Between a Wok and a Hard Place

by Tamar Myers

  My little exhibition was wasted on Annie, who was staring off into the distance. If she was looking for the urchins, she was wasting her time. I could hear them giggling just around the corner of the house.

  I was forced to groan loudly to get Annie’s attention.

  She whirled. “What’s the matter?”

  I grimaced again. “This thing’s killing me. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of crutches, would you? It’s a long way back to my car.”

  Okay, so it was fighting dirty. But Annie was a harder nut to crack than I had anticipated. Maybe if she thought her monstrous Lizzie had done me serious harm she might soften.

  Annie blanched. “Yah, we have a pair in the barn. Homemade crutches. Eli broke his ankle this spring when he was plowing. Are you hurt that bad?”

  I had hoped for guilt, not a solution. “Well—maybe if I just sit here a while longer the pain will go away. What are you serving with the chicken?”

  Annie declined to give me the menu, and scurried off to get the crutches. As soon as she was out of earshot the giggles got louder.

  “I don’t think it is very funny,” I said loudly. “I could have gotten hurt by that stone.”

  Before the words were out of my mouth a second stone came flying at me from around the corner of the house. Had I not been just skin and bones, I’m sure it would have hit me.

  “Des macht mich bees,” I said in Pennsylvania Dutch. That makes me mad.

  The giggles gave way to guffaws.

  They may have been just kids, but that hiked my hackles. I wouldn’t have dreamed of throwing a stone at a grown-up when I was that age. If Annie wasn’t going to teach them good manners, I would. I hopped agilely off the porch just as Annie emerged from the barn.

  “Why, Magdalena Yoder! You aren’t really hurt, are you?”

  Sometimes I’m actually grateful my sister Susannah parted from our pacifist ways and became a Presbyterian. Had she not, I never would have learned such useful slogans as “offense is the best defense.”

  “Why, Annie Kauffman,” I shouted, my hands on my hips. “You should be ashamed. Your little Lizzie just stoned me again.”

  Her face reddened and she dropped the crutches. “Ach!”

  “And you talk about me being English,” I said. “Just wait until I tell the ladies in my Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle about this!”

  “Ach, it’s little Mary’s fault.”

  “Blaming a child are we, dear?”

  “Yah, but—”

  “Perhaps we could come to an agreement, Annie.”

  Dark eyes flashed warily on either side of the beak. “What kind of agreement?”

  “Tell me what you suspect happened in town last night, and my lips are sealed. As far as I’m concerned your little Lizzie is the patron saint of pacifism.”

  Despite her predatory features, Annie sang like a canary. It was not a pretty song, and it was one I had heard many times before.

  Amish society, as strict and disciplined as it is, allows its teenagers tremendous freedom. The intent is to let them get rebellion out of their systems before they are baptized into the faith as adults. It is not uncommon for Amish teens to own cars, smoke cigarettes, and even drink during this period of flirtation with the world. Once they are baptized, however, they must toe the line, or face excommunication and shunning. Still, over eighty percent of Amish youth choose to be baptized and submit to Ordnung, the ordinance by which the community lives.

  As a Mennonite teenager I envied the Amish kids. They ran around in “crowds,” racing their buggies up and down Hertzler Lane where we lived. They even held hoedowns—something Mama viewed as a date with the Devil. At least I didn’t have to make an all-or-nothing choice when I was baptized; I have always straddled the fence between tradition and the world. But frankly, just between you and me, fence-straddling can be uncomfortable, and sometimes I even envy Susannah, who fell off the fence and into the arms of the first Presbyterian to ask her out.

  “Don’t you have a son who is about that age?” I asked gently.

  She stared at me.

  “Samuel, isn’t it?”

  How was I to know she would burst into tears? Crying is simply not something I think about a lot. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t indulged myself since Mama and Papa’s tragic accident. Annie, on the other hand, shed tears like a petunia in an onion patch.

