Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  Who knows how long my bliss would have lasted, had it not been for a hiss.

  “Psst, Magdalena, are you decent?”

  “What?” I jerked my sleepy head out of the suds.

  “Ach, it’s that Rosen woman,” Freni said.

  I turned off the radio and the jet sprays. “What about her?”

  “She bothers me again. ‘Make it this way,’ she says. ‘Make it that.’ Do you want that I should quit, Magdalena?”

  I sat ramrod straight. Thank heavens the tub was deep enough, and there were still enough bubbles, that my bosoms, such as they are, remained covered.

  “Of course I don’t want you to quit! I never want you to quit. Quitting is always your idea.”

  “Then you must make her leave. Magdalena, this woman is a horn in my side.”

  Freni learned Pennsylvania Dutch before she learned English, and her idioms sometimes need clarification. It is possible she meant that Ida Rosen was a thorn in her side, or she could have meant that Gabe’s mother was goring her—metaphorically, of course. Either way, my kinswoman cook was not a happy camper.

  “Give me a minute to get dressed, dear. Then I’ll tell that buttinsky to get her buttocks back across Hertlzer Road.”

  “Ach!” By the gleam emanating from behind her thick lenses, Freni was both horrified and delighted by my strong language. “Yah, you tell her.”

  “Tell me vhat?”

  I looked across the vast expanse of the tub, where my eyes locked on to those of Ida Rosen. Our peepers were on the same level.

  “What on earth are you doing in my bathroom?” I demanded.

  “Making sure she doesn’t tell any lies.”

  “Ach, I do not lie!”

  “Ladies!” I screamed. “Out, out, out!”

  “I go nowhere until you tell me vhat you vere going to say.”

  “Yah, I stay too. Maybe she tells lies about me.”

  The two stout women glared at each other. Surely they were sisters under the skin. Put Freni’s glasses on Ida, smear Ida’s pink lipstick on Freni’s pouting lips, and who could tell the difference? And both were equally guilty of violating the sanctity of my bath.

  For a few very wicked seconds I fantasized about jumping out of the tub and throwing both uninvited guests in. I might even have done so, had I not remembered that Freni couldn’t swim. And Big Bertha had a deep end. Also, I had no clue about Ida’s aquatic skills. Although both women were blessed with natural flotation devices, if they found themselves floating on their stomachs, they might well choke to death on lavender-scented bubbles.

  “Okay, ladies,” I said, “stay. But at your own risk. I may get out of this tub at any minute, and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “Yah, I know. I helped raise you, remember?”

  “So, vhat do I care either? You see one naked lady, you see them all.”

  “Enough! Okay, Mrs. Rosen, I told Freni I was going to tell you to stay away from the PennDutch.”

  “The buttocks,” Freni hissed. “Tell her about the but-tocks.”

  “Vhat about my buttocks? Yours are such a pretty sight?”

  “Ach!”

  “Just that you should keep them home where they belong,” I hastened to explain. “I mean, what happens over here is really not your business.”

  “My Gabriel is my business, and if he changes his mind and marries you—oy, the heartache vill be too much.”

  “Marries me? Gabe and I aren’t even speaking now—thanks to you. Besides, even if we do work things out, you wouldn’t be losing a son, Mrs. Rosen. You’d be gaining a daughter. And,” I added, playing my trump card, “you could be gaining a boyfriend—well, a man friend.”

  Both elderly women snapped to attention. Surely they were once conjoined twins, separated at birth. Amish, Jewish, what did it matter? Both were descended from Eve and that apple-eating husband of hers.

  “A man friend?” they said in unison.

  “I happen to know that Doc Shafor wants to ask you out.”

  If Ida’s beam was brighter it was only because she didn’t wear glasses. “A doctor? Is he Jewish?”

  “A chunk,” Freni said, and licked her lips wistfully. A sin for a happily married woman, if you ask me.

  “That’s hunk, dear. And yes, he is a doctor of sorts—he’s a genuine veterinarian. As for his religion, does it really matter? It’s not like you two would ever raise a family together.”

