by Tamar Myers
“Agnes Mishler lives on a dead road, yah?”
“Oops. Yes, she does live on a dead-end road—Look, Freni, you’re going to find out, so I may as well tell you now. Melvin Stoltzfus is back.”
Freni froze. Given that the woman abhors alliteration, I hastened to elaborate on the entire situation. I left nothing out; I even told her about the Irish coffee. I did not, however, reveal my son’s location.
Freni seemed remarkably blasé about my revelation. “The Irish are a sensible people.”
“What?”
“A lot of prayer, a little whiskey—not such a bad combination.”
“But you don’t drink! The Amish don’t drink! That’s of the Devil!”
Still a prisoner to alliteration, Freni flinched. “Ach, not me personally, but there are many among us who might take a sip now and then—to calm the nerves. But no, we do not get drunk like the English; this we do not permit.”
“Wow, and I thought I knew everything about the Amish.”
“Sometimes it is you Mennonites who are too strict, Magdalena. You have thrown out the baby oil with the bath salts, yah?”
“Close enough.”
“So now you tell me where my little boy is.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
Freni tossed a handful of sugar over the dough, and then dusted it with cinnamon. The whole time she clucked to herself like a hen about to lay an egg.
“Magdalena, you are like a daughter to me. When you were little, I washed you in the tub. When your mama was sick, I changed your poopy diapers. I was here for you when you married Aaron Miller—the man who led you into bigamy, yah?”
“I was an inadvertent adulteress,” I wailed. It was the last time I was ever going to wail, or respond to any comment pertaining to that unfortunate part of my life.
“But now you do not trust me?”
“You bet your bippy I do trust you,” I said. It was stress—and of course, Satan—that caused me to lapse into the pagan prose of the vernacular. And to lie.
“Ach! What is this bippy?”
“It’s just an expression, dear; it’s something I heard Susannah say. By the way, she needs our prayers more than ever. She’s not at all the carefree spirit we used to know.”
Freni, who’d picked up the rolling pin by then, began to roll the dough into a log. “She is in prison, Magdalena, yah?”
“But it’s more than that. This obsession with Melvin—it’s taken over her soul. She could barely bring herself to tell me that her little nephew was in danger. I hate to say it, Freni, but I think she’s mentally ill. Maybe it’s depression, maybe something I’ve never heard of. But as her closest living relative—not on the lam, that is—I’m going to ask that she undergo a thorough psychiatric evaluation.”
The Amish, like we Mennonites, do recognize that there are times when people need assistance from the outside world. But especially for the Amish, it can be difficult to determine where the line between poor mental health and weak faith lies. If only one were to submit more fully to the will of the bishop, and the Ordnung of the community, one would surely find the peace one was missing.
Freni loves Susannah as much as she loves me—well, almost as much. I could tell that at that moment she loved my sister enough to struggle with the rigid belief system in which she’d been raised and to consider alternative possibilities. As she grappled with her conscience she brought a butcher knife repeatedly down on the dough log, expertly rendering it into cinnamon buns of equal size. These she plopped into greased pans which she essentially threw into the oven before slamming the oven door.
“So now the truth, yah?”
“Okay, but you don’t need to get so bent out of shape. The truth is that although you are the dearest woman alive—a surrogate mother to me and my best friend—at least of your generation—you do engage in a fair amount of—Well, shall we say ‘news sharing’?”
The Coke-bottle-bottom glasses fixated on me. Thank Heaven the lenses were so greasy I couldn’t see her eyes.
“What?”
“Tongue wagging, dear.”
“Like a dog?”
“Like a woman who gossips. Loose lips sink ships, et cetera. You have a heart of gold, dear, but you just can’t help yourself from sharing with your friends. If I tell you today where our precious one is, by tomorrow at this time all of Hernia will know, and half of Somerset. Besides”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“these walls have ears.”
Freni slowly wiped her hands on her apron as the truth hit home, as surely it must.
“I quit,” she said after a dramatic pause.
