by Tamar Myers
“Oh, but I’m not. Our Magdalena is quite the heroine. Why, once she even rescued a villainess by dangling her nemesis by her hair into a sinkhole. Of course yours truly was pressed into service on that one. I am, you see, her unofficial sidekick: the Tonto to her Lone Ranger, the Robin to her Batman. My point is—were I to be making one—that if you have come to request the famous Magdalena Yoder’s services, be apprised of the fact that sooner or later I will be assisting her.” Agnes crossed her arms over her breathless, heaving bosom.
“I am a guest at her inn,” the stranger said.
I stepped forward. “Excuse me?”
“My name is Surimanda Baikal. I am coming from Russia. Then New York, then Cincinnati. Then I am drives here. But you are hard woman to find, Magdalena Yoder.”
“But you don’t have a reservation,” I wailed.
She shrugged, almost burying her face in the white fur collar. “So? My plans, she has—how you say?—they change from day to day.”
“Your plans?”
“Oh, come on,” Agnes said, much to my annoyance. “You have enough room. The more the merrier. Right?”
“Stifle it,” I hissed. “She doesn’t fit in with this bunch.”
“Maybe, but from what you’ve described to me, this bunch belongs in a loony bin. At least she’ll add some class.”
“Da, I vill add some class,” the elegant woman said.
Decked out in her fur and velvet, with the crown piece on her head, Miss Surimanda Baikal was my image of an empress. When compared to the Zambezis, the Nyles, and the Timmses—Well, one could hardly compare a swan to six moorhen, could one?
“Velcommen to zee PennDutch Inn,” I cried, my arms extended in an only slightly overly exuberant greeting (after all, someone as handsomely dressed as this woman would be able to afford a lot of ALPO). “Who cares if your untimely arrival is, at the very least, extremely inconsiderate? Of course you’ll just have to make do with PUS tonight—that’s previously used sheets—because laundry day is not until tomorrow. But look on the bright side: for the distinct pleasure of going beddy-bye whilst wrapped in the scent of a previous guest, I shall levy a surcharge of only fifty percent.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Agnes muttered.
I gave my friend the Mennonite version of the Evil Eye, which amounts to a twitch followed by a glassy stare. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “There are those who would kill to get their hands on that most exclusive, that most prized, of all DNA, which must surely be lurking in those sheets; I should be charging one hundred percent over the nightly rate, not fifty.”
The foreigner’s green almond-shaped eyes grew as round and large as gingersnaps. “Borat slept at your inn? I take!”
“Why, Magdalena, you dirty dog, you,” Agnes said, but I could hear the admiration in my friend’s voice.
As the old saw goes, those who assume, make a donkey out of everyone—or something like that. Believe me, I have long since made peace with being an equid, or some part thereof.
“Do we have a deal?” I said.
“Dah!”
“Then let’s get this show on the road; time’s a-wasting.”
The regal stranger seemed to withdraw, not unlike a turtle, into the safety of her velvet and furs. “What show?”
“It’s just an expression, dear, an Americanism.”
“And if you stay very long,” Agnes said. “I’m afraid you’ll be treated to a great many original Magdalenaisms.”
“Thanks a lot, friend.”
Miss Surimanda Baikal emerged, smiling. “Ah, you are the Golden Girls, no?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like the TV show. Only this one”—she pointed to Agnes—“is more healthy, like a good Russian babushka, and you are like the crabby one, Dorothy.”
Agnes twittered behind a plump, healthy hand.
“I don’t watch television,” I said archly. “And be forewarned, my dear, although I have the patience of Job, I have the memory of Methuselah—well, at least I hope he kept his wits about him all those years. My point is that although I am a good Christian woman, and was born and bred amongst the gentle folk known as Mennonites, hereabouts it is said that I possess a tongue that can slice through a stick of butter left outside on a tree stump overnight in the dead of winter. Alas, this is no mere metaphor.” I paused to catch my breath and lean forward for emphasis. “Furthermore, there is room for only one of me at the PennDutch Inn—perhaps even in all of Hernia—if you get my drift.”
