Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  1 cup red and yellow pepper, chopped

  % lb. sharp cheddar cheese, shredded

  8 chicken tenderloins

  taco seasoning to taste

  2 16 oz. jars salsa sour cream

  Cook black beans, onions, peppers, and taco seasoning (to taste) in an uncovered sauce pan until most of the liquid has evaporated. Meanwhile, sprinkle chicken tenders with taco seasoning and saute in a little oil until lightly brown and cooked through. To assemble the cake place one flour tortilla on a greased pie plate and spread with half of the bean mixture. Sprinkle with cheese. Place another tortilla on top and arrange four chicken tenders on it. Sprinkle with salsa. Repeat the process. Place one last tortilla on top and sprinkle with salsa and remaining cheese. Bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees. Serve with extra salsa and sour cream.

  Serves 8 English, or 4 Amish-Mennonites.

  Chapter Eleven

  Art was feeling better when we returned. In fact, he and Freni were have a tete-a-tete over tea when I walked in. I daresay they looked guilty, almost like they’d been enjoying themselves. Freni jumped up and immediately began directing the putting away of perishables. General Schwarzkopf would have been proud of her, the way she marshaled the troops, although I know from personal experience that the general is a far gentler person than my cousin.

  Much to my astonishment, no one seemed to mind Freni’s barked orders, or chiding clucks, when her instructions weren’t followed exactly. By and large, our foray into town had been successful, and there was a festive, anticipatory feeling in the air. The contest was going to begin the next day, and by the end of the week, some lucky soul was going to walk away with one hundred thousand dollars.

  I watched wide-eyed from the sidelines as Ms. Holt and Alma Cornwater shared a shelf of my ancient, and already crowded, refrigerator. They reminded me of little girls playing house. One of them even giggled.

  It was too much to take when Freni volunteered to cart a load of seldom used pots and utensils down to the cellar so that my guests could have more room to set up their shiny, high-tech equipment. If I believed the kind of stories Derrick Simms prints in the National Intruder, I would have concluded an alien had taken over Freni’s body. On the off chance that Derrick and his ilk were on to something, I nabbed Freni when she emerged from the cellar and steered her through the kitchen and into the hallway. Then I closed the kitchen door on the shocking display of merriment.

  “Okay, dear, what gives?”

  Freni’s faded blue eyes registered genuine confusion.

  “Why are you being so nice, Freni? You’d rather dance naked at a barn raising than share your kitchen.”

  “Ach,” Freni said, blushing, “how you talk!”

  “Well, something’s going on, dear. When Mose dropped you off this morning, you were as cranky as a cow that hadn’t been milked all day.”

  Mose is Freni’s husband of fifty years. After Papa died, Mose took over the farm chores, and even after I sold Papa’s herd of dairy cows, Mose continued to work for me as a handyman. But even though, like Freni, Mose is a distant cousin, he is made from less sturdy stock, and has been plagued with a litany of minor illnesses. None of them have been life threatening, nor particularly costly, but they have prompted him into semiretirement. Now I only get to see him at milking time, or when he drops Freni off each morning and picks her up in the evenings with his horse and buggy.

  Freni rubbed futilely at a jam spot on an otherwise immaculate apron. “Some people don’t give me any reason to be cranky.”

  “You mean Art?”

  “Ach, what a nice man that one is.”

  I was pleased to hear her say that. Freni, and I too for that matter, seldom get to meet members of other minority groups. When we do, they fall under the rich and famous category, which is not a barometer of anything resembling normal. One extremely rich and famous guest, who represents at least three minority groups in one person, was irate when I insisted that his pet llama be lodged in the barn along with my two remaining cows rather than share his bedroom.

  “I’m glad you like Art,” I said. I decided to show off. “I suppose he told you that the child is not his girlfriend.”

  “Yah.”

  “He did?”

  “Yah. The man is a saint.” As a deeply religious woman, Freni does not use that word loosely.

  “So you don’t disapprove?” Freni is not a Bible beater, but she does take it all literally. I couldn’t imagine her not objecting to Art’s sexual orientation.

