by Tamar Myers
‘B-b-but,’ she stammered, ‘how did you get the so-called Sisters to shed their burlap monks’ robes and don tuxedos? They’re also wearing black patent leather pumps and earrings!’
‘I guess I should give credit where credit is due,’ I said somewhat reluctantly. ‘Have you ever heard of a song called “Puttin’ on the Ritz”?’
‘Everybody has! It was written by Irving Berlin and a musical based on it was made into a film in 1930. Oh, that’s right, you don’t watch movies, especially if they involve dancing.’ She winked.
‘Show off, you fount of knowledge. At any rate, first Ida wanted to work here as a cook, but I refused. Then she tried badgering me to hire her followers as waitresses. Again, I refused. I told her that my concept was a high-end mash-up of Amish and Asian cuisine, not something Dr Frankenstein dreamed up.’
‘Very good, Mags. Most people think that Frankenstein was the monster’s name.’
‘That depends on your point of view,’ I said. ‘And by the way, I read the book – I didn’t see the film. Back to my relentless mother-in-law. When Gabe mentioned the song, “Puttin’ on the Ritz”, he grabbed Ida, and the two of them danced around my kitchen as if they were a pair still in their twenties. As sinful a sight as it was, I found myself tapping my feet.’
‘Oh boy, you’ve just boarded the fast train to Hell,’ Agnes said. As a General Conference Mennonite, she could afford her more liberal views as regards dancing, but if you ask me, sarcasm never becomes anyone.
‘I plan to hop off that train at the next stop,’ I said. ‘The point is, who knew that an old – uh – woman, had so much energy. Anyway, Gabe explained that the lyrics of the song were about making people feel good on the inside by what they wore. Long story, short, I agreed to take three depressed old women and turn them into the stunners standing over there awaiting your orders. Also, remember the Earl and Countess who were guests at my inn last year?’
‘Yes,’ Agnes said warily, for that particular English couple had proved to be rather a handful.
‘If you’ll recall, she explained that what we call dessert here in America is called pudding in Great Britain. After some consideration, I’ve decided that the best of the cooks whom I hired should be the one to concentrate on the so-called puddings. In this case, our to-die-for American fruit pies and rich, mouth-watering cakes. Think of it as “Puddin’ on the Ritz”.’ I didn’t mean to neigh like a horse, but given my unfortunate features, that’s the sound that came out when I laughed.
My dear friend wordlessly wiped the spittle from her face. ‘Just tell me that you didn’t capitulate so far that you hired Mother Holy Terror for the job.’
‘Heaven forfend,’ I said. ‘I’d sooner take on the post myself, despite the fact that you once accused me of being unable to boil water, even if I had detailed instructions typed in large print. No, our mistress of desserts is Barbara Hostetler.’
‘Whatever,’ Agnes said, in the same passive-aggressive tone that teenage Alison uses when she wants to shut down a conversation.
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d have more of a reaction, one way or another, given how much you hate Barbara, and were upset that I’d made her chef.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe “hate” was too strong a word to use. I’m in a better place now, Mags. But does this mean that now Lydia Burkholder will be chef?’
‘Confidentially,’ I said, ‘Lydia seems a little too high-strung and fragile right now to handle that much stress, and so she’s still an assistant chef. It’s Marigold Flanagan, Hernia’s ex-faux Hindu, who gets top billing in the kitchen, and who will be in charge of creating our so-called mash-up sensations. Do you have any questions, dear?’ I gave her one of my barn-pleasing, buck-tooth grins, although I’m quite sure that most Brits would have winced at the sight of my incisors.
Agnes rewarded me by smiling as well. ‘I could be mean, and ask where your whip is, but instead, I’m curious to know if the Grand Poohbah of this operation is finally wearing a touch of lipstick.’
I felt my cheeks redden, whereas the lip balm that I was wearing was called ‘Barely Pink’. ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling a bit like a tart. ‘But it was Alison’s idea. It’s not too much, is it?’
‘Are you kidding? I think it’s a riot.’
So it was that on opening day, Agnes and I were feeling good about each other. Also, Asian Sensations was a smashing success. As it was the following day. And the next. I’m speaking from a purely business point of view, of course. Putting Barbara in charge of making all the desserts was an absolutely brilliant move on my part, if I do say so myself.
