Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “Oh, what the hell.”

  With a shrug, she lifted it to her mouth and took several big, crunchy bites, savoring each one. She hadn’t had one of these pickles in years, and didn’t care if she’d pulled it from the bottom of a cesspool. They were the dreamiest she’d ever eaten. And this one was no different. A perfect crispness, exquisite flavor, just a hint of tartness, and . . . something else.

  Wanda sensed a burning sensation in her stomach. “What the . . . ?”

  She felt a rumble down below, and a moment later the pickle threatened to come back up on her. “What . . . ?”

  She heard a shuffling sound nearby and looked over. Cleopatra was walking funny. Her legs were wobbly. The nanny goat turned around to look back at Wanda with forlorn eyes, and then suddenly collapsed in a heap.

  “Oh my god.” It took a few moments for Wanda to register what she was seeing. She looked down at the half-eaten pickle in horror. “Oh, no.”

  She started spitting heavily, trying to get all the pickle juice and bits out of her mouth as the burning sensation in her stomach grew. Panic rising, she made a mad dash to her Suburban, where she’d left her phone. She yanked open the door, snatched the phone from its cubby in the center console, and frantically began to dial.

  From the Cape Crier

  Cape Willington, Maine

  September 18th Edition

  THE CAPE CRUSADER

  by Wanda Boyle

  Community Correspondent

  GUESS WHO’S TURNING 200?

  Here’s a big hint: Look no further than the newspaper you’re now holding in your hands. Yes, it’s true! The Cape Crier is turning 200 years old! Who would’ve thought we’d be around this long! (We did, of course!) Founded in 1815 by budding journalist and world explorer Harvey Alexander Pruitt, the first issue (a one-pager) was published on Friday, Oct. 6th that year, and the Crier has been a mainstay of our beloved village ever since. In celebration of this momentous event, current interim managing editor Candy Holliday, as well as the paper’s community correspondent (that would be yours truly!) have planned a number of special events, including the upcoming community cook-off contest (see below). More details to follow as we approach the unveiling of the Crier’s Special Bicentennial Edition in early October!

  CALLING ALL COOKS!

  With all the excellent cooks we have around town, you can bet the competition will be fierce at the Cape Willington Community Cook-off, which takes place from 3 to 5 P.M. on Friday, Sept. 25th at the high school gymnasium. Part of the Crier’s bicentennial celebration, the cook-off is the first of its kind locally. All amateur cooks are welcome to enter, though time is tight, so call us immediately if you’d like to be involved. You can enter your own dish in any of seven categories, including breads, jams and preserves, homemade cheese and yogurt, pickled foods, pies, cookies, and candies and other desserts. An impressive lineup of judges, including popular cookbook author Julia von Fleming, will sample the entries and pick their favorites, which will be announced in the paper’s upcoming Bicentennial Edition. So dig through your old recipes, pick out the best one, and fire up the oven!

  LET’S PUT SOME FOOD BY

  While we’re on the subject of food, a number of innovative villagers will be pickling more than pigs’ feet on Thursday night before the cook-off contest. Calling themselves the Putting Food By Society, the group advocates self-sufficient living, and will be joining with the owners of Zeke’s General Store to offer food preservation demos in and around the store from 4 to 7 P.M. The emphasis will be on canning and pickling local produce. Headed by Edna Bakersfield and Isabella Corinne, the group also includes Melody Barnes and Elsie Lingholt, all of whom will pitch in on the demonstrations. So what are you waiting for! Learn from the experts! Harvest season has arrived, and it’s time to put some food by for the upcoming winter. For more information, visit www.puttingfoodbycapewillington.com.

  SHOW US YOUR PHOTOS!

  We’re starting a new section in the Crier called “Photos from Cape Willington.” Send us photos of yourself, your family, friends, pets, events, the weather, Tony the tourist, anything! We’re interested in seeing everyday life here in Cape Willington. We’ll print some of the photos in the paper, and put others on our website and Pinterest! Send your photos to capecrier@gmail.com. It’s a great way to celebrate life the way it should be here in our beautiful village!