  “What’s to disapprove of? He takes in runaway children—not little ones of course—whose parents won’t take them back, and helps them get on their feet. He calls it Operation Lazarus, because many of these children would be dead if they didn’t have someplace to go. If you ask me, Magdalena, the president should give him a medal.”

  “But he’s just a cook!” I wailed. Frankly, Freni’s beatification of Art made me jealous. I had been teaching Sunday school for eight years—let me assure you, Mennonite children are no angels—yet Freni had never suggested that I get a medal.

  “He’s a cook with a golden heart,” Freni said. “Do you know what he wants to do with the prize money?”

  “Erect a statue of himself?”

  “For shame, Magdalena! That man wants to buy his own restaurant, so he can support a shelter for runaways like that sweet, innocent child he brought with him. I have half a mind to drop out of the contest, to make it easier for him to win.”

  I jiggled a pinkie in each ear to make sure they were working properly. “Then half a mind is all you have! Sweet innocent child, indeed! That girl has more holes in her head than a mosquito net, and her clothes barely cover the essentials. You are an Amish woman, for crying out loud—you’re not supposed to approve of immodesty.”

  “And you’re not supposed to judge, Magdalena.”

  “Fine! Have it your way. Worship Art Strump for all I care. But if he wins the contest, you’ll be stuck with a daughter-in-law you can’t stand.”

  Freni blanched. “Ach! Bite your tongue.”

  “Just last week you said she was as stubborn as a team of mules.”

  “Yah, but—”

  “And barren as the Gobi Desert.”

  “The Sahara.”

  “Which, I believe, is even more barren than the Gobi. You’re never going to have any cute grandbabies to cuddle, if Barbara stays in the picture.”

  “Ach, but divorce is wrong, Magdalena. Even if I win, and Barbara takes the money, my John can never remarry.”

  I knew it was wrong to egg her on, but I couldn’t help myself. “So, which would you rather have, a barren Barbara right under your nose, or a barren Barbara two thousand miles away in Kansas?”

  “Get behind me, Satan,” Freni moaned, but I knew she was back in the contest.

  The phone in my bedroom rang and I sprinted to get it. It is a private line, and I give the number out to only a select few. I happened to be expecting a very important call.

  “Babs?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Yeah, right, Yoder. Like you ever get a call from her.”

  “Melvin?”

  “In the flesh,” he said, “but since this is official police business, I suggest you call me Officer Stoltzfus. No, make that Chief Stoltzfus.”

  “In your dreams, dear.”

  He said a few words his Mennonite mama would not have approved of, and then got down to business. “How long is that bunch staying at your place?”

  “Through Saturday. Why?”

  “Just what sort of bunch are they?”

  “They’re circus performers,” I said, without missing a beat. “Acrobats from Taiwan.”

  “No kidding? Mr. Anderson too?”

  “Cut to the chase, Melvin.”

  “I just got a call from Dr. Rosenkrantz.”

  “And?”

  “I was right, Mr. Anderson did have food poisoning.”

  “I know, dear, and it was a very mild case. His real problem was dehydr
ation.”

  “Who told you?”

  “We have our sources. Did the doctor tell you what caused the poisoning?”

  Melvin, assuming as usual, fell right into my trap. “All right, so it was probably the burgers he and Susannah had at Desperate Joe’s.”

  “So it wasn’t Freni’s bread pudding?” I said, gloating.

  “Speaking of Susannah, is she there?”

  “Was it?” I demanded.

  “Okay, so maybe I jumped the gun a little. Is she there?”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen her since lunch. Can I give her a message?”

  “What’s the real story about your sister and this Mr. Anderson?”

  “There is no story, dear. She was just showing him around the area, like she said.”

  “But up on Stucky Ridge?”

  “You know Susannah—she’s a free spirit. You also know that she is, for some inexplicable reason, deeply in love with you.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “To the extent that it makes me nauseated.”

