Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

“What is?”

  He nodded in the direction of the initials. “I know I carved them above the entrance, so this isn’t the place. Must have been Buffalo Mountain I was remembering—like you said, I was just a kid back then. Must have carved my initials in two places.”

  “Melvin, only a goat kid would confuse Buffalo Mountain with Stucky Ridge. Even you—” I’ve bitten my tongue so many times, that I have permanent indentations for my teeth. In fact, it doesn’t even hurt any-more.

  “You see, Yoder? This is what I mean. When you were twenty, you weren’t mean like this.”

  That, however, hurt. “I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was backing you up. If you remembered there being a cave here, there must have been one.”

  He snorted, sounding more like a horse now than a donkey. “Caves don’t just disappear,” he said. “It’s not like there was a magic rock you rolled over the opening.

  “Yes, but there could be another explanation.” I stared at the rock face and the ground in front of it. Just a solid expanse of rock and wet leaves—suddenly my heart was beating even faster than it had on my wedding night to that cad Aaron Miller. “Melvin, when is the last time it rained?”

  “How should I know? I’m not a meteorologist.”

  “You’ll be seeing stars if you don’t give me a quick answer.”

  “August—but I don’t know when. Like I said, I’m not a weatherman.”

  “Are you sure it hasn’t rained since August?”

  “Positive. Every Labor Day my Sweetie Pot Pie and I spend the night in the backyard. It’s kinda a tradition, I guess. We put up our pup tent just in case it rains, but if it’s really nice we—well, some things are more exciting if they’re done outside. Not that you’d understand, Yoder.”

  “And I don’t want to,” I wailed. “Now, can we get back to the task at hand?”

  “You’re the one who asked.”

  “Look at those leaves,” I ordered. “The ones by the wall, just below your initials. Do you see what I see?” “You mean ugly wet leaves?”

  “Exactly. But if it hasn’t rained for at least a couple of weeks, how did they get wet?”

  I may as well have been asking sheep geometry questions. The mantis’s minuscule brain couldn’t even begin to think of an answer. His left eye stared at me balefully, while his right eye studied the tops of his shoes.

  “I give up, Yoder. How?”

  “Because those leaves were on the bottom of the forest litter until very recently.” I found a sturdy stick and turned over a patch of dry leaves some distance from the cliff. Sure enough the leaves next to the ground were wet and clumped together like cold broad noodles. “See what happens?”

  One of the lights went on in my nemesis’s noggin. “Yeah, I see what you mean. But what does it prove?”

  I strode back to the cliff “The leaves here are a bit deeper. It’s a wonder we didn’t notice it before, but they look as if they’ve been piled up. See how they slope away from where I’m standing?”

  Another light switched on. “But, Yoder, the entrance to the cave wasn’t just a crack along the ground.”

  “It might not have seemed that way to a little boy. Here, help me.” I started to push leaves aside with hands that felt like I’d run them through a blender. Unless you tried it yourself, you wouldn’t believe the number and variety of creepy crawly things that inhabit piles of rot-ting vegetation.

  Melvin just stood there.

  “Help me,” I said.

  “Can’t, Yoder. I have allergies. Leaf mold exacerbates them.”

  “If you don’t help, you won’t get any credit for what we discover.”

  He dug like a dog that smelled a bone—one with a three-pound steak attached to it. Because the leaves had recently been disturbed and the heavy wet bottom layer redistributed, we cleared the ground at the base, of Lovers’ Leap in no time.

  “Still no cave,” Melvin moaned, as we used our feet to scrape away the last of the fallen foliage.

  “But look—fresh dirt! There definitely is something here that’s been covered.”

  Because my modesty precludes the wearing of fingernails that resemble painted claws, I had nothing to lose by digging in the soil with my hands—except for my last remaining shreds of skin. Melvin, who does wear clear polish—thanks to Susannah’s influence—was again reluctant to dig.

  “Melvin, you have to help me.”

  “Your shoes are the size of boats, Yoder. Why don’t you use one for a shovel?”