  VINTAGE TREASURES

  The Pruitt Public Library, in conjunction with the Cape Willington Historical Society, is celebrating Harvest Season with a two-month-long exhibit titled, “Vintage Harvest.” On exhibit will be vintage treasures, all having to do with harvest time in Maine. Among other items, you can view antique blueberry rakes, antique mason jars and canning equipment, garden tools, and the largest collection of antique seed packets in Down East Maine. It’s well worth your time, so be sure to stop by. The exhibit will be open during regular library hours.

  YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST!

  Pat O’Connor, who works at Melody’s Cafe, tells us one of her tourist customers was so thrilled to be buying one of Melody’s pies, she quipped, “This pie is so precious, I am going to buckle it into the backseat of my car!” Now that’s inspiring, but what will she do with her kids? . . . Did you know Lisa Taylor has a new car, and it has an impressive moniker? She calls her latest ride the New Moon Nitrogen Storm! That’s a pretty big name for such a little car! She dubbed her old car Silver Moon, and decided to name its replacement New Moon to start a new chapter. “Nitrogen” refers to the nitrogen in the car’s tires, and “Storm” perfectly describes its storm gray exterior color. So keep a lookout on the roads. A Nitrogen Storm just might be headed your direction! . . . While scouring our local beaches for the annual fall beach cleanup, Jim Harrison found an old blue glass bottle. On closer inspection, he saw a tiny piece of paper inside. After a tedious ordeal (a story for another time!), he got the note out of the bottle. It was dated 1964 and read, “Let everyone know that Elizabeth loves Eugene.” Who Elizabeth and Eugene are, and where the bottle was thrown into the sea, remains another Cape Willington mystery!

  Official Judicious F. P. Bosworth sightings for the first two weeks of September:

  Visible: 2 days

  Invisible: 12 days

  Judicious, are you underground waiting to be harvested? Dig yourself out and join the events around town!

  ONE

  Candy Holliday checked her watch for what seemed like the hundredth time and glanced back at the main set of double doors that led out of the gymnasium. The doors were propped open, allowing in muted sunlight and a brisk fall breeze as a few people wandered in and out of the busy, buzzing venue. Candy’s eyes flicked from one person to another in quick succession as she scanned their faces and outfits, tapping her right foot rapidly without even knowing she was doing it.

  There was Edna Bakersfield of the Putting Food By Society, with Elvira Tremble from the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, conversing softly as they came through the doors. There went Trudy Watkins, who ran Zeke’s General Store with her husband, Richard. He was probably keeping an eye on the place, which is why she was here alone today. In walked Mason Flint, chairman of the town’s board of selectmen, talking on his cell phone. And Marjorie Coffin scrambled in carrying a cardboard box, probably filled with a few last-minute entries.

  As Candy’s gaze swept the room, she noticed many other familiar faces. But none was the person she sought.

  Nearly three forty-five, and still no Wanda.

  Where the heck is she? Candy wondered with no small amount of exasperation.

  Wanda had already missed the afternoon’s opening remarks, which seemed totally uncharacteristic of her. She’d been looking forward to this event for months, ever since they’d started talking about it back at the beginning of the summer. She’d been involved with all the planning, and had spent the better part of the past week holed up in her windowless office, writing and rehearsing her comments, which she’d read out loud to Candy jus
t that morning before heading over to Sally Ann Longfellow’s place. She’d honed her remarks to perfection, she’d smugly told Candy at the time, and was certain they conveyed the appropriate tone for such a momentous event.

  Early on in their discussions, to avoid any conflicts between the two of them, they’d decided to serve as co-hosts for the afternoon’s event, and both would give opening remarks. It was Candy’s suggestion that Wanda go first, since the whole event was essentially her idea. They’d decided that Wanda would make the general welcoming comments, introduce the judges, discuss the various food categories and tables, and lay out the afternoon’s schedule. Candy would follow by thanking the contestants, volunteers, and school staff, and discussing the event’s tie-ins to the upcoming “Best of Cape Willington” feature article scheduled for the special bicentennial edition.