  He said nothing for a full minute. During this time I could hear his antennae click against the receiver. Okay, so it may have been his fingernails, but you can’t prove that it was.

  Finally he sighed. “She likes to flirt a lot, doesn’t she?”

  “That’s who she is.”

  “But you’re not like that. Don’t get me wrong, Yoder, but you’re so sensible, and she—well, like you said—is a free spirit. It doesn’t seem possible that the two of you could be sisters.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I meant it. “I remember the day Susannah was born—we’re sisters all right. But there are eleven years between us. It may as well be the Grand Canyon. Unless there’s a major earthquake—and I’m speaking metaphorically—that gap is never going to close. Still, where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “There has never been a major earthquake in Bedford County,” Melvin said sarcastically, “so don’t hold your breath.”

  “I said I was speaking metaphorically, you nincompoop!”

  “That’s chief!”

  “Chief nincompoop!” I slammed the receiver down. Then—and I’ll never know why—I burst into tears.

  Allow me to assure you that I wasn’t always a crybaby. As a little girl, I practically never cried. As a young woman, my eyes were dry as cotton balls. Even when Mama and Papa died, I only cried once, and that was at the cemetery. Tears are useful only for getting dirt out of one’s eyes, or so I used to think. But more and more lately, I find my eyes welling up, and after those rare occasions when I don’t fight back the tears, I actually feel better.

  I was feeling fine by supper. A little soap and warm water, and I was almost as good as new. I would have been totally squared away if Susannah had shown up.

  “Does your sister have a job?”

  I turned and smiled pleasantly at Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt, who was sitting at my left. She was wearing a beige cashmere sweater dress and a discreet amount of gold jewelry. While I eschew snobs, and wasn’t particularly fond of Ms. Holt, I am honest enough to admit that I much preferred her attire at my table than the jeans and denim jacket Alma Cornwater was wearing.

  “My sister is self-employed,” I said. It isn’t a lie. Susannah’s job, as far as I’m concerned, is to stay out of my hair as much as possible.

  “Oh?” Mr. Holt arched her perfectly plucked brows. “Is she an artist?”

  I don’t know why people have to assume that Susannah is an artist just because she dresses like a curtain rod. So much for assumptions. Susannah couldn’t draw water from an overflowing well, much less a straight line. Yes, I know, one doesn’t need to have technical skills to succeed as an artist these days, but talent should count for something.

  This may surprise you, but I am actually quite good with both a sketch pad and an easel. Miss Enz, my fourth-grade teacher, said I had the potential to be a professional artist. Mama, my fourth-grade parent, said that professional artists, like actors, were talent scouts for the Devil. Mama never once hung my school paintings on the refrigerator, although when Susannah came along, our kitchen was turned into the Louvre.

  “My sister is an entertainer,” I said barely able to keep the rancor out of my voice.

  Miss Holt’s nose wrinkled, puckering a few of the faint freckles. “What sort of entertainer?”

  Before I could answer, George Mitchell tapped on his water glass. All eyes, including Ms. Holt’s, turned to him.

  “Ladies, gentleman—may I have your attention? You are all aware that Mr. James Anderson, vice president in charge of acquisitions at East Coast Delicacies, and contest judge, was hospitalized this morning due to a mild case of food poisoning—”

  “Which he did not get here!” I interjected.

  George Mitchell smiled. “Yes, apparently you folks would do well to avoid Desperate Joe’s over in Bedford, unless you’re really serious about losing weight.”

  Sycophants that they were, everyone chuckled, including the rail-thin Marge Benedict.

  “I’m glad to report, however, that Mr. Anderson is doing fine. The doctor says he can probably be released sometime tomorrow. But I don’t think he’s going to be up to judging a food contest any time soon.”

  More laughter, this time nervous.

  George Mitchell held up a shushing hand. “Not to fear, though, because I have found a capable replacement.”

  There was a brief, excited buzz. I smiled, waiting for my moment of glory.

  “Miss Yoder here”—George Mitchell nodded at me—“has graciously agreed to take Mr. Anderson’s place.”