  “Vhat does he look like?”

  “A real woman-killer,” Freni said. She licked her lips again.

  “She means a lady-killer.”

  “So he’s a looker?”

  I don’t find Doc physically attractive, but I know plenty of women who do. “That’s the general consensus. Anyway, he wants to ask you out. Says he’s had his eye on you for quite some time now.”

  “Veil then”—Ida patted her hair, as if it were possible that a strand had broken loose from the lacquered helmet—”perhaps I say yes.”

  “Ach!” Freni cried in distress, then clamped a stubby hand over a mouth that had betrayed her.

  Ida Rosen smiled victoriously. Dating Doc was one thing that she could certainly do better than Freni. That smile, however, was directed at me.

  “You see, Magdalena, how it pays to keep yourself up?”

  “I think it’s the aerosol spray, dear.” Trust me, what Botox can’t achieve, enough hair spray usually does. I see it in my guests all the time.

  “Vhat is that supposed to mean?”

  I answered her question with one of my own. “What time would you like Doc to pick you up Saturday night?”

  “Seven thirty,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Tell him to make the dinner reservation for eight. And I do not like to be late.”

  “Uh—you’ll probably be eating in.”

  “You mean he vants that I should cook for him?” She didn’t sound the least put off by the idea.

  “I think it’s the other way around.”

  Ida recoiled—well, as much as it is possible for a woman of her stature to do so. “A man who cooks?” “Not just cooks, dear. He lives to cook. What’s more, he savors every bite he eats.”

  A fuming Freni flapped her arms futilely; she was never going to achieve liftoff. “Ach,” she squawked, “a sin!”

  Ida did a little victory dance of a sort. She resembled a drunken chicken—not that I’ve seen very many of those, mind you. She too would never be airborne by her own power.

  “Is it a sin to enjoy good food?”

  “Like you should know,” Freni said. These were strong words for a pious Amish woman.

  Ida countered with even stronger words, but they came out in Yiddish. Freni must have understood them, because she lobbed them right back in Pennsylvania Dutch. Although separated by centuries of linguistic changes, both languages are based on German and bear similarities, enough at least to cause even further misunderstandings.

  “Take it out in the hallway, will you, dears?”

  They ignored me.

  I stood up in the tub. “Get out,” I bellowed in a voice worthy of Bibi Norton.

  They stared at me for a second, and then turned as one. It wasn’t a silent departure by any means. With every step the voices grew louder. Not that it mattered.

  I turned the gospel music back on, even before getting out of the tub and locking the door. Then I turned on the jets. All thirty of them.

  Refreshed and reattired, I wandered downstairs to see how lunch preparations were coming. Freni had wanted to make a pork roast, but I’d made her promise to hold off on hog until our little piggy went to market—so to speak. Instead, my stalwart cook made roast chicken and dressing.

  “The hens are a little tough, yah? But I soak them in Vermont, so they get tender like pullets.”

  “Vermont?”

  “Yah. It is a special recipe.”

  “It sounds special, indeed—given that Vermont is hundreds of miles away. How did you manage to pull that one of
f, and how does soaking them in another state make them tender?” I wasn’t being facetious. The wonders of cooking—even Freni’s—are beyond my ken.

  “Ach, Magdalena, you talk such nonsense.” She opened a cabinet, withdrew a tall bottle, and thrust it into my hands. “This is Vermont.”

  I reeled in shock. “That says vermouth, not Vermont!”

  “But it also good for soaking chicken, yah? Marionette, they call it.”

  “That’s marinade, dear. And vermouth is anything but a state. It’s a kind of—uh ...” I bit my tongue. What was the point in telling a seventy-six-year-old Amish woman that she was cooking with alcohol? The shock could kill someone her age. Did I want to have her death on my hands as well? Besides, wasn’t vermouth a kind of wine? And Jesus turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, didn’t He? Perhaps He turned it into vermouth. Except that when Reverend Schrock preaches on that story he is always careful to add that the translation must be in error, and that in his opinion the beverage served at that biblical wedding was really grape juice.

