see that no longer was there a bare lightbulb dangling from the stained ceiling. The water stains were gone, and in their place was a rectangular silver bar from which hung brightly coloured glass light fixtures, each one no larger than a jam jar. No doubt the light that they managed to cast would turn the task of chopping vegetables into a game of Russian roulette.