“Prognosis good. Another day hooked up to machines, and then I get moved to a regular room. Then, with any luck, after a couple days, I’ll get to go home.”
“How long have you been awake?” He looked at the bedside clock before shrugging. “I’m not certain. But I was just getting ready to call you. Honest, I was.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. You look uh-uh-”
“Pistachio ice cream?”
“Bingo.”
“Doc, what I’m feeling is unimportant. I want to know the identity of your assailant.”
“My what?”
“The person who attacked you.”
“So that’s what happened! The real doc wouldn’t tell me.
Just kept shining a light in my eyes, and asking me to count his fingers.”
“You mean you don’t remember the attack?”
“Not one uh-uh-”
“Damp detail?”
“Yeah. Where did it happen?”
“In my barn. You even scrawled a message in your own blood.”
“No kidding? Magdalena, I don’t even remember driving out to your place. The last thing I remember was feeding Old Blue her supper-Old Blue! Who’s been taking care of her?”
I swallowed hard. The ancient bloodhound is the other pea in Doc’s pod. Not only are the two inseparable, but they help prove that adage about dog owners looking like their pets-although I say that with apologies to Old Blue. Alas, I hadn’t given a thought to the wrinkled old bitch.
For Doc, who’d spent a lifetime reading horse faces, decoding my frozen mug was a piece of German chocolate cake. “Get your asteroid over there, Magdalena, and feed my best gal. But let her out first. How would you like to hold it in that long?”
“Not much, so will do. But if you remember anything-any-thing-give me a call on my cell. If you hold anything back, I’m going to tell Nurse Ratched out there that you’ve been harboring a crush on her for years.”
Doc licked his lips. “Promise?”
“You dirty old man! Just for that, I’m changing it to Ida.”
“Your mother-in-law?”
There was a time when Doc and my nemesis couldn’t keep their arthritic hands off each other. Then I sent them on an all-expenses-paid trip to Tahiti. (It wasn’t a sin to do so, because they were bent on doing the tatami tarantella anyway.) As it turned out, giving them unimpeded access to each other, along with my tacit blessing, was like throwing a bucket of glacial-melt water in their faces. They returned on separate flights, hating each other.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, Doc, what strong arms you have. Ida, allow me to pluck that chin hair; I find it a bit distracting.”
“You were listening?”
“Just that once,” I wailed. “I couldn’t help it that I was cleaning your closet when you returned from dinner that day. And way early, I might add.”
Doc smiled. “Get a move on, Magdalena, before I hop out of bed and throw these strong arms around you-married, or not. And just so you know, I don’t mind your chin hairs one bit.”
I was out of there so fast that I left my shadow behind.
Doc lives on the south side of Hernia, in the shadow of Stucky Ridge. In the summertime, if you stand on his back deck and lean way to the left, so that you can peer around the sycamore, it is possible to spot a molecule or two of Lover’s Leap. Local lore has it that an Indian princess and her white settler boyfriend leapt to their deaths one foggy morning. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t intend to commit suicide; they were merely horsing around, as lovers sometimes do, and thought they were leaping into a pile of leaves. Okay, I admit that is only one of many versions of this tale, but it is the one which I much prefer.
Usually when I visit Doc, he and Old Blue meet me out by the mailbox, on account of Old Blue has smelled me coming a mile away. This is not because I stink, mind you-Yoder with the Odor is a thing of the past-but because the dog is descended from a long line of champion bloodhounds. At any rate, it felt strange not having either of my elderly pals greet me, and I began to have morbid thoughts about what I might find inside.
I needn’t have worried. The second I pushed the door open, Old Blue barreled past me and, as soon as she hit grass, attended to her needs. Upon finishing, however, not only did she greet me, but she was on me like germs on a day-care door.
Dogs are notoriously bad huggers, but the old gal tried her best, thoroughly raking me with her claws in the process. After she tired of me pushing her away, she attempted to bathe me with her foot-long tongue. And speaking of germs, there are those who claim that we humans carry more germs in our mouths than dogs, but Doc, a veterinarian of some renown, says that this is simply not so. “Consider what you do with your tongue,” he said. “Then observe what she does with hers.”
It was while trying to escape Old Blue’s effusive gratitude that I shut myself up in the downstairs powder room. While the dear beast whimpered outside the door, I sat on the closed lid of the john to collect my thoughts. It can take a while to gather such scattered things, but about midway through, I became gradually aware of the draft against the back of my neck. Slowly, I turned.
20
Chocolate Ice Cream Recipe
Custard base recipe: Ingredients:
5 egg yolks
1 pint (500 ml) milk
1/2 pint (250 ml) double/heavy cream
2 oz (50 g) sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
The custard base is the essential part of what makes ice cream really creamy and luxurious. The basic principle for making a custard base is to use cream and/or milk, egg yolks, and sugar. Some people create a mix from these ingredients without heating, in which case it’s generally referred to as a cream base. Others, myself included, prefer to use heat in the process and create what’s known as a custard base.