  After that, as they’d agreed, Wanda would accompany the judges during the afternoon, provide a few brief remarks about each food category, and monitor the time the judges spent at each table to ensure they’d finish on schedule. While Wanda essentially ran the show, Candy would have time to roam the hall and take on a more social role, since she was still the Cape Crier’s interim managing editor, and many of the town’s more prominent citizens were here today serving as honorary judges. She knew it would be a good time to network, renew acquaintances, and drum up support for the paper.

  At least, that’s the way it was supposed to have worked.

  But for some inexplicable reason, Wanda never showed. And in the end Candy had to cover for her, stepping in to deliver the entire opening presentation herself. She’d ad-libbed as best she could the remarks assigned to Wanda, and overall thought she’d done a decent job. She’d glossed over Wanda’s absence, saying the other woman was unexpectedly delayed, and had to dig out her cheat sheet to remember all the food categories and table assignments. But in the end it had worked out fine, and no one seemed to notice that anything was wrong.

  The three official judges—Colin Trevor Jones, Julia von Fleming, and Herr Georg Wolfsburger—were now on their second table, the one devoted to jams and preserves. They’d spent fifteen minutes at the first table, as planned. The event was on schedule. So far, so good.

  Still, Candy felt a little off-balance. This wasn’t how she’d expected to spend her afternoon. There were opportunities she was missing. But it couldn’t be helped.

  If Wanda would just show up. . . .

  Candy wasn’t really angry. If anything, she was disappointed at the thought that Wanda had missed so much of an event she’d looked forward to for months.

  Not for the first time, Candy wondered if something had happened to the other woman. She tried not to let her mind dwell on that thought, lest she start worrying. She had long ago learned not to jump to conclusions, so she wasn’t about to start now.

  Still, Wanda’s absence was very peculiar. Candy had tried calling her several times, but all the calls went straight to voice mail. So she’d left a few quick messages, asking Wanda to return the call as soon as she could and wondering what had delayed her. But so far she’d heard nothing.

  And it was time to move on.

  After a final glance at the double doors, just to make sure Wanda hadn’t showed up in the last few seconds, Candy brushed back her honey-colored hair and collected her thoughts as she made her way through the crowd to the microphone. When she reached it, she flicked it on, cleared her throat, and called for everyone’s attention.

  “It’s three forty-five and time for our official judges to make their way to Table Three, which is our homemade cheese and yogurt table,” she said pleasantly into the mic. “Again, we ask that all honorary judges please allow the official judges sole access to this table while they’re sampling the entries. We invite the honorary judges to focus their attention on the other tables around the room. There are still plenty of samples available at Tables One and Two, devoted to homemade breads, preserves, and jams, so you won’t want to miss those. Again, the official judges have fifteen minutes to sample the entries and formulate their opinions. We do hope all of you are enjoying your afternoon and this incredible food that’s been prepared for us by the people of Cape Willington, and we thank you again for coming out today to support this community event.”

  She left it at that, flicking off the mic to a smattering of applause and hurrying over to join the judges at Table Three. But before she made it there she felt her phone buzzing in the pocket of her powder blue blazer, which she’d fished out of the back of her closet last week in anticipation of this event.

  Maybe it’s a message from Wanda, she hoped in the back of her mind.

  And it was indeed from Wanda—just not what she expected. It was a text message, and rather ominously it read:

  Sorry for delay. Will call soon. Sally Ann Longfellow is trying to kill me.

  TWO

  Henry “Doc” Holliday bit into a thick slice of glazed lemon blueberry bread as he stood off to one side of the packed, noisy gym. He chewed slowly, concentrating on the flavors, and then took another careful bite as his gaze swept about the place. He was still amazed he was here at all, and couldn’t believe his good luck. But he wasn’t about to question it.