  He needed incentive. “When I describe this to the newspapers, I might accidentally refer to you as a sissy.” He dug like a dog again. Within minutes we had uncovered what was indeed the entrance to a small cave. At least a small entrance to something. It was perhaps six feet long, but only eighteen inches high. When I stepped back a few paces, it appeared to be nothing more than a dark gash at the cliffs base.

  “Oh yeah,” Melvin said, in a maddeningly offhand manner, “it was kind of a tough squeeze at that. Funny how your mind plays tricks on you.”

  “I guess it has to amuse itself somehow in all that empty space.” I got down on all fours and peered into the darkness. Darkness was all I saw. “What does your mind have to say about the size of the cave itself?”

  “You don’t need to be rude, Yoder. That I remember as clear as day. It may not be the biggest cave around, but it’s plenty big enough for a bear to hibernate in.”

  “Bear?” I backed away from the opening and struggled to my feet. Thank heavens I realized my foolishness before Melvin did. “The entrance was disguised, dear. Do bears generally do that before, or after, they crawl in?”

  “How should I know?”

  Bears, or not, we were running out of daytime. September sunsets can take one by surprise, especially on mild days like this. But we weren’t going to get any more work done here without a light source.

  “By any chance would you happen to have a flashlight on you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Me either,” I grumbled. “How stupid could we have been?”

  “Speak for yourself, Yoder. At least I have one back at the car.”

  “Be a dear and get it, will you please?”

  My gallant brother-in-law charged into the trees. I tapped a long, slender foot—more like a canoe than a boat—as I counted. Before I got to five, he’d returned. “Very funny, Yoder.”

  “I do my best. How about matches? Do you have any of those? Or better yet, a cigarette lighter?”

  “You know I haven’t smoked since I’ve been married.”

  “That’s right. Since you set Susannah’s veil on fire. Well, we’re just going to have to come back tomorrow with flashlights.”

  “Guess again, Yoder. We have a job to do. And anyway, there’s no point. I searched all over that cave—even took a pickax to the floor. Read my lips: There isn’t any treasure.”

  “But there could be a body,” I said quietly.

  Melvin stared at me. Then he stared at the mouth of the cave. In the deepening shadows it looked as if someone had painted the rock face with a swath of India ink. “Let’s get the heck out of here, Yoder.”

  20

  Grilled Breaded Veal Chops

  4 veal rib or loin chops, each about 3½ -inch thick

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  1 egg, lightly beaten

  Salt and whole white pepper in a pepper mill

  1 cup dry bread crumbs

  4 tablespoons butter, melted

  Whole nutmeg in a grater

  Grated zest from 1 lemon

  1 lemon, cut into 8 wedges

  1 tablespoon chopped parsley

  If you are using rib chops, scrape the meat and fat from the long end of the bone, leaving only the meaty eye of the chop attached. Set the scraps aside for broth. With a mallet or scaloppine pounder, lightly beat the chops until the meat is about a ½-inch thick. (If you are using loin chops, beat the tougher loin side well to tenderize it.) Sprinkle both sides liberally with salt
, several grindings of white pepper, a. generous grating of nutmeg, lemon zest, and parsley. Lightly press the seasonings into the meat.

  Put the flour, egg, and crumbs into separate shallow bowls. Lightly roll each chop first in the flour, then dip it in the egg until it is well coated and roll it in the crumbs. Lay the chops on a wire rack and let the crumbs set for at least 30 minutes.

  Prepare a grill with hardwood coals or preheat the broiler for at least 15 minutes. When the coals are glowing red but lightly ashed over, spread them and position a rack about 5 inches above them (in the broiler, about 5 inches below the heat source). Brush one side of the chops lightly with the butter and put them on the grill, buttered side toward the heat. Grill/broil until the crumbs are toasted golden brown, about 3 minutes. Brush the uncooked side with butter, turn, and grill until they are evenly browned, about 3 minutes more for medium rare. If you prefer the veal more done, move the rack a couple of inches away from the heat and grill/broil about 1 to 2 minutes more per side for medium. Don’t overcook them or they will be tough. Serve hot, garnished with lemon wedges.

