Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  Divide the dough into two pieces and use parchment paper or plastic wrap to form the dough into two 1½- inch-diameter round or square logs. Set out two fresh pieces of plastic wrap and sprinkle the chopped nuts evenly over both. Roll the logs of dough in nuts until covered. Tightly wrap and seal the logs; refrigerate until firm (at least 2 hours). Preheat oven to 325°F. Working with one log at a time, unwrap and slice logs into ¼- inch discs. Place 1 inch apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. Gently press about 3 small rosemary leaves on each cookie. Sprinkle each cookie with sanding sugar.

  Bake on a middle rack until bottoms begin to brown and tops just begin to turn from pale to golden; 12 to 18 minutes. Cool on sheets 1 to 2 minutes before removing cookies to a cooling rack to cool completely. Store cookies in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

  Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/

  11

  I shrieked, and because I was in the parlor at that point, I jumped on the nearest chair—sideways.

  “Oh, calm down, Magdalena; you always were such a drama queen.”

  I whirled, which meant that I toppled off the chair. But although I flailed like a downed helicopter, still I managed to somehow land on my feet, and facing the opposite direction to boot.

  “Grandma!”

  “As big as life and twice as ugly.”

  It was a true statement. Indeed, there she was, Grandma Yoder, in all her fierceness, complete with bristling bun and bristling mole. The only problem was that Grandma Yoder had been dead for thirty years—no, it was closer to forty by now. How time flies, even when you’re not having fun.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Magdalena Portulacca; you’ve seen me before. The fact is, you see me just about every time you manage to—uh—you know.”

  “You mean ‘screw up’?”

  Apparently Apparition Americans can be just as sensitive as their real- life counterparts were. Grandma Yoder’s face turned six shades of white as she raised a knobby finger, which she pointed just inches from my face.

  “I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap, little girl.”

  “I’m not a little girl, Grandma; I’m fifty-two years old.”

  She stepped back and gave me the once-over, as if really seeing me for the first time that evening. “Hmm, so you are; but this is still my house, and I won’t be having you using that kind of language.”

  I pushed the chair aside and took a step forward. “No, it’s not your house anymore, Grandma; you died. And Mama and Papa died. This house is mine now—in fact, this isn’t even the same house; the original blew down in a freak tornado.”

  “Ha, but can you blame it? Look at the way you’ve been treating this one? There’s a scuff mark on the wall over by the door, and that left lower screw on the hinge should be tightened by a quarter turn.”

  “Still a stickler for minutiae, I see.”

  “It’s won or lost in the details, Magdalena; that’s what you still don’t seem to understand.”

  “What is? What’s lost in the details?”

  “It.”

  I wanted to grab her by her bony shoulders and shake her. In fact, I tried to, but there is no grasping an Apparition American; they are as ethereal as a Middle East peace plan. Anyway, she’d never get me to agree with her—even if just out of spite—although I really did believe that “broad strokes” approach was the only way to accomplish anything in the rat race this world had become.

  “Your way might have worked for you, Grandma—although from what I’ve heard, you were about as happy as a petunia in an onion patch—but I think I’m finally old enough to make my own mistakes—uh, decisions—thank you very much.”

  Grandma sighed, an action that has been known to keep dust motes afloat for half an hour. “Fine, have it your way—as always. But see where it gets you. You keep this up and you’re going to lose that hunka hunka burning love, not to mention that adorable great-grandson of mine. What’s his name? Little Samuel?”

  “No, Grandma. Samuel was Grandpa’s name.”

  “Well, there’s no need to get huffy!”

  “I didn’t. But since you’ve obviously been hanging around for some time, you should have been paying better attention to your great-grandson’s name. And what kind of Mennonite grandma says ‘hunka hunka burning love’? You didn’t listen to the radio when you were alive; you said the Devil lived in there, and inside every TV set in America.”

  “And I was right! But I was wrong about Elvis. He’s da bomb. We listen to him all the time over here—but in person. In fact, your grandpa and I are going to a concert tonight.”