  This may surprise you, but I have never been the nurturing type. “There, there,” I said, and patted her on the back.

  “Oh, Magdalena,” she wailed, and threw herself into my arms.

  Chapter Five

  Annie Kauffman’s Dutch Country Chicken and Cabbage

  1pound chicken, boneless leg or breast, or mixture

  2½ teaspoons paprika

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 small head cabbage, cored and finely sliced

  Pinch of salt and a turn of freshly ground black pepper

  ¼ cup fresh lemon juice

  1 medium onion, peeled and finely sliced

  1 red apple, washed well, cored, and thinly sliced

  1 teaspoon toasted caraway seeds 1 cup plain yogurt (optional)

  Remove all skin and visible fat from chicken. Cut into bite-size pieces and dust with the paprika. Heat a large frying pan, add oil, and swirl to cover surface. Add chicken and quickly saute to sear surfaces for about 1 minute; add cabbage, mix with chicken over high heat for about 30 seconds.

  Lower heat, add seasoning and lemon juice. Place onion and apple slices on top and cover tightly. Simmer mixture for 15 minutes and then sprinkle with caraway seeds and lightly mix. Replace lid and cook 10-15 minutes or until vegetables are tender. Add a little hot water as necessary.

  Serve with or without plain rice or pasta. Drizzle top with a little plain yogurt (optional), which may be offered in a separate serving bowl.

  Serves 4.

  Chapter Six

  I hugged Annie and got the front of my dress wet, but I did not get the confession I wanted. According to her, “little” Samuel spent the night safely tucked in his trundle bed. She was crying, she would have me believe, because she was a sensitive soul and could empathize with the mother of the real hooligan.

  Of course I believed her. I believed Mama when she told me that babies were found under cabbages. But I was only twenty then and afraid to ask questions. Fortunately I had grown up a lot in the intervening years.

  “You have more empathy than a nursery full of squalling babies,” I said kindly.

  She dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “You’re trying to trick me into something, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely not, dear. Well, even if I was, it would be for a good cause. Some mother out there is really going to have a broken heart when her son gets hauled off to the hoosegow.”

  Annie stared at me with bleary eyes. There is nothing more unattractive than a woman with red eyes— well, perhaps there is, but that’s not my point.

  “What does hoosegow mean?”

  “Jail. Prison.”

  “They could do that? Put an Amish boy in prison just for having a good time?”

  “I’d hardly call a hit-and-run accident a good time. I’d call it a crime.”

  “An accident? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes. But I’m not free to give you any details.” Not that she needed any, I’m sure.

  The bleary eyes blinked several times. “What would happen to such a boy if he confessed to his crime?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, except that the punishment is undoubtedly lighter in cases where the criminals turn themselves in.”

  “Criminals.” She said the word slowly, letting its three syllables become acquainted with her tongue.

  “I’m sure you know as well that hiding a known fugitive is a crime in itself. Heavens, the Hernia hoosegow could be filled to overflowing before this case is through.”

  “Ach, but I...” He voice faced away, and the tears welled up again.

  “You what?”


  She shook her head vigorously. “Nothing.”

  “If you know something, you should tell me now. I came here to help, Annie.”

  “Enos Mast.”

  “Who?”

  “Isaac Mast’s son.”

  That’s all she would say. Further prompting caused her to snatch the chickens—one still half-plucked— and head for the house.

  “What about lunch?” I called after her. “I’m available.”

  The screen door slammed behind her.

  Not only was it lunchtime, but I was missing a cook. My guests pay big bucks, and expect high returns. Fortunately, it is atmosphere they expect, not service. Until Freni saw the error of her ways and came crawling to me on her knees, I would have to implement an emergency measure. It was time to resurrect ALPO.