Miss Baikal hadn’t stopped smiling. “This is threat?”
“Oh no, dear, just a statement of fact.”
Agnes suddenly inserted a great deal of herself between me and the exotic stranger. “Magdalena, why would anyone leave a stick of butter out on a tree stump overnight?”
“What?”
“You just said—”
I stepped around her. “You will follow my rules, Miss Surimanda Baikal?”
The beautiful visitor grinned broadly. “Dah, I like rules. Is very Russian!”
9
“If that woman is Russian,” Peewee Timms said, “I’ll eat my hat.”
It was all I could do to keep from revealing to Peewee that the thick black man-made thatch atop his head looked very much like a hat: a scaled-down version of the bearskin hats the Beef-eaters wear when they guard Buckingham Palace. Peewee had signed up for general barn chores, but had expressed a special interest in working with my two cows.
Matilda Holsteincoo III and Miss Cowabunga (my newest acquisition), like females everywhere, are quite discerning when it comes to who gets to squeeze their teats and when. As Mose had taken the day off, and Peewee wanted the “hands-on” milking experience, rather than use the electric machines, it fell to me to be his instructor (Freni was chained to the stove, and the only contact Gabe wants with a cow is on his plate).
“Put your head right up against her stomach; she likes knowing that you’re there. Gently caress her udder before sliding your fingers down her teats,” I said. “Now start squeezing with your thumbs, then your index fingers, middle fingers, ring fingers, and so on. The point is that you are gently pushing the milk down— away from her. Concentrate so that you don’t accidentally start squeezing the other way. Get a rhythm going.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It hurts her to have a full bag. It’s like you and a full bladder.”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s a cow, for goodness’ sake; modesty doesn’t play into this.”
The first squirt that hit the pail startled Peewee into letting go so that his rhythm was broken, but soon he and Cowabunga were working in tandem, and it was a beautiful sight to behold.
“You’re a natural,” I said. “It’s like you’ve done this before.”
“Maybe I have—in another life.”
“Don’t be silly, dear; there’s only this life. Reincarnation is—Well, it’s simply an impossibility.”
While still maintaining contact with Cowabunga’s stomach, he managed to turn and look at me. The strong flow of milk remained consistent.
“Yeah? How so?”
“Because of the gift of salvation, that’s why.”
“Come again?”
I sighed, despite my best effort to be patient. “Let’s suppose that you were saved by faith in Jesus Christ in your past life, but that in this life you were a steadfast heathen who refused to believe. Worse yet, what if that in this life you believed in some other deity—like a Hindu god—when you died. What would happen to your soul? Would you go to Heaven or to Hell? Since the answer to the latter is impossible to sort out, it’s quite clear to me that the Good Lord, whose foresight far exceeds mine, would have avoided this conundrum altogether by giving us only one life.”
Peewee had the temerity to burst out laughing, although the flow from Cowabunga did not let up even then. “But that presupposes that all Hindus are headed for Hell! Isn’t that being a tad judgmental of you, Miss Yoder?”
&nbs
p; “Indeed, it is not! It isn’t me who makes the rules; they’re in the Book.”
“Ah, but not everyone goes by your book. Take that so-called Russian woman—or the aforementioned Hindus, for that matter—what if they never had the chance to read your book?”
“That is a problem,” I conceded, “which is why I give generously to the church mission fund. I once briefly considered becoming a missionary myself, but they wanted to send me to the Congo. The Congo! Can you imagine that?”
He smiled but said nothing.
“It’s not that I couldn’t have survived,” I said defensively.
Still nothing.
“So what makes you think she’s a fake Russian?” I asked.
“She doesn’t speak Russian, that’s why.”
I stared at him. “How do you know?”