  There was a shocked silence, followed by several gasps.

  “That’s not fair!”

  I turned and looked at Kimberly McManus Holt. Now she was shaking like the paint mixer at Home Depot.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It wasn’t my idea, dear. Mr. Mitchell asked me to I fill in.”

  “Miss Yoder’s right. I take full responsibility for the idea, and I think it’s a fine one.”

  “But Mrs. Hostetler is her aunt, or something,” Ms. Holt said through clenched teeth.

  “She’s my cousin, dear. Actually, she’s my mother’s double first cousin, once removed, and my father’s second cousin twice removed, or is it the other way around? Anyway, we Amish and Mennonites have such tangled bloodlines that I am, in fact, my own cousin. If I want to have a family picnic, all I need is a sandwich.”

  Mr. Mitchell was the only one to laugh.

  “That’s my point exactly,” Ms. Holt huffed. “She’s a close relative, and can’t possibly be impartial.”

  That hiked my hackles. “I can be as impartial as a Supreme Court justice,” I snapped. “And for your information, dear, just because I’m related to the woman doesn’t mean I like her.”

  “Ach!” Freni, who was just backing into the room, carrying a large tureen of stew, nearly had conniptions. For a moment I was afraid my hardwood floor was going to get drenched with beef gravy.

  “Miss Yoder is explaining why she would make an impartial judge,” Mr. Mitchell said quickly.

  Freni’s face lit up like a jar full of lightning bugs. “Magdalena?”

  “You rang?” I joked pleasantly.

  “Yah, Magdalena is always fair. And who should know better than the woman who has been a second mother to her all these years.” Freni looked like the cat that licked the cream, and followed it with a mouse chaser.

  “You see what I mean?” Ms. Holt cried indignantly.

  “She’s right,” Gladys said.

  The twinkle was gone from George Mitchell’s eyes. “This is my contest, and I will choose whomever I damn well please to judge it. Anyone who has a problem with that can drop out now.”

  I forbid swearing on my premises, and usually take any such offenders to task, but that evening I prudently bit my tongue. The guests bit their tongues for other reasons—one hundred thousand reasons, to be exact.

  “Then it’s settled?” George
Mitchell looked at each contestant in turn.

  One by one, they nodded mutely.

  Freni, however, shamefully continued to gloat. I was going to have to take her aside and tell her that gloating did her cause no good. It might even prejudice me against her.

  I try and give credit where credit is due. Ms. Holt, I am obliged to say, was no dummy. She was able to switch sides like a governor who has seen the political light.

  “Did I say how charming I find your inn, Miss Yoder?”

  “Not to my face, dear.”

  She smiled, revealing a mouth full of sparkling caps. “Last year, when I took my cooking show on the road, we did a segment from an inn just like this. Only it was in Vermont. You know”—she paused and pretended to be thinking—“this would be a perfect location for one of my shows. Maybe even two or three. What would you say to that?”

  “I’d say you have more chutzpah than the man who killed his parents, and then threw himself upon the mercy of the court because he was an orphan.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Chutzpah, dear. It means nerve. Unmitigated gall.” Thanks to Babs, I knew almost as much Yiddish as I did Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “I know what it means,” she hissed, and then catching herself, gave me another glimpse of her caps. “Of course I understand that yours is a very popular inn, and hosting a cooking show might be a trifle inconvenient.”

  “Pun intended?”

  She chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. From that moment on, I knew I had the upper hand.

  Susannah slid into her seat, breathless as usual, and mumbled something about a defective alarm clock. I gave her an obligatory frown, and then prayed for the grace to forgive and, above all, forget. My prayer worked, and the rest of the meal would have progressed without incident had not Carlie found something unusual in her stew.

  “Hey, everybody!” she shouted, startling us all. “I found a diamond!”

  “I don’t think so, dear,” I said kindly. Her outburst had caused me to drop my fork, and I had gravy splattered on a relatively new dress.

  “But I did!” Carlie held up an object the size of a lima bean. Despite the gravy that dripped off it, I could see that it sparkled.