  At that point I knew that either I was doing some serious hallucinating, or else I had somehow managed to fall asleep and was having one heck of a nightmare. Grandpa Yoder watching Elvis Presley shimmy those hips was as close to being sacrilegious as saying that Noah’s ark was just a story, because there are at least five million insect species in the world, and they would have had to enter in pairs, and just the weight of them alone would have sunk that wooden tub (of course, I don’t believe this sacrilege).

  “Magdalena, get ahold of yourself,” I said. At least I thought I said that, but my teeth seemed to be stuck together with taffy, and although I could move my lips, no sound was coming out of my throat.

  I tried again. And again. Then again. Finally I could hear a muffled sound, like a voice underwater. I started struggling physically, making swimming motions, even though I was standing in the middle of the parlor—except that I wasn’t.

  “Well, ding dang dong dang it!” I swore, when I woke up on the settee, having whacked the back of my hand on some carved wooden roses along the back. “I must have fallen asleep on this genuine reproduction Victorian love seat.”

  There was no response—from anyone. No withering, critical grandmother to tell me that I’d paid far too much for a fake that was probably carved in a sweatshop somewhere in China from wood that had been stripped from the last of patch of rain forest on the island of Borneo. I was alone in my inn, alone with my mouth and my thoughts, and the realization that it was really all my doing.

  However, since there is nothing to gain by dwelling on the past—at least, not without an audience—I quickly decided to concentrate on the future. The near future. After all, the evening was yet young, and I had miles to go before I’d peep.

  “You want to do what?” Agnes barked into the phone.

  “You heard me: I want to play Peeping Magdalena.”

  “You’re my best friend, and I thought I knew all your tricks, but this is a new one.”

  “Well, I’m all alone—and don’t ask why—so I thought this might be the perfect time to fit in some sleuthing.”

  “The Russian!” I felt a mild shock, as a surge of electrical impulses flowed from Agnes over the wires and to my ear. The woman was besotted with Surimanda Baikal. Frankly, it was unseemly—it was probably even forbidden somewhere in the Book of Leviticus.

  “No, dear, not her—although come to think of it, I should take this opportunity to hoof it up my impossibly steep stairs and riffle through her belongings.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Agnes sounded positively gleeful. “Magdalena, what if you get caught? What if it’s a trap of some kind?”

  “Riffle first, rue later,” I said blithely.

  “Ooh, you’re bad,” she said. “In a fun sort of way. Me? I’m just plain old boring Agnes. Boring, fat Agnes. Do you know I haven’t had a single date since that jerk dumped me?”

  She was referring to a visitor from one of the square states who swept round Agnes off her feet, proposed marriage, but then left her standing at the altar. If you ask me, she hasn’t quite found her footing since then.

  “Well, tonight’s your chance to shake it up a bit, because I’m inviting you to come along peeping with me—nay, I insist that you accompany me.”

  “Really?”

  “Forsooth. I’ll be there in twenty. We’ll split the difference and meet in ten in front of the polic
e station. I’ll drive from there.”

  “Uh—hey, you know I’d really love to do that; in fact, you don’t know how much I’d love to, but tonight’s really not good for me.”

  It was then that I first heard a voice in the background. A woman’s voice, perhaps.

  “Oh,” I said. “Do you, perchance, have company?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Magdalena. You know I never have company—well, sometimes I still get my monthly visitor, but the doctor says even he won’t be stopping in much longer.”

  I jiggled a pinkie in my ear to make sure it wasn’t clogged. “You’re monthly visitor is a he?”

  “Well, I guess I never thought about that until now. But he’s silent, messy, and a pain in the—”

  “There! I heard it again. Whose voice is that?”

  “No one’s.”

  “No one doesn’t have a voice, so I’m not buying it. Are the uncles over? Did they bring women? Because I thought they were gay.”

  “Only one is gay,” Agnes whispered, “and for the millionth time, I’m not telling you which one. But no, it’s not them. It’s the strumpet.”