“Okay. But please take the apron home and wash it before you bring it back. Remember that dinner is a half hour early tonight because the gang wants to drive into Pittsburgh to see some movie. Now there’s an opportunity to engage the Devil if you ask me.”
“No, Magdalena, I really quit.”
“Yes, Freni,” I said patiently. “Just be sure that you’re back in time to make dinner.”
She untied her apron and, and covered as it was with sugar, flour, and cinnamon, she folded it neatly and laid it theatrically in the center of my rough-hewn kitchen table. Then, without saying another word, she got her coat and started walking home.
I would have run after her—eventually—and made amends. At the very least I would have sent Gabriel to give her a ride home, had I not been so rudely imposed upon. Besides, Freni was taking the shortcut to her farm that led through the woods, and it was only a footpath, unsuitable for automobile travel. By the way, those were the same woods in which I’d once lain in a bush, from whence I’d untied one of Freni’s shoelaces as she passed in front of me. (I’ve long been of the mind that if a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, then surely a hand in the bush is quite desirable.)
But I digress. My day had only gotten worse by the sudden appearance of Mother Malaise. In addition to being Mother Superior at the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy, she’s my husband’s mother, which makes her my mother- in-law, so one might say that Ida is the mother of all—Well, I won’t say it, because I’ve been practicing loving-kindness as of late. If I do say so myself, this effort at self-improvement has really paid off.
“It’s you,” I groaned, having opened the door to some fierce pounding.
“So now you lock zee door on me?”
“Melvin’s on the prowl in these parts again; I suggest you do the same over there at the Funny Farm.”
Ida wagged a finger so close to my nose that it trimmed a few hairs. “Eet eez a convent, not a farm, und you should be so lucky to join. But enough about dis; I vant to know vhere my grandson eez.”
“So you heard already?”
“Of course! Vhere do you tink I leef? In zee shtetl?”
“Uh—”
“My Gabeleh told me. Who else? But not to vorry. I haf not told a soul; I am zee model of eendeescreshion.”
I smiled generously. “I’m sure you are, dear. But I’m not telling anyone—and neither is your son telling anyone. Even Freni’s being kept in the dark. As a matter of fact, she quit over it.”
“Und your friend?”
I offered her a face as bland as noodles on mashed potatoes, which, I hear, is a Hoosier delicacy. “Which friend, dear? There’s Gwen, Mignon, Kay, Georgia Ann, Daisy, Carolyn, Gene, Janie, Janet—”
“Ugh-uh-nuss.”
“Excuse me.
“Zee von mitt zee naked brodders. Ughuhnuss.”
“That would be Agnes. And what she knows is only on a need-to-know basis.”
Even a wolverine will stop digging if you pave over the wilderness. Sadly those animals are quitters compared to Ida. She glared at me and rubbed her shoulders with hands the size of tea bags while she considered her next move. The woman is tiny—or she would be tiny, were it not for Dollyesque bosoms, which even the nastiest of habits couldn’t hide.
“Nu,” she said at last, “eet eez gut that you protect my grandson, but who vill protect dis A
gnes und her meshuggeneh brodders? Eef Melvin tinks dat dey know too much, und dey leef out in zee boonies by demselves—den boom, he vill kill them, yust like I kill de rats in my barn mitt zee firecrackers I buy at Crazy Joe’s down in Maryland.”
“But you don’t have a barn over there anymore; you converted it into dorm rooms for pseudo-postulants, who pensively postulate apostasy in part due to only partial alliteration.”
“Boom!” This time Ida mimed an explosion.
“All right, all right,” I said. “Perhaps you have a point. I’ll talk to Agnes about seeking safety in numbers. But while I’m on the subject, Ida, I have a suspicion that one of your de facto dingalings is spying on me.”
She blinked. “Vhat are my dingalings?”
“Your self-proclaimed, so-called sisters. How nuts is it to join a group wherein the only common bond is apathy? That means as soon as you start to care about the group, or even just another individual, you no longer qualify for admission.”