“I was a Russian major in college. Russia was still the big bugaboo then—communism was going to take over half of the world, and we needed to be prepared. Nobody anticipated China. Anyway, I went into advertising and never used my Russian except to eavesdrop on the odd conversation, and the one trip we took to St. Petersburg, but I still remember enough to make myself understood.” He snorted with laughter. “So I used the basic introduction stuff on Her Imperial Highness, but I may as well have been speaking Swahili. She made some excuse in English about not feeling well and then hightailed it out of there like a deer coming face-to-face with a wolf.”
“You don’t say! When was this?”
“This morning, just after she checked in. Wherever she’s from, don’t you think that get-up of hers is a little over the top? By the way, I can tell you right now that the ladies don’t much like her.”
“Oh?” After returning to the inn to check in Surimanda Baikal, I’d hurried straight over to Yoder ’s Corner Market to engage in a little of what I call “good gossip,” and so had missed out on whatever might have gone on back here at the PennDutch.
I know, there are those who probably frown on “good gossip,” but frankly, I see the dissemination of good gossip as my civic duty. After all, a timely and accurate dispersal of facts may well prevent the spread of erroneous commentary that could hurt both the feelings and reputation of the subject. Better to defuse the malicious gossip vendors with the truth, I always say.
Peewee laughed happily. It was Cowabunga who snorted now.
“Yeah,” Peewee said, “at least I can speak for Tiny. I tell you, Miss Yoder, she got her nose out of joint the second she laid eyes on that woman. ‘A phony,’ that’s what she called her.”
“A phony what?”
“A phony Russian, of course.”
“But you hadn’t spoken to her yet, had you?”
His head swiveled enough to show me his scowl. “Well, anyone could see that she was dressed up to look like she’d stepped out of the pages of Dr. Zhivago. Besides, my Tiny is an excellent judge of character; she certainly had you pegged.”
I stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, she said that she could see right off that you were tough on the outside—which made you a brilliant businesswoman—but inside you were one fabulous human being. Her words exactly.”
My fabulous insides were suddenly glowing like the interior of a coke furnace. “You don’t say?”
“Yeah,” he said, “you’re a big hit. From what I gather, the others seem to feel that way as well.”
Moi, a big hit! Finally, a group of guests who appreciated me for who I was and the inn for what it was supposed to be. It was a moment I sinfully wished to savor—I’d even laminate it if I could—but then, thankfully, I remembered that Proverbs 16:18 warns us that pride goeth before destruction. The ten-gallon pail that Peewee was attempting to fill was now two-thirds full, which meant that Cowabunga was almost dry. A dry Cowabunga wouldn’t take kindly to some stranger tugging on her teats, and unless I intervened on her behalf, Peewee Timms could possibly be kicked as far as the Maryland border—and him without provisions!
“Time to let up on the big gal,” I cried.
As he stood, he flexed his fingers and craned his neck. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”
“You really enjoyed that?”
“Oh yeah!”
“Then how about a repeat performance tomorrow morning—at, say, six o’clock?”
“You got yourself a deal, Miss Yoder.”
Knowing that I was a big hit with everyone did not prevent me from saying grace at the dinner table. The Good Lord should be properly thanked, and if perchance we should lose some of our admirers by doing so—well, so be it.
“Bow your heads and close your eyes, please,” I said. “I am about to subject you folks to a full-length Protestant grace.”
“What does that mean?” Carl Zambezi said. “Olivia and I are Catholic.”
“It means that her prayer will be much longer than anything you’re used to,” my Jewish husband said.
“It means that the food will get cold,” my little munchkin said. “Won’t it, Papa?”
“Shhh.”
“But last time you said the mashed potatoes was like stones they was so cold.”
“Well, there was that—and the gravy was more like a ball of Silly Putty by then.”
Little Jacob giggled. “And tell them what you said about the peas, Papa.”
“You mean that they were so cold and hard, I could have shot them out of your pellet gun—if your mother hadn’t taken it away from you.”