  SERVES 4

  21

  Melvin and I agreed to meet at the Block House at seven in the morning. We would both bring flashlights. In addition, he would bring rope and I would bring provisions. I wanted to be prepared in case the cave was larger inside than he remembered, and we accidentally ventured over the state line into Maryland. I was, however, anything but prepared for what greeted me at the inn. The second I set foot over the threshold of the kitchen door, Gabriel grabbed me by an arm and pulled me the rest of the way in.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “Gabe! What are you doing here?”

  “You want someone should starve?” A raspy female voice answered.

  I glanced around the room, seeing no one. Then I lowered my eyes a few feet. Ida Rosen was standing at Freni’s stove, her back turned to me. She appeared to be stirring something. If it hadn’t been for that movement, I would have dismissed her as an apron, or a tea towel, tucked dangerously into the handle of the oven door. Even I know that a talking tea towel makes no sense, but it had been a long day.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rosen,” I said. I stretched every syllable Tennessee thin to give myself time to cool down. It was the same as counting to ten.

  “Sure, maybe for you.” She turned to face me. “But it is not such a good evening for me, or for my Gabriel.”

  “Ma!” Gabe protested, but the old woman shot him down with a look that should be studied more closely by the Pentagon.

  “I vas across the road cooking my boy a normal meal, and he gets this call from the little one asking what she should make for supper. Vhat was I supposed to do?”

  “Alison called?”

  “Nu, is there another child in this house?”

  “But there’s plenty for her to eat that doesn’t require cooking.”

  Ida waved her spatula at the refrigerator. “You call that food? A dog should eat better than that.”

  “I’ll pass that along to Freni.”

  “First you fire her, and now you vant to hurt her feelings. Go figure.”

  “I did not fire her!”

  “Ma!” Gabe complained, a convenient three seconds too late.

  My future mother-in-law turned back to the stove. Looking over her head I could see that a frying pan and two large saucepans had been pressed into use. A little red light above indicated that the burners were on. “That looks like an awful lot of food,” I observed. She waved the spatula above her head. “Just a nice brisket I brought over. And some potato pancakes, green beans, tzimmes, and a kugel.”

  “A what and a what?”

  “A stewed carrot dish and a kind of noodle pudding,” Gabe said, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  “That’s still an awful lot of food for one girl, even if she is a teenager.” I stifled a gasp. “Unless you two are planning to eat with her.”

  “Ve already ate,” Ida snapped. “At the proper time.”

  Gabe took a hesitant step in my direction. “Don’t worry, hon. She said that with Freni being gone, and you unable to cook—”

  “Say what?”

  “Alison said—”

  There was no point in hearing him out, not when I could hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  I found the horse’s mouth alarmingly close to the pig’s mouth. Alison was sitting on my bed, holding Babe in her lap, when I barged into the room. I think she’d been about to kiss his spouted little snout, because she flushed with embarrassment.

  “Mom, don’tcha believe in knocking first?”

  “Not when it’s my room, dear.”

  “Well, before ya go ragging on me, he’s clean. I bathed him, remember?”

  “We’ll talk about you kissing a pig later. I want to know what Mrs. Rosen is really doing in my kitchen.”

  “Oh that. Ya said if I made ‘em supper,” she said, referring to the guests, “that you would double my allowance.”

  “That, I did. But I didn’t mention Ida Rosen.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I got to thinking. I could make them soup and sandwiches, or scrambled eggs or something—but that’s kinda boring even for me. Besides, doubling my allowance ain’t such a big deal, since ya don’t hardly give me nothing to begin with.”

  “But there isn’t anything in town to spend it on!”

  “That don’t stop you from wanting to make money.”

  “Yes, but I tithe. I give ten percent to the church, and a whole bunch more to charities.”

  “That’s what I plan to do with my two hundred bucks.”

  “Your what?”

  Alison grinned happily. Her pig appeared to smile as well.

  “I asked them guests if they had ever had authentic Jewish cooking. Guess what? They all said no. So I told them they could have a meal if they paid an extra twenty-five dollars, and they all said yes. Then I called Grandma Ida and told her I was hungry. She said she’d be right over to fix me supper on account of I’m neglected.”