Prior to this job she had already established a reputation in the Amish community for making the best pies and cakes in a three-county radius, which she brought to barn-raisings and church dinners. Although the Amish, who eschew praise, were not wont to heap it on Barbara, especially given her outsider status, they sure let her know by voting with their stomachs. At every communal meal, the second that the ‘amen’ had been uttered, there was a mad dash straight to whichever dessert Barbara Hostetler had brought. Freni said that she used to stare at this scramble of grown men, children, and even a few women, and wonder what magic ingredient it was that her daughter-in-law had put into her baking. She’d even considered the possibility that her daughter-in-law was in league with the Devil.
I hate to admit it, but I was wrong yet again. The naysayer who’d predicted that the Amish-Asian craze would be a flash in the pan was right. It was like those Cro-Magnon doughnuts, or whatever those hybrid doughnuts were that had folks lining up around the block in New York some years ago. People might still be eating them, but you don’t hear about them in the news anymore. Well, the same thing would have happened to Asian Sensations, because frankly, the flavour combinations were truly terrible. In the words of one down-to-earth reporter, ‘the desserts are sublime, but even the most palatable entrée is not something that you would wish to see fed to your worst wartime enemy. Perhaps you would feed these disgusting concoctions to the members of your rival political party, but even that might be going too far.’
Little by little, my well-heeled society folks drifted away. After all, novelty has a short shelf-life. However, things that taste delicious are always in style. We Americans are unjustly criticized because our desserts are too sweet, or too buttery, but that’s like saying Mount Everest is too tall, or the Pacific Ocean is too deep. Those things simply do not compute. A proper pudding (to use the ‘posh’ English term), should pack the pounds on one’s posterior while one is still seated at the dinner table. End of discussion.
TWELVE
Fortunately for me, and more so for young Hortense, some customers discovered the joys of Barbara’s rich, calorie-laden desserts before the restaurant had to be closed. Then word spread online, and in other media outlets. As new customers found us, I phased out the Asian influence, and soon all the entrées were hearty Amish dishes. I can’t describe how thrilled I was when another review was published extolling the desserts, this time by our nation’s premier rag. The reviewer was a young man in his twenties who wrote that he actually liked our entrées. He also said that if he had to choose between eating one of Barbara’s desserts every day for the rest of his life, in prison, or being a free man and eating his fiancée’s cooking, he would pick the first option. ‘Then lock me up and let me eat cake!’ That is a direct quote. A few days later I read an article in the same newspaper that his fiancée had dumped him.
However, this young man’s excessive enthusiasm for Barbara’s baking did result in a promotional idea. Given that edible treats are sometimes described as ‘sinfully good’, I promptly changed the name of the restaurant that Hortense and I jointly owned from Asian Sensations to Amish Sinsations. Anyway, the fact that it had been Barbara who’d been singled out for praise by this reviewer rankled the other two cooks. They threw her dirty looks, jostled her when she was measuring ingredients, slammed cupboard doors when she was baking, and muttered constantly under their br
eath. Marigold was a Presbyterian, but Lydia, an Amish woman, was supposed to be a good Christian! How could either of them be envious of an interloper from faraway Iowa? And a giantess at that!
On one hand, Christians should obey the Ten Commandments. The tenth commandment states that one should not ‘covet their neighbour’s ass, nor anything else that is your neighbour’s’, which would presumably include the praise that they get for their work. On the other hand, Marigold and Lydia were only human.
Nonetheless, it deeply saddened me that nobody warmed to Barbara. But for the life of me, I couldn’t think of any reason why the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy should have a grievance with her. Sister Disenchanted was particularly rude, despite her snazzy outfit. One day, whenever the so-called nun came to the serving window to pick up one of Barbara’s mouth-watering desserts, she flicked her tongue at my chef, like the monitor lizard I’d seen once on my husband’s gargantuan TV. This bizarre behaviour prompted Barbara, a faithful Christian woman, to wonder aloud if the not-so-good sister might be possessed by the Devil. Compounding this problem was the fact that Lydia thought that Barbara was overreacting to a simple practical joke, and soon the story of Barbara and the serpent’s tongue – for that’s how Barbara viewed it – spread like head lice at a little girls’ sleepover.