  I smiled benevolently at the group assembled around Great-granny Yoder’s solid oak table. Thank the Good Lord the urchins had settled for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and were already outside screaming and hollering loud enough to wake the dead in China. And since I was in a grateful mood I gave thanks for the fact that Susannah cleaned exactly one room before falling fast asleep on a pile of dirty laundry.

  “It means Amish Lifestyle Plan Option,” I said, ignoring the hungry looks on my guests’ faces. “It’s the quickest way there is to get to know the Amish.”

  “I still don’t get it.” Wilmar Brack was a pain in the back.

  “Oh, I do, and I think it’s marvelous.” Shirley Pearson, who was used to speaking at board meetings, stood up. “You see, Mrs. Miller has generously offered to let us experience the authentic Amish lifestyle. We get to cook our own meals, clean our own rooms, and do our own laundry, and it will cost us only fifty dollars more a day.”

  “Cool. I can dig it.” Terry Slock, former child star, seemed genuinely pleased.

  It never failed to surprise how much abuse people will put up with if they can view it as a cultural experience. Well, most folks.

  Wilmar Brack stood up as well. “I think it’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  Shirley bestowed an icy smile on Dr. Brack. “I still have the floor, I believe.”

  “Floor shmore. This isn’t some damn boardroom.”

  “There’ll be no swearing in my establishment,” I said sternly.

  Dr. Brack backed down.

  Dorothy Dixon raised her arm, as if she were a schoolgirl. “Will we get a chance to meet the Ayemish? Besides, Mrs. Hoaxstetler, the cook, I mean. You see, I’ve been thinking that the Ayemish would make a wonderful setting for a series of children’s mysteries. What do you think of Hattie Hoaxstetler and the Hernia Hex as my first title? Hattie would be Ayemish, of course.”

  The woman was creative, I’d give her that. I have always been a voracious reader, and as long as I can remember, authors have been my heroes. That was true right up until the day I met my first live author, a bizarre, paranoid woman who traveled with a contingent of six bodyguards and a pet cheetah. Since then I have come to understand that authors are just folks like the rest of us, with the same quirks and foibles, although in some cases the foibles are more pronounced. Okay, let’s face it, most writers I know are more neurotic than a kitten raised by pit bulls, but I try not to judge.

  In all honesty, Dorothy was far more normal than most writers I’d had as guests at the PennDutch. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties who didn’t appear to be any stranger than yours truly. I could say something equally complimentary about her husband, Angus Dixon. If they hadn’t shown up with their urchins in tow, I might well have liked them.

  I tried to smile pleasantly. “That’s Amish, dear. And yes, perhaps something could be arranged. Perhaps a visit to Annie Kauffman’s farm.” That would serve her right for not inviting me to lunch.

  “Wonderful!” Shirley exclaimed.

  “Will there be photo opportunities?” Angus asked. He seemed rather shy for a Pulitzer prize-winning photographer.

  “I’m sure.” It isn’t a lie if you don’t go into specifics.

  “Costumes!” Terry Slock sat up, suddenly excited. “Man, that could be real cool. We could all wear Amish costumes to help us get in the mood.”

  “For what?” Maybe Susannah is right when she says I never have a clue.

  Terry gave me a sympathetic look. “It’s like method acting.”

  Shirley graced him with an executive smile. “Wonderful. Where could we buy some of those charming outfits, Mrs. Miller?”

  “The Amish around here make their own clothes,” I said. “Although you can find the fabrics they like at Miller’s Feed Store.”

  She looked expectantly at me.

  “It’s a very distant relation. You won’t get a discount.”

  Shirley nodded. “Anyone here know how to sew?”

  It was time to put a stop to the nonsense. “They’ll think you’re mocking them, if you copy their dress. Like I said, the best way to learn about them is to live like them. Right here. The ALPO plan.”

  Dorothy had her hand up again. “That’s redundant,” she said politely when called on. “Calling it the ALPO plan. But, what I want to know is, can we still visit that farm?”

  I smiled away my irritation. “Of course, dear. And you,” I said to her husband, “could photograph the week’s activities.”