  “Who?”

  “Dorothy Yoder.”

  “Oh. What’s she doing there?”

  “She says she’s lonely. She’s tired of her life of debauchery and wants to walk the straight-and-narrow path again, but none of her old friends will take her back.”

  “I didn’t know she had any.”

  “Did you know she played the trumpet?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. Now that she has the breath to blow it, she practices almost nonstop. She says it brings her peace, but it’s driving me crazy.”

  “Hmm. Well, I don’t hear it now.”

  “That’s because I’m trying to keep her mouth full of food. Right now she’s eating a crumpet.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s such a smart plan. If she balloons back up again, it’s going to be all your fault. She’ll hate you for it.”

  “I’ll just have to lump it.”

  I’m not normally a jealous person, and my pendulum does not swing the other way—not that I judge, mind you—but Agnes was my best friend, and it was my duty to make sure she stayed that way. This was for her sake, as well as mine.

  “How long is she staying?”

  “Well, that’s the thing: she and Sam got into a slight misunderstanding—”

  “You mean a big fight?”

  “And how. At one point she climbed out of a second-story window and threatened to jump. It was horrible; Sam just egged her on. ‘Go ahead and jump,’ he said. ‘You don’t weigh as much anymore; it won’t harm the sidewalk.’ ”

  “That’s awful! So what did she do? I mean, obviously, she didn’t—right?”

  “Right. But when she backed down and wanted to just get away, she couldn’t because he’d hidden the car keys. He did it to be mean, of course.”

  “What a grump.”

  “It was awful being around him, to hear her tell it. Anyway, she had to ride his bicycle all the way over here, but first she had to fix a flat—pump it up and all that. But since it’s almost eight miles out here she decided to take a short cut across the Neiderlanders’ pasture, which at night, as you know, is as dark as the ace of spades.”

  “You know I don’t play with face cards, dear, as they are used for gambling; I only play Rook.”

  “Yes, well, she hit a stump—it was only a little one, but enough to cause her to fall on her rump. Somehow she ended up in the old village dump. It was the funniest thing—well, to hear her tell it at any rate.”

  I sighed. “Well played, Agnes. Now, can we finally get back to business?”

  “Business?”

  “Peering into windows in the dead of night. Are you in, or are you out?”

  “But I can’t,” she wailed. “What am I supposed to do, kick her out?”

  Frankly, I was so grateful that it was someone else wailing for a change, instead of me, that I lowered my guard and let bad judgment prevail. “Bring her along, dear.”

  “What?”

  “Please, don’t make me say it again. Fill a Ziploc bag with crumpets and meet me at the police station in ten minutes.”

  “You got it,” Agnes practically shouted in my ear.

  “Oh, and one more thing: tell her to bring the trumpet with her. Who knows, but it might come in handy?”

  12

  I’d never spent much time around the harlot Dorothy Yoder. And although I probably shouldn’t admit this, she was actually a whole lot of fun. Once on the road to Bedford she put away her bag of crumpets and joined right in with our game of I Spy with My Little Eye. But since just about everything Dorothy picked was sexually suggestive, poor Agnes, who had never known a man in the biblical sense, was at a distinct disadvantage.

  Strung along the Pennsylvania Turnpike like a strip of discarded Christmas tree garland, Bedford is a bustling city of four thousand or more. The downtown area, which snakes through the valley, is fairly cohesive, but the residential neighborhoods cling to the hills in disjointed patches. Actually, we call these hills “mountains” hereabouts, a fact that elicits hoots of derision from West Coast visitors (who have apparently left their manners behind).

  At any rate, Pernicious Yoder III, being a wealthy bank manager, lived east of town high atop Evitts Mountain, in what I’ve heard described as a pseudo- Tudor mansion. Stone columns flanked the quarter-circle drive, and flickering gas lanterns illuminated a massive front door beneath the portico. It was an imposing residence, but a trifle cliché if you ask me. Now, a replica of the Taj Mahal, or a mini-Versailles, that would have been interesting.