You can bet your bippy that the stout mini-Madre of the Sisters of Malicious Machinations jumped into the fray with both of her cloven hooves. Once, in a rare moment of generosity, I gave her a key to the back door, which opens directly into the kitchen. This is a privilege which she frequently abuses. She walks in uninvited at mealtimes and cuts my husband’s meat for him, even if it is only a ground beef patty. She’s been known to barge into our bedroom on a Saturday morning, and squirm her way between us before we’re awake, so that she might be the one to stir her beloved son with a kiss.
The morning after the tongue-flicking incident, I was having breakfast with my family in the kitchen, when the back door flew open, and in burst a short, squat pseudo-nun.
‘Gamma,’ cried our two-year-old son, as he joyfully clapped his chubby, jam-smeared hands. Christianity teaches that we are born into sin because of Adam and Eve’s fall, but Gabe’s Judaism teaches that we are born with pure, unblemished souls. I hate to admit it, but so far, Little Jacob must be taking after his father’s faith.
‘Hey,’ grunted Alison, who has a good heart, but who at fourteen has had the veil of innocence stripped from her eyes. I know she loves her adopted dad’s mother, but she is also quite aware that whenever Grandmother Ida a.k.a. Mother Malaise drops in unannounced, chaos is sure to follow. This time, it was Sister Disenchanted who followed, and she was back to wearing her dismal habit. As the two self-proclaimed sisters remained standing between the table and the open door, it was obvious to me that they were up to no good.
‘Welcome, dear,’ I said, looking solely at Sister Disenchanted. ‘As our second uninvited guest of the morning, you may help yourself to whatever is left on the table, or cook your own breakfast.’
‘Mags!’ Gabe said. ‘Is that any way to speak to our guest?’
‘Outta here,’ Alison said, and scooted from the room.
‘Und you see how dis one ignored me?’ Ida said.
‘Ma!’ Gabe said. ‘Don’t start. Please? You’re my two favourite women, and all you ever do is go for each other’s throats.’
At that, the door from the dining room slammed open. ‘What am I?’ shrieked Alison. ‘Chopped liver? Huh, Dad? Huh, Dad. Huh?’
‘No, honey,’ he said, ‘of course not. I had to say that because one of them is my mother, and the other one is the mother of my son.’
‘Oh, yeah? So where do I fit in?’ Alison pointed at me. ‘How come ya didn’t say that she’s the mother of your daughter? It’s because I’m adopted, ain’t it?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then tell me something.’ Alison’s voice quavered like a violin bow drawn across the smooth edge of a saw blade. ‘If it was me, Little Jacob, Mom, and that old woman who is supposed to be my grandma, and we was all drowning in, like, the Atlantic Ocean, or somewhere, and ya could save everybody, except for one, which one of us would ya let be dinner for the fishes?’
‘Ya, vich von?’ said Mother Malaise, her eyes gleaming expectantly. I have no doubt that she was quite sure that she would be the first one to be plucked out of the drink by her devoted progeny.
‘Bon, bon,’ said Little Jacob, beating his Sippy cup against the tray of his highchair.
Gabe, heretofore unequivocally known as the Babester, cleared his throat. ‘Well, uh, you see, Ma raised my sister and me all by herself while holding down two jobs. And I met and fell in love with your mother before I met you. As for your brother, he’s just a baby who can’t swim, but you can.’
‘I knew it,’ Alison screeched. ‘I don’t belong in this family! I never did. You’re all a bunch of fakes, liars, and hypocrites.’
‘But I don’t even work for the government,’ I said.
‘Eeeeeeeg,’ Alison screeched again. ‘Mom, all ya ever do is try ta change the subject with your stupid jokes. Well, I got news for ya: they ain’t even funny. Not ever, ever, ever!’
‘Ebah, ebah, ebah,’ said Little Jacob, still pounding away merrily with his Sippy cup.
Alison pointed at her baby brother. ‘Ooh, I hate ya so much, ya spoiled little brat! I wish that ya had never been born. In fact, I wish ya’d fall out of your highchair and break your head open like Humpty Dumpty, that’s what I wish.’
‘Alison,’ Gabe said sharply. ‘Go to your room! If anyone’s acting like a brat now, it’s you.’