This is a typical custard base method, which involves heating:
First of all, beat and mix together the egg yolks and sugar until thick. Separately, pour the milk into a saucepan and scald it (bring slowly up to boiling point). Pour the hot milk into the egg-yolk-and-sugar mix whilst continuously stirring. Then pour the mixture back into the pan and heat gently, stirring until the custard thickens-do not bring to the boil, or it will probably curdle. When you can see a film form over the back of your spoon, it’s time to remove the saucepan from the heat. Leave to cool.
Then you can do one of three things:
A. Pour the cooled custard into a bowl, and add your chosen flavoring, then transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.
B. Pour the cooled custard into a bowl, and add cream plus your chosen flavoring, then transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.
C. Chill the cooled custard thoroughly in the refrigerator. Whip some double cream, and fold it into the chilled custard, then add your chosen flavoring, and transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.
For this recipe, we suggest option C. First, create a custard base. At the point when you remove the saucepan from the heat to allow the mixture to cool, add the cocoa. Then chill the custard until it’s really cold. Once chilled, mix until slushy. Add the cream (whipped), and make sure it mixes in well. Transfer the mixture to an ice cream maker, and freeze according to the manufactur-er’s instructions.
Quick Chocolate Ice Cream Recipe
This is ideal for the kids or anyone wanting something quick and delicious!
Ingredients:
1 can (large) sweetened condensed milk
1/2 pint (250 ml) milk
5 tablespoons cocoa
Mix together the milk and condensed milk. Dissolve the cocoa in a little hot water. When fully dissolved, stir it into the milk/con-densed milk mixture. Transfer the whole mixture into an ice cream maker, and freeze according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
21
The window was halfway open. Something was terribly wrong. Doc may be a veterinarian, and thus a man of science, but he also belongs to a generation of draft
-dodgers. By that, I don’t mean that he evaded military conscription; au contraire, although of Mennonite background, Doc volunteered for active service the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. What I mean is that Doc, who is not averse to spending time outside, is convinced that outside air flowing into a house or an automobile is somehow dangerous.
He is, of course, not alone on this score. For hundreds of years people in Europe sealed their homes in winter-sometimes year-round-to ward off the dangerous night vapors. As a result, houses became stuffy, almost tomblike. This approach to ventilation persisted through Victorian times, and lingers still in the groundless belief that exposure to cold air will result in one catching the common cold. As for Doc, he would no sooner crack a window-even on a cold night-than he would lie down across the fast lane of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
“Heavens to Betsy!” I exclaimed, when the gravity of the situation had sunk in thoroughly. I quickly opened the bathroom door, whereupon Old Blue merely whimpered a final time, as she gazed at me with eyes that seemed to say, “See, I told you so.”
“Is the intruder still here?” I whispered into one of her drooping ears.
She closed her eyes, then immediately opened them.
“Good doggy,” I cooed. “Let’s do that again; blink once for yes and two for no.”
Again, she blinked once.
To be sure, I prayed for inner strength and wisdom. But even though my faith eschews violence, even armed resistance, I could not (at least at that moment) recall a single sermon or Sunday school lesson that stated, unequivocally, that the appearance of power was a sin. Perhaps my very inability to recall such a teaching was itself an answer to my prayer. Satisfied that this was so, I snatched a much-used plunger from the corner of the tiny room.
“I’m coming out!” I hollered. “This dog may be a wimp, but I’m full of urine and vinegar.” This declaration of boldness was a paraphrase of something I’d heard Doc say.
Silence reigned.
“Be forewarned, I’m heavily armed-not to mention mentally unstable. There are those who think I belong in a padded cell.” Alas, there really are folks who share this sentiment, and not just the residents of Hernia.
More silence.
I peeked out just far enough so that I could see the main rooms. I did this by slow degrees. In the meantime, Old Blue wedged herself between my legs and the toilet, her head sensibly tucked under my skirt. I mean, what better way to deal with terror than to prevent oneself from seeing it? Perhaps I should have taken a cue from her.
“Look, whoever you are, the police are on their way. The sheriff as well. But if you skedaddle now, you stand a chance of getting away, especially if you hightail it out the back and head for Stucky Ridge. There’s a cave along the base of Lover’s Leap that is rumored to be quite comfy. Just don’t believe the graffiti on the walls-unless it’s about Wanda Hemphopple. I may even have understated that.”
The back door slammed. Hard. There was no mistaking that.