“Und?”
“Und? That’s all you have to say?”
“Vhy should I care vhat happens to the group?”
“But you’re their Mother Superior!”
“So?”
“Come on, even you can’t be that apathetic! Besides, you seem to care about what happens to the Mishlers.”
“Zee Mishlers vas only a suggestion. So now I tell you a secret: I care about my grandson, and my Gabeleh, of course.” She paused to look studiously at a zigzag crack in the kitchen floor. “Und mebbe you.”
“Does that warm the cockles of my heart, or what?” I cried. “Let me clasp thee to my bosom from henceforth and forevermore!”
Ida could move like a prizefighter—I should know; I’ve had a few of them stay here at my inn. And ’twas true: she could float like a butterfly, whilst stinging like a bee, and after a few stings, I decided to let go of her and leave well enough alone. It was nice knowing that she cared. In fact, silly me. Having a mother- in-law who cared from a distance, and from beneath the cloak—literally and figuratively—of apathy, was really the ideal situation.
I patted her wimple fondly. “When it’s safe to tell you where the little shaver is, you’ll be the first to know, Idaleh.”
20
Thai Coconut-Ginger Sticky Rice Jumbles
Ingredients
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1¼ cups firmly packed light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 cup shredded unsweetened coconut
1 cup candied ginger pieces, diced3
4 cups crispy rice cereal
Optional: 2 tablepoons sesame seeds
Cooking Directions
Preheat oven to 350°F.
In a mixing bowl, beat together butter, sugars, vanilla and salt until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and beat until smooth.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour and baking powder. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and beat until blended. Stir in coconut, ginger, and cereal, mixing until just blended. Using a teaspoon, drop the dough onto parchment-lined cookie sheets about ½ inch apart. Sprinkle the top of each cookie with sesame seeds, if desired.
Bake until edges just start to turn golden but centers are still moist, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove to a cooling rack to cool completely.
Store in an airtight container for up to one week.
Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/
21
Oh, what a dummkopf I can be. I don’t know what made me think that the gang from the Garden State would be satisfied with a supper of scrambled eggs and franks and beans. The Babester and I often made do with just such a repast on Freni’s day off. A couple tubes of jumbo-size biscuits and a tossed salad, and what more does one need? Why, throw in a vitamin pill, and one has a veritable banquet!
“This isn’t what we paid for,” Olivia Zambezi said.
“You paid for a filling meal,” I said evenly. “Now fill up.”
“We paid for authentic Pennsylvania Dutch cuisine,” George Nyle said.
“I am an authentic Pennsylvania Dutch woman, and I made this cuisine; thus it is authentic Dutch cuisine.”
“It’s crap,” Peewee Timms said. “My grandma used to serve this on Sunday nights when we visited. Neither she nor my mother could cook worth a darn.”
“Yet somehow you didn’t starve,” I said, and not nearly as unkindly as I might have.
“Hon,” Gabe said under his breath. He is always the conciliator, although it’s not because he believes in peace, so much as he fears conflict.
“Yes, that was mean,” Tiny said. “I thought you were nicer than that.”
“I am nice. Look, our Amish cook quit, and since I really don’t need your money, I’d be happy to give you all refunds.”
“Please, if I may,” Surimanda said, by way of breaking into the conversation. She was dressed in a black velvet blouse with kimono sleeves, a black velvet ankle-length skirt and high-heeled black suede boots. Around her waist was a gold chain belt. Her blue-black hair was gathered in a chignon and adorned by a single silk rose the color of fresh blood.
“Certainly, you may,” I said. “And just so you know, in this country April showers bring May flowers, and I’m told we can look forward to a very soggy April.”
Miss Baikal brushed aside my attempt at obfuscation. “Miss Yoder, I like this food. Is good sturdy peasant food.”
I beamed. “Indeed! Peasant food, that’s what it is, only I shall call it ‘peasant fare’ and charge an extra twenty dollars per meal for it.”