  Doc, as he often reminded himself, was just a simple blueberry farmer trying to scratch out a living from the good earth—in his case, a twenty-three-acre property called Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, which he ran with his daughter, Candy. It was located not far from here, out along the coastline a few miles. The height of the blueberry-picking season was a few weeks behind them, and it had been a bountiful harvest, bringing in plenty of revenue to keep them going through the rest of the fall and the upcoming winter. But they still had plenty to do around the farm. Rightly he should be in his work clothes and boots, finishing up chores, walking the fields, and tending to the farm’s vegetable gardens, which were still yielding. He should be checking on supplies and prepping the mowing gear for the tractor, and there was always plenty of paperwork and general housekeeping to get done.

  Yet here he was on a Friday afternoon in late September, dressed in his Sunday best—clean chinos, a nicely pressed white shirt, a green and yellow patterned tie, a decades-old green-flecked sport coat, and comfortable brown loafers—serving as an honorary judge at one of Cape Willington’s biggest events in years.

  It was a simple yet prestigious assignment. He’d been asked to serve as a judge for the Cape Willington Community Cook-off, part of the newspaper’s bicentennial celebration. The goal was to find the best cooks and recipes in town, and publish a list of them in an upcoming special issue. He was one of twenty honorary judges, asked by special invitation to sample various types of food submitted by the general public, and offer his opinions. All he had to do was walk around the room, visit the food tables, sample whatever he wanted, and then grade what he ate. He could eat as much as he liked, and take as long as he wanted.

  And there was so much to choose from.

  Yup, life was pretty darn good.

  As he popped the last of the lemon blueberry bread into his mouth, Doc crumbled up the small napkin that had held the sample and tossed it into a nearby waste can. There was one task to complete before he moved on, one he’d been diligent about today. So he reached into his right coat pocket and pulled out a wad of blue scoring forms.

  He carried perhaps a dozen of them, four by eight inches each, attached to a similar-sized blue translucent clipboard. On the top form he noted his name and judging number (he was Judge Number 17), entered the number associated with the entry—in this case B22 (the B stood for bread, since it was from Table One, the bread table)—and awarded it seven and a half out of ten points. In the comments section he scribbled, “Good texture. Very lemony. Not too crumbly. Blueberries taste fresh.”

  Then he removed the form from the clipboard, folded it in half, and placed it into his left coat pocket while slipping the clipboard back into the right. He’d completed several scoring forms, which he’d drop off in the proper box when
he passed by it again.

  He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was approaching four P.M. The event ran from three to five. He still had plenty of time to sample lots of entries. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and took a deep breath. “Okay, what’s next?”

  There were seven large display tables around the room—in many cases, several smaller tables pushed and angled together—devoted to seven food categories: breads, jams and preserves, homemade cheese and yogurt, pickled foods, pies, cookies, and candies and other desserts. A few food groups, like the breads and jams, had as many as twenty-five or thirty entries each, although most had between a dozen and fifteen or so. He’d visited most of the tables at least once, and had munched on a wide variety of samples. So far several entries stood out in his mind, including a delectable peanut brittle, some wonderful zucchini bread, and a fresh, creamy goat cheese layered thick on a cranberry wafer.

  He’d been by the pie table four times already, and he was thinking of making a fifth trip before the official judges reached it. So far he’d sampled slices of blueberry, apple, peach, strawberry rhubarb, pumpkin, and even a shoofly pie heavy with molasses. He didn’t want to appear too greedy, but there were several he’d missed, including a blackberry pie that looked particularly interesting, and he wanted to make sure he returned to the table while samples remained.

  He’d also spent quite a bit of time at the cookie table, and the same held true. Best make another swing by there while he still had the chance.

  But there were a few tables he’d largely bypassed so far, like the pickled foods, and some he’d ignored on purpose, like the candies. The last one, he’d decided, could wait until a little later on, so he didn’t fill up too much on sweets—at least, not more than he already had.