I did indeed call the sheriff-I’ve gotten to know him quite well over the years, and consider him a personal friend-and together we combed every inch of Doc’s small house for clues that might point to an intruder. Unfortunately, ever since Belinda died, which was more than twenty years ago, Doc’s standards of housekeeping have slipped steadily. For instance, he no longer changes out the box of baking soda in his fridge on a regular basis. One box- which I initialed with a ballpoint-was in there for three months before getting the old heave-ho. On another occasion, I watched him place a dirty skillet in the kitchen sink and not wash it for another four hours. My point is that the good sheriff and I found nothing amiss except a small fragment of a dried leaf stuck to the living room carpet, and as tempting as it was to assign criminal provenance to this, it might just as well have been due to Doc’s well-documented slovenliness.
While waiting for the sheriff to arrive, I took Old Blue outside where she was fed, watered, and walked again. Then, just before the sheriff left, seeing as how I have great fondness for all things old, I loaded the big galoot into the back seat of my car and drove all the way up to the Sausage Barn just outside Bedford. The reason for picking this destination was threefold: Wanda loves dogs, Wanda loves to gossip, and Wanda serves remarkably edible food.
The one thing that can’t be said for Wanda is that she has a soft spot in her heart for yours truly. It may even be said that she harbors an intense dislike for my internal organs. As a sincere Christian, I try not to hate anyone-but if I ever did, Wanda would be at the top of my list. At any rate, when I pranced into the Sausage Barn leading a rather large dog, Wanda’s face turned the color of raw liver, and she began to shake violently.
“How dare you, Magdalena!” she said. Her teeth were actually chattering from all the motion.
“It’s actually easier than I thought. One need only keep in mind this face; the sagging skin, the drooping jowls, the comical ears. The dog looks pretty mournful too, doesn’t she?”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Now get that beast-wait just one sau-sage-sizzling minute! Is that Old Blue?”
“One and the same. I’m hoping you’ll agree to watch her until Doc gets back on his feet.”
Wanda is happily married-well, arguably so-but I saw the anguished look of a lovelorn schoolgirl flitter across her birdlike face. When she was sixteen, her cat, Jeckle, was hit by a car. Doc was able to restore the animal to an approximation of its scrappy self, and won his owner’s unflagging devotion. That was forty-two years ago, when Doc was still in his forties and still sported a real stud’s physique, but it was clear that Wanda had still not gotten over her crush.
“Are you toying with me, Magdalena?”
“Is the PennDutch Inn the best full-board inn east of the Mississippi?”
“Then you are toying with me.”
“E pluribus unum.”
“I was right; you only speak Pennsylvania Dutch when you’re cornered.”
Shame on Wanda for not being able to recognize the sound of Dutch after having spent her entire life in Amish country, let alone being unfamiliar with a simple Latin phrase that every American worth their stars and stripes should be able to rattle off. But who am I to judge? For years I thought hip-hop was merely the way bunnies moved and that thong underwear referred to a split-toe sock meant to be worn with flip-flops.
“Wanda, will you take her in or not?”
“Of course, you idiot.” She grabbed Old Blue’s leash and disappeared in the kitchen with her.
While I waited for her imminent return, I seated myself at my favorite table and scanned a grease-coated menu. Not a thing on it had changed in the last twenty years-except for the prices. One day, perhaps very soon, trans fats would be banned in Bedford County. When that time came, old-timers in the business, like Wanda and me, were going to have a very hard time adjusting. Oh, my goodness! That was the one thing that she and I had in common.
“Are you going to order, Magdalena, or just drool on my menu?”
I snapped back to the present. “You’re here.”
“What an odd thing to say.” Wanda, who serves as both hostess and waitress, tapped her order pad with a stubby pencil. “So, what will it be?”
“The usual.”
She nodded. “A small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice; two eggs over medium; four strips of bacon, not too crisp; two slices of lightly toasted whole wheat bread; real butter; grape jelly; and coffee with lots of half and half. Anything else?”
“Gossip.”
She slid into the booth and sat across from me. “Well, did you hear about the sixteen-pound tumor they removed from Daniel Berkley’s cheek over in Somerset? Turns out it wasn’t a tumor at all, but a perfectly formed second head. Of course it was hidden under a layer of skin, so you really can’t blame the doctors. They say that when the skin was removed and the face revealed, that head began to talk. Marla Kuhnberger says you can’t read about it in the papers because the government wants to keep it top secret. They’ve already whisked
it off to Washington in a Black Hawk helicopter. What do you suppose will happen to it there?”
“Beats me-although I imagine it could have a fine career as a political pundit. Talking heads are in great demand. And they wouldn’t have to pay it very much, would they? I mean, it could live in a very small apartment-maybe a renovated birdhouse. It certainly wouldn’t need a clothing allowance. Well, except maybe for hats.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Nay, just having a bit of fun. After all, Wanda, you are known for being a good sport.”
“I am?”
“Don’t you think so?”
Tamar Myers Page 12