I stood up, inadvertently dragging a good third of the tablecloth with me. Thank heavens I don’t serve my guests anything other than water with which to wet their whistles before dessert is served, because I hear that red wine can be difficult to remove from fine polyester blends. As for the Silly Putty gravy that spilled hither, thither, and yon, in a day or two it would harden enough for me to take hammer and chisel to.
“A pellet gun is not an appropriate gift for a four-year-old! Or for anyone, for that matter!”
“You see what I have to put up with?” the Babester said, but he winked.
Little Jacob, who was sitting at the far end of the table, next to his father, tugged on his arm. “Papa, tell ’em what you said about the wice pudding.”
I stamped a slender but exceptionally long foot. “Stop it! Gabriel, just because you mother doesn’t cook for you anymore is no reason to say vicious things about Freni’s food.”
“It’s not Freni’s cooking, dear; it’s your interminable prayers.”
“Papa, what does ‘termin’ble’ mean?”
“Oy vey!” I said, clapping my hands to my cheeks.
Olivia Zambezi was seated to my immediate left. Perhaps because she was the oldest female present, she felt she had the right to lean toward me and whisper behind the back of her hand. It was, however, a stage whisper that could have been heard in a back bleacher—with a military jet flying maneuvers overhead.
“Really, Miss Yoder, your behavior at the moment is a bit over-the-top.”
“Uh-oh,” the Babester said.
“Uh-oh,” my little man said.
Nobody likes to be chided, much less in front of others, and least of all by a complete stranger. Okay, so maybe some folks go in for public scoldings, but certainly not this mild-mannered Mennonite woman. At the moment my hackles were hiked so high, they scratched my armpits.
“You are absolutely right,” I said to Olivia Zambezi, as I settled back into my seat. “Gabe, darling, pull the cloth down at your end.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
“And you, dear,” I said to Olivia Zambezi, whilst smiling broadly, “are a lovely bunch of Huafa mischt.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said brightly.
“What’s Huafa mischt?” Barbie Nyle just had to chirp.
“It must be flowers,” George Nyle said. “Probably roses.”
“Papa,” my littlest troublemaker said, “why did Mama call the old lady a bunch of horse poop?”
It was one
thing for the New Jersey gang of six to suddenly decide that they preferred to drive all the way back into Bedford for pizza, but they didn’t have to invite Surimanda Baikal to go with them. Although what really took the cake was when the Babester asked if he and Little Jacob could tag along. Permission was granted as long as he brought dessert home with him, which he was more than happy to do.
So there I was, alone and abandoned, a hapless orphan waif (indeed, my adoptive parents are dead, squished as they were in that horrible tunnel accident). All this pain and sorrow, this tsuris, just because I wanted to say a proper grace before eating. Was that really too much to ask? Okay, so perhaps I’d been out of line with the Huafa mischt comment, but I’d had a hard life; and Gabe should have stuck by me—no matter what. Isn’t that what marriage was all about?
Yes, I know, life is hard for all of us, but for me it has been particularly hard. Who but me could understand the trauma of being just shy of twenty-seven and having to shop for a pair of coffins, each over four feet wide, but only two inches high? Even just recalling that horrible day caused me to throw back my head and commence howling.
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
10
Rosemary Blue Cheese Ice Box Cookies
Ingredients
2½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cornstarch
½ teaspoon salt
12 ounces blue cheese,1 softened
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
½ cup granulated sugar
1 cup dried cranberries, finely chopped
1½ cups nuts (pecans or walnuts), chopped
1 to 2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, leaves only
white or natural sanding (coarse) sugar
Cooking Directions
Whisk together flour, cornstarch, and salt in a bowl; set aside. Cream together blue cheese and butter with an electric mixer. Add sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Slowly add flour mixture to butter and cheese mixture; beat to combine. Add cranberries and mix on low just until evenly dispersed.