  Freni was waiting for my approval. “It smells good, yah?”

  “Delicious. Where did you get the vermouth?”

  “That nice English woman, the one who speaks slowly. She gives me the recipe. And she brings me the bottle from a special store in Bedford.”

  I am certainly no expert on spirits. Before I lectured Freni on using ingredients supplied by guests, I owed it to the both of us to sample the contents of this bottle and determine if indeed it was prohibited by my faith. Yes, I know, there was a label on the bottle, but one can’t trust everything one reads, you know. Why, just get on the Internet if you don’t believe me; half the stuff on there is rubbish. Besides, the print on that label was so small I risked going cross-eyed, which would not be a flattering look for me, given my prominent proboscis.

  Therefore, being ever the responsible daughter my pious parents raised, I filled a small glass with the amber liquid. It certainly smelled sweet and innocuous. Then, breathing a prayer for forgiveness, lest it turn out to be forbidden, I sampled the stuff.

  Sweet, definitely. Perhaps a woody undertone—not that I chew on much wood, mind you. It didn’t taste like I imagined wine to taste. But then how was I to know? And if it really was wine, I had better memorize that taste, so as not to inadvertently imbibe on some other occasion. It was practically my Christian duty to sample it again.

  Due to the fact that I am an earnest woman, who really does try to do the right thing, I sometimes find it hard to make decisions. It was because I was trying to be fair that I drank the entire glass. In the end I concluded that the jury would remain out until I had the time, and was feeling well enough, for further sampling.

  You see, the hot bath with the thirty jets had left me feeling a bit light-headed. In fact, I felt a definite need for fresh air.

  “Hairy on,” I said to Freni. “I mean, carry on. I’m going outside for a minute.”

  “Magdalena, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine as frog chair, dear. Oops, make that frog hair. Although that expression has never made sense to me, since frogs don’t have any. Hair—that is. Or chairs either, I presume.” I giggled pleasantly. “At any rate, do what you do best.”

  Freni flushed. “Ach! What I do at home, with my Mose, is not your business.”

  “Cook,” I cried gaily. “I was talking about cooking. Although, after all these years of marriage, if you and Mose are still doing the mattress mambo, then more power to you. Just remember—no dancing!” I chortled at my own wit.

  “Dancing!”

  “Yes, dancing, the worst of all sins.” Feeling suddenly frisky, I grabbed a broom from the comer and pretended to dance with it. Having never seen the shameful act, I had no idea how to imitate it. But I shrugged my shoulders and waggled my hips in what I imagined to be lascivious gyrations.

  “Ach!” Freni fled into the dining room. Who knew she could be so sensitive?

  “It was only with a broom,” I called after her. “It doesn’t count. It’s not like it was a vacuum cleaner.”

  By then I really did need fresh air. I dropped the broom and waltzed to the back door. Flinging it open, I shimmied into the sunshine.

  “Woo-hoo, look at me, I’m dancing,” I called to the world at large. And why not? Since everyone always thought the worst about me, why not enjoy the sins about which I had no doubt already been accused? Surely, the sharp-tongued Schrock had accused me of doing the hokeypokey before. And if not—well, this was equal to any two other sins on her list.

  Alas, the world was not paying attention. While I shimmied and shook, Hernia was too busy watching sweaty farmers bale hay. Even Alison and her pig were too engrossed playing in a nearby field to notice me.

  “This is your last chance!” I shouted to the sparrows in the trees. “If you want to see me shake my booty, you better look now.” That language, by the way, was courtesy of Susannah. To me a booty has always been nothing more than an infant’s foot covering.

  “And a might fine booty it is,” one of the sparrows said in a surprisingly deep voice.

  “Why, thank you—although it is a little on the skinny side, don’t you think?”

  “I like it just the way it is.”

  I whirled. That was certainly no sparrow. Not with that vaguely East Coast accent.