  “But you’re not neglected!” I wailed.

  “Yeah, but she thinks I am. Anyway, ya know how she always cooks too much food? I asked her if I could keep the leftovers, see. And she said sure thing, seeing as how ya fired Freni and I’m likely to starve to death, on account ya ain’t the world’s best cook—”

  “I didn’t fire Freni! Alison, you have got to stop telling tales—wait a minute. Do you mean to say you’re selling our guests leftovers for twenty-five dollars a head, and it isn’t costing you a thing, and Mrs. Rosen is doing all the work?”

  She nodded. “Ya ain’t too mad, are ya?”

  “Mad? You go, girl!” I said, and gave her the high five. Of course, she wasn’t expecting the gesture, but she’s a quick study, and smacked her hand against mine. I yelped with pain.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  “Nothing permanent, dear. I’ll be fine. By the way, where are the guests now? This place is as silent as the hospital morgue.”

  “Ah, they’re taking a walk.”

  “A walk? Where?”

  “Herniahenge.”

  I gasped, depleting the room of its oxygen, the end result of which was that Alison and Babe the pig gasped as well. Herniahenge is strictly off-limits to outsiders.

  Lest you think that by now I have permanently flipped my prayer cap, please allow me to explain. Herniahenge is our equivalent of Stonehenge. Geologically it is a cluster of giant boulders, one almost as big as my inn, that some experts claim were pushed into place by advancing glaciers tens of thousands of years ago. Since the world was created no more than six thousand years ago, I find that theory highly unlikely.

  More likely, if you ask me, is the growing speculation that these rocks were erected by aliens and serve as a navigational landmark of some kind. I know, many devout people deny the existence of extraterrestrials. But that’s only because they have yet to meet the Mishler twins, who at age eighty-seven saunter naked around t
heir yard (although in the winter there is really no point). Nor have these doubting Thomases met Wanda Hemphopple, with her potentially lethal hairdo that threatens to topple at every toss of her ornery head. Or what about Zelda Root, who keeps her face together with spackle and is the leader of a cult of Melvin worshippers? And speaking of the Stoltzfus, where do you think John Gray got his idea for men being from Mars?

  At any rate, only we locals know about this unusual placement of rocks, and we want to keep it this way. After Stucky Ridge, this is our second favorite spot to picnic and cavort (not me, of course, since I am not the cavorting kind). Thankfully, this geological oddity remains hidden by deep woods—although we did come mighty close to sharing it with the world.

  You see, the land upon which these rocks sit used to belong to Aaron Miller Sr., my pseudo ex-father-in-law. At one time he wanted to sell the land to the common-wealth for development as a park. He suggested calling it Herniahenge, or some such similar nonsense. A few of our wealthier citizens (need I say who?) banded together and made Mr. Miller an offer he couldn’t refuse. But he was a cantankerous old geezer and did refuse.

  Finally, when “Pop,” as he still wanted me to call him, began to grope his way through the dark halls of dementia, he suggested that we play a game. If any of us succeeded at the game, we could buy the acreage in question for a dollar each. The object of this farce was to dislodge some smaller rocks that occurred naturally atop one of the tallest and steepest monoliths in the group. We were each assigned a small boulder, visible from the ground, but we were forbidden to use any sort of projectiles, such as catapults, slingshots, etc. Alas, none of us succeeded in getting our rocks off.

  But neither could the commonwealth afford Pop’s asking price. The situation might have become very interesting, probably even involved a lawsuit, had not Hermoine Liverbottom, an old flame of Pop’s, shown up on the scene like an angel sent from heaven. She convinced Pop to sell her the property for a siren’s song and a few thousand dollars. Hermoine was forced to make a verbal agreement that she would never sell the property to a resident of Hernia, but that turned out to be a moot point. Three weeks after the deed passed into her hands, Hermoine conveniently died. Shortly thereafter the townsfolk were overjoyed to learn that she had left her entire estate to the town— the only caveat being that the property be called, in perpetuity, Herniahenge.