“Why, that’s highway robbery,” Olivia said. She was obviously quite livid.
“I don’t know,” Barbie Nyle said. “It sounds reasonable to me. You try ordering peasant fare in a fancy Manhattan restaurant and see how far you’ll get. This is a one-of-a-kind experience we’re getting here, and I say let’s go for it. Miss Yoder, what do you call these things again?”
“They’re biscuits, dear. They’re like rolls, but they come from a tube. And those,” I said, taking the liberty of pointing at her plate, “are beans. And that’s a frank.”
“What fun,” Carl Zambezi said, and although his wife scowled at him, she dropped her objection to my meal.
However, the woman had the eyes of a hawk, and the manners of a vulture. “Where’s the boy at?” she demanded abruptly, her mouth filled with masticated yellow egg.
“He’s staying at a friend’s, dear.”
“Is that so? Isn’t he a little young for sleepovers?”
Now that was rude, challenging my parenting style like that. “Not in my culture, dear,” I said facetiously, which really is not the same as lying, because it is teaching someone a much-needed lesson. “We institute mandatory sleepovers at six weeks of age as part of an initiation process. That way, if we’re invaded by the Russians and—God forbid—a mother is killed, the child will be used to other adult caretakers.” A little late, I remembered Surimanda’s presence. “Oops, those would be bad Russians, dear, not your kind.”
Nevertheless there were gasps of awe and disapproval from my rapt audience. But, more important, Olivia looked like she’d been put in her place.
“She’s only kidding,” Gabe said. “Little Jacob just started having sleepovers; in fact, this is his first one.”
If my arms had been long enough, and if I hadn’t had five hundred years of pacifist breeding to overcome, I’d have reached the length of the table and throttled my dearly beloved. What was he thinking! Someone in this bunch could be in cahoots with Melvin. At the very least, there was bound to be a bug somewhere, and the dining room seemed like a likely location.
Yes, I’d conducted a thorough search before supper, but surveillance systems these days are extremely sophisticated. Short of taking a torch to the room, the
re was no way I could be sure of disabling everything anyway.
“Miss Yoder,” Olivia said, a new bite of egg familiarizing itself with her dentures, “I don’t find you in the least bit amusing. It’s a shame, you know, because at first I thought we might really get on, given the fact that we are roughly the same age. But you are rude, crude, and generally very abrasive; you are not anything like what I expected a Mennonite woman to be like.”
“I think she’s delightful,” Tiny said.
“Me too,” Barbie said.
I looked at the men, one at a time. “Well?”
“Sorry, but I’ll have to agree with my wife,” Carl said.
“And I’ll agree with mine,” Peewee said, “even though you did insult me with your ‘didn’t starve’ comment.”
“Which was true,” Tiny said. “You promised me you’d go on a diet.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What about you, George?” I said.
“You’re a hoot, Miss Yoder.”
I turned to Surimanda. “And you?”
“I adore you, Miss Yoder.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “I will continue to be myself, we will continue to feed you sturdy peasant fare, and you will butt out of our family business. Capisce?”
“Hon!”
But everyone except Gabe laughed—even Olivia snickered.
I used to have lofty dreams. Often in them I flew without the benefit of wings. Since the birth of Jacob, my dreams tend to be darker and have, in fact, included a few in which he is somewhere far away, and I am trying to reach him. In these dreams there are always insurmountable obstacles, such as the road keeps disappearing, or Jacob’s whereabouts continually change. I’ve even had a few dreams in which I can no longer remember what he looks like or, worse yet, I see Ida’s head on my dear son’s body.
This particular night I was dreaming that Agnes and Dorothy Yoder were one and the same person. Agnes was actually Dorothy’s fat suit, which she could take off and put on at will, or, to look at it another way, Dorothy was Agnes’s skinny persona, the soulless slattern she could slip into anytime she wanted to experience a mindless mattress mamba. Given that Agnes was my best friend and still a virgin, this dream was disconcerting to say the least—especially since I was supposed to be her business manager.