Our fourteen-year-old daughter’s eyes blazed at her father. ‘I hate you more,’ she rasped.
‘Right now, I don’t like you very much either,’ he said. He turned to me. ‘Now look what you made me say?’
‘Me?’ I said. ‘I didn’t make you say anything.’
At this point Alison was fit to be tied. ‘Mom, why does everything hafta be about you? Dad and me was having a fight and now ya has to jump in. It ain’t fair! I betcha don’t love me neither. No way, no how, ain’t nobody ever gonna love me, or take my side.’
She stomped away with such force that the hanging pots acted as chimes, the water glasses tinkled, and the china in the cabinets rattled. Throw in Little Jacob’s Sippy cup performance, and we had ourselves a proper mini-symphony.
Gabe shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. Seconds later I could hear him chasing Alison up the stairs and down the hall to her room. Then there came the sound of more slamming.
That’s when my mother-in-law turned to me. ‘Nu? How could you do a ting like dis?’
I prayed for patience before answering. It is my least answered prayer.
‘The show is over, dear,’ I said. ‘Now the audience must go home.’
Ida refused to budge. Too bad I hadn’t prayed that a very strong angel would whisk her and her dour companion back across Hertzler Road to the Convent of Perpetual Apathy. Only the Good Lord knew the purpose of their most unfortunate visit that morning. However, one thing was clear: if Sister Disenchanted showed up at the newly renamed Amish Sinsations the next day looking like that, she was out of a job. For another thing, while my mother-in-law’s supposed purpose in starting this cult was to provide a place for folks who had given up on life, almost from the very beginning it seemed that she used her power as Mother Malaise to drive a wedge between the Babester and me.
‘It vill never voik,’ Ida said. ‘Dis ting dat you did.’
‘Excuse me?’ I said. So help me, I was on the verge of pushing her out myself.
I lunged past the despondent duo and grabbed a large broom that I keep by the back door. ‘You have thirty seconds to explain yourselves. If you can’t, I can sweep you out, or you can hop on this, and take a ride back to your convent.’
THIRTEEN
‘Your shmeer campaign against Sister Disenchanted,’ Ida said. ‘Das vhy I’m here.’
I was taken off-guard, and so was my mouth. ‘Isn’t a shmeer like a portion of cream cheese spread across a bagel?’
‘Oy, must you always mock an old woman?’ Ida said.
‘Believe me, I try very hard not to. But there isn’t a smear campaign being conducted against Sister Disenchanted. Whatever makes you think so?’
Ida came all the way into the kitchen and hauled her ample patooty up onto the nearest chair. Now it was going to take two strong angels to cart her off, and unless they showed up before Gabe got back downstairs, I was going to have to forfeit my planned morning at home. Thank heavens Little Jacob was gleefully occupied with giving himself an oatmeal facial.
Mother Malaise wagged a gnarled finger at me. ‘Den, vhy vas it, last night, at da convent, my nuns dat used to be Aye-mish, dey get phone calls from der friends on de outside dat say all everybody talks about is da vaitress vid da snake tongue?’
‘Give me a break,’ I said. ‘For starters, you’ve lived here too long – I mean, long enough to know that the word is pronounced AH-mish, with a short “a”, like in the word “American”. And secondly, I don’t like conspiracy theories, so just back off on that score. Capiche?’
‘Vhat is dis void, capiche?’ Ida said fiercely. ‘Some Mennonite food dat you make for my boys now?’
‘Ay-yi-yi,’ I said, tugging at my neatly braided hair.
‘Yi-yi-yi,’ Little Jacob mimicked proudly, as he gave himself an oatmeal shampoo.
I stamped my oversize feet and waved the broom. ‘Ida, your son is a heart surgeon; he is not a boy. Now go!’
She stood with exaggerated slowness, a smile on her lipless face. ‘Yah, I vill go now. But just so you know, Magdalena, your fancy-schmancy restaurant vill fail. Dis I can promise.’ She smiled again. Broadly. ‘You vant to ask me vhy?’
‘No.’
‘Den goot, I vill tell you anyvay. Eet is a crazy idea, and you are meshuggah to vaste my son’s goot money on eet, dat’s vhy. Eet is a fad, und fads dunt last, dat I can tell you.’