  28

  “Gabe!” My beloved stood not six feet away, a moon- size grin on his face.

  “Hi, babe. Don’t tell me you didn’t know I was here.” “I had no idea! How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to see you strut your stuff. And you told me you didn’t dance.”

  “I don’t.” The vermouth-induced feeling of liberation was now a distant memory. “This was the first time— and my last.”

  Gabe planted a long, lingering kiss on my lips. This is what Susannah calls getting to first base. I allow it be-cause we are engaged, I don’t know exactly what getting to second and third base entail, but I can guarantee that my fiance is going to keep his bat in the dugout until after we’re married.

  “Hey,” he said, finally pulling back, “I thought you were a teetotaler.”

  “I am. Totally tea!” What possible harm could one more little lie do? It was basically the truth.

  Gabe winked. “Tastes a little bit like you’ve been hitting the sauce as well.”

  “Marionette sauce,” I explained quickly. “I mean marinade. Freni is roasting some old hens.”

  “What’s in this marinade?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure—okay, so maybe there’s a little vermouth.”

  “Was it the sauce you sampled, or did you chug it straight from the bottle?”

  “I didn’t chug anything! I merely sipped. And does it matter? Because I’m never doing that again either. From now on, I’m flying straight as an arrow. Not that I’m flying now, mind you. Not high like a kite or anything. Definitely not high at all. Anyway, I promise never to do those things again.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “Then that will be a shame. I was getting to like your wild side.”

  “But I can be wild in other ways. You should see me play Florida golf.” I was referring to a Mennonite card game that is said to have originated in Sarasota, Florida, a long-time watering hole of Mennonite and Amish retirees. This game, by the way, uses Skip-Bo cards, and not the sinful face cards found in regular decks.

  “I’d love to,” Gabe said. His face became serious for a moment. “What’s this I hear about you fixing Ma up on a date?”

  “He’s one of Hernia’s most respected citizens,” I hastened to explain. There was no need to mention Doc’s reputation as a womanizer. If Ida Rosen was lucky, she’d find that out soon enough.

  Gabe gave me a peck on the forehead. Believe me, not many men are tall enough to do that.

  “My tone was supposed to be kidding. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. Mags, hon, I know how controllin
g she can be. Don’t think I like it, because I don’t. I put up with it because—well, I don’t want to be disrespectful. And since Pa died, she doesn’t have anyone else to order around.”

  “How about your sisters in New York?”

  “Sarah and Dafna won’t listen to a word Ma says. Never have. Ma needs someone to push around.”

  “Oops. I think Doc may be a pusher himself. He’s definitely not a pushover.”

  “All the better. Neither was Pa. Ma likes to push just so hard and then get it right back at her. The trouble is, unlike my sisters, I go the opposite direction. Conflict avoidance, I guess you’d call it.”

  Too bad. Truth be told, I can be a wee bit pushy myself—well, not exactly pushy, but I do have strong opinions. That’s what one can expect from someone who is generally right about things. It’s not my fault I’m well informed. “Gabe, you might not have noticed, but—”

  “You’re the pushiest woman, besides Ma, in Bedford County?”

  “Hey, no fair! What about Lodema Schrock?”

  “She’s not pushy, she’s merely obnoxious. Don’t get me wrong, hon. I don’t like it in Ma—too much history—but in you it’s charming.”

  “It is?”

  “You bet. Now, what the heck are you doing over there by the bam? Putting in a swimming pool?”

  His words made no sense. Hernians don’t build swimming pools. Our summers aren’t long enough or hot enough to justify the expense. Besides, with a plethora of farm ponds and creeks about, why bother?

  “Of course I’m not building a pool.”

  “Then why all the digging?”

  I looked past Gabe’s shoulder to the east comer of the bam. To the left, where yesterday there had been nothing but a low, decomposing blanket of haufa mischt, there was now an immense pile of dirt. Anyone but a blind or very drunk person would have noticed the change in topography.