  “Wow,” Agnes said in a hushed tone. One would have thought she’d never been anywhere—which she hadn’t.

  “Good grief,” Dorothy said, “we’re not stopping here, are we?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m going to pull over next to the woods up there, and we’ll walk back.”

  “But we can’t!”

  “Yes, we can. Your legs work perfectly well now, and I know for a fact that Agnes is as healthy as a horse—no offense, Agnes, dear.”

  “Neeeiiigh.”

  “You see? She even has a sense of humor about it. So come, ladies, times a-wasting.”

  Dorothy’s fingers dug into my shoulder like the claws of a giant prehistoric elephant eagle—had such a thing really existed, which, of course, it didn’t. “You’re not hearing me, Yoder. I can’t be seen near that house.”

  Since she’d spit her words out like nails from a gun, I spit some back to her. “Pray tell, why not?”

  “Because Perni and I—uh—well, were intimate for a while and we sort of used his house as a rendezvous place while his wife was out of town visiting her sister. Even if he doesn’t see me, his neighbors might.”

  One woman gasping for breath in a closed automobile can use up a significant amount of oxygen, but two of them—gaping and rasping like a pair of giant banked fish—present a life-threatening situation. Heroically, I managed to lower three of the four automatic windows. Even then I had to wait until the initial shock wave passed before I could speak.

  “You what?”

  “Oh, get over it, Magdalena. You know I had a difficult period of adjustment, and you better than anyone should know that the Bible commands us not to judge, unless we ourselves be judged.”

  “But I was an inadvertent adulteress. I didn’t have a clue that Aaron Miller was married.”

  “Did you ever ask him?”

  “What? Of course not! Why would I have done that? He moved back to the family farm across from me, he was obviously single, he—Well, I certainly didn’t know he had a wife who was out of town.”

  “I didn’t know Pernicious did either,” Dorothy hissed, “until after the fact.”

  “That may be so,” Agnes said, “but you knew that you were married, and to his cousin to boot.”

  “Fourth cousin, twice removed, and only on
his father ’s side,” Dorothy said, but she’d suddenly lost some of her steam.

  Good old Agnes. I could always count on her loyalty, and she on mine. We were sisters joined at the hip—metaphorically, at least. Yes, I had a real flesh-and-blood sister, but she languished in the state penitentiary, having been convicted of aiding and abetting the escape of an accused murderer, the diabolical Melvin Stoltzfus (who, I’d just learned, was my biological brother).

  “Whatever the case may be,” I said in my best conciliatory tone, “you can put your time as a two- timing trollop to good use and tell us the layout of the house. It will make our reconnaissance mission so much easier.”

  “Reconnaissance?” Agnes squawked.

  “Perhaps that was an echo I just heard,” I said, not unpleasantly. “But if not, you might want to speak up, Agnes; there’s a woman in Altoona who couldn’t make out what you said.”

  Agnes put her right index finger to her lips. “Shhh. But I just want to go on record, Magdalena, as saying this might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, and you’ve had some doozies.”

  I smiled happily. “I have, haven’t I?” I turned to the floozy in the backseat. “You’re our lookout. My cell number is 555-3289. I’ve got it on buzzer. Now come on, ladies, let’s rock and roll.”

  “Magdalena, you’ve never rocked and rolled in your life.”

  We were crouched on all fours in the shadow of a large rhododendron, but still only inches from the house and a large picture window. This was no time to be having a conversation, much less a highly charged, emotional one like this.

  “I have so,” I hissed.

  “Oh, yeah? A good Mennonite girl like you? You once told me that premarital sex was wrong because it might lead to dancing.”

  “I did not! I said that having sex while standing up could lead to dancing.”

  There followed a minute of blessed silence—well, relatively speaking. Agnes is a heavy breather under the best of circumstances, and we’d had to make a mad dash across a patch of well-lit yard to get to our current position. But, like I said, it was only a minute.