  “That could be a photo essay,” Angus said pensively. “Life magazine might go for it.”

  “Count me out,” Dr. Brack bellowed. “I’m not washing dishes and cleaning rooms on my vacation, just to get my picture in some damn magazine.”

  He stomped out of the dining room just as Freni stomped in. The two nearly stomped into each other. If I was a betting woman, which of course I am not, I would lay odds on Freni, and not just because her center of gravity is lower.

  “Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Miller. I want to see you. Alone!”

  I excused myself from the group and obediently followed Freni back into the kitchen. It would not do to have my guests see two pacifists lock horns. The lucrative ALPO plan would fizzle then for sure.

  “Freni, what are you doing back?” I whispered, hoping that she would take the hint.

  “Me?” she practically shouted. “What are all those people doing in there? I haven’t called them to lunch yet.”

  “Freni, dear, you don’t even work here anymore. Remember?”

  “Ach, throw me out just because I’m old. Well, I may be eighty years old, Magdalena, but I’m not useless.”

  “Stop padding your age, Freni. It’s not going to get you my sympathy. Besides, you quit. I did not throw you out.”

  “Magdalena, please, we shouldn’t argue about the meaning of words. Life is too short, and you and I are close blood relatives. Not just distant cousins, like some.”

  “Ah, I think I see. It’s your daughter-in-law, Barbara, isn’t it? The two of you not getting along again? Freni, you really should consider getting some professional counseling. It isn’t easy having one’s in-laws living in—believe me, I know—but you’re going to have to accept the woman. She’s been married to your son John for twenty years.”

  She stared at me through two little round lenses supported by plain wire frames. “You may be hard to work for, Magdalena, but you’re going to need my help with this bunch. So, as a favor to your mama— may she rest in peace—I unquit.”

  It was time to stand my ground, or forever give way to the Amish wolverine. “You can’t decide that on your own. This is my kitchen, and we can get along perfectly well without you.”

  Freni sucked in her breath sharply. “Ach! So that’s it. You’re trying to sell the English ALPO, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Magdalena, you should be ashamed of yourself for taking money from them like that.”

  “I tithe,” I said stubbornly. “And anyway, they can afford it. Whatever they spend here means less money for sex, drugs, and alcohol somewhere else.”

  Freni nodded slowly. Although neither of us had much firsthand
experience with the evils of the world, we knew they cost money.

  “How much is ALPO costing this time?”

  “Fifty extra a day.”

  “How about a modified ALPO? Tell them that they still get to clean their own rooms, but I’ll not only cook for them, I’m willing to teach them how to bake pies from scratch for an extra twenty-five.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said, and then realized too late that the Amish wolverine had just weaseled her way back into my kitchen.

  Everyone was pleased with the modified ALPO except for Dr. Brack.

  “I’m still not interested in your damn plan,” he snarled. “And who the hell wants to make pies on their vacation?”

  “Watch your language, buster,” I snapped. To her credit, Mama always said I thought fast where money was involved. “But that’s a real shame, because for that extra twenty-five dollars a day I was going to let you shovel out the barn.”

  “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

  I feigned confusion, something I am skilled at. “What I mean is, you could shovel it wearing one of your famous braces. You would wear it without your shirt, of course. When that picture gets published— well, you know what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words.”

  Dr. Brack chewed on that for about ten seconds. His mama had raised no dummy, either.

  “Shirtless, eh? And there would be pictures of me in my brace plastered across the pages of a national magazine?”

  “That’s the point.”

  “Hmm. This guy Dixon really any good?”

  “He wasn’t just nominated for his prize, dear. He won.”

  Although Dr. Brack glared at me, I could tell he was hooked. “Okay, but you have to wear a brace, too.”

  “I beg your pardon!” I had never gone shirtless in my life, and I wasn’t about to make a debut as a topless tootsie for a quack with a back fetish.