by Molly Macrae
It turned out to be a day with surprises, too. While we pulled on rubber gloves before dipping into cups and pots of color, a knock came at the back door and Debbie’s cousin, Darla the Deputy, stepped in. She wasn’t in uniform, but even so, a little chill of unease came into the room with her. Until she smiled.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said with a question in her voice. “Debbie told me she was doing this here today, and, well, I don’t know if you all know what my last name is. Debbie does. But it’s Dye. I’m Darla Dye and I’d like to try my hand at it.”
Ardis and Joe moved down, making room for Darla. Debbie brought out another pair of gloves.
“It’s not a full house yet,” Geneva said from the top of the fridge. She raised her arm and pointed out the window over the sink. For a brief moment of panic, I was afraid the Spivey twins had tailed Darla and discovered what we were doing. I controlled the panic, though, and ever so nonchalantly sidled over to surreptitiously peek out the window in the back door…And there on the stoop was Sylvia, silver hair swinging at her chin, another pretty scarf at her neck, and with a plate of brownies.
“I came to the back door because that’s what friends do,” she said.
It became another day best remembered in snippets and impressions—and appropriately so because the hand-painted dye method Debbie showed us produced lengths of yarn as fluid with color as impressionist paintings.
Sylvia had decided she needed closure. She’d made gooey, fudgy brownies and driven over the mountains from Asheville. Ardis doled out one of her honeysuckle hugs to her and found yet another pair of rubber gloves. Ernestine got as much dye on herself and the sleeves of Thea’s sweatshirt as on her yarn. Neither of them seemed to care. John worked mostly in blues and greens, maybe dreaming of deep water and green hills and hollows. Joe said he’d give the yarn he meticulously painted in even stripes of olive and tan to Cole for his birthday. Mel brought out a white apron and had everyone add splashes of color to it.
And I stood at the stove, occasionally giving the wool in my dye kettle a stir, as happy watching the others as Geneva and Argyle from their refrigerator aerie. I’d actually told a convincing lie about the kettle, saying I was trying one of the dye recipes in the book Bonny donated to the library in Granny’s memory.
“How’s it going over there?” Debbie called.
“Fine.” I hoped. I hadn’t been sure I would be brave enough for this—trying one of Granny’s secret recipes. I wasn’t even sure it was bravery that I needed. But as soon as I’d seen the subtitle Granny added to her aloe dye, I knew that I was going to do it.
Geneva floated down from the refrigerator and hovered over the kettle. Argyle thumped to the floor after her and came to twine around my ankles.
“It’s pretty,” Geneva said. “I like pink. I hope Bonny likes it.”
I hoped so, too. Aloe Vera: for healing, protection, and affection, Granny had written in her clear hand. It sounded like three magic wishes—healing, protection, and affection—three wishes for Bonny in the days, weeks, and months to come.
“How’s Argyle doing over there, hon?” Ardis called. “That’s a good name for a good cat.”
Argyle purred.
Catnip Mouse
Designed by Kate Winkler, Designs from Dove Cottage, for Molly MacRae’s Dyeing Wishes
MATERIALS
Worsted weight yarn, about 6 yards
Size 6 double-pointed needles
Wool roving or yarn scraps for stuffing
Tapestry needle
OPTIONAL MATERIALS
Catnip
Jingle bell
Crochet hook, size G (but see note below)
6–8 of dark yarn for eyes
Abbreviations
K = knit; st(s) = stitch(es); dpn(s) = double-pointed needle(s); kfb = knit in front and back of same stitch (increase); k2tog = knit two stitches together (decrease); R = round; ch = chain; sl st = slip stitch; sc = single crochet
I-CORD MOUSE TAIL
Cast on 4 stitches. Do not turn work. Slide stitches to the other end of needle; bring yarn across back of work, and k4, beginning with the first st you cast on.
*Slide sts to other end of needle, bring yarn across back of work, and k4.
Repeat from * for 3 inches, or desired tail length.
Note that the same side of the work will face you throughout. As you work more rounds of I-cord, you will see that you are knitting a narrow tube.
Alternative: You may work the tail using a knitting spool (aka “knitting Nancy” or “French knitter”), and transfer the stitches to dpns when it is time to increase for the body of the mouse. That way a young child who doesn’t knit yet can help make the toy by spool-knitting the tail, with the body of the mouse knitted by an older child or adult.
Increase for Body
R1: Slide stitches to other end of needle and kfb in first 2 sts. With third needle, kfb in remaining 2 sts–8 sts on 2 needles.
Turn work. You will now be working in the round, as you would for a sock.
R2: Kfb in first 2 sts. With fourth needle, kfb in next 2 sts. Kfb in next 2 sts. With fifth needle, kfb in last 2 sts–16 sts on 4 needles.
R3: Kfb, k1, rep from around—24 sts.
R4: Kfb, k2, rep from around—32 sts.
R5–14: K around.
Decrease for head
R15: K2, k2tog, rep from around—24 sts.
R16: K around.
R17: K1, k2tog, rep from around—16 sts.
R18: K around.
R19: K2tog around—8 sts.
R20: K around.
Stuff mouse with wool roving or bits of wool yarn. Add catnip or jingle bell in center of stuffing, if wanted.
R21: K2tog around—4 sts Break yarn, leaving a 4 tail. Thread tail in tapestry needle and sew through 4 remaining sts, removing them from needles. Run tail through sts a second time and bury tail in center of stuffing. Run cast-on tail through center of I-cord.
Note: From a cat’s perspective, you now have a fully functional cat toy. If you wish to add ears and/or eyes, you may; in my experience, however, cats are wholly indifferent to such details.
OPTIONAL EARS (MAKE 2)
With crochet hook and same yarn used for mouse, make a slipknot and ch 4. Join with a sl st in first ch. Ch 1, 4sc in center of ring. Sl st in center of ring and fasten off.
Sew ears to mouse’s head, even with first decrease round. Bury tails in stuffing.
OPTIONAL EYES
Using tapestry needle and contrasting yarn, make French knots or Xs for eyes. Bury tails in stuffing.
Chocolate Cake with Ganache
CAKE
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
Parchment paper
½ cup unsalted butter (cut into ½-inch cubes, room temperature)
¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup boiling water
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ cup buttermilk
1 large egg
½ teaspoon vanilla
GANACHE
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
3 tablespoons heavy whipping cream
2 tablespoons unsalted butter (cut into ½-inch cubes)
CAKE
Preheat oven to 350º F. Spray 9-inch cake pan with nonstick spray. Line with parchment. Spray parchment. Dust with flour, tapping out excess.
Put butter and cocoa in medium bowl. Pour ½ cup boiling water over mixture; stir. Let stand 2 minutes; whisk until blended. Whisk flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt in another medium bowl. Whisk buttermilk, egg, and vanilla in large bowl. Gradually whisk cocoa mixture into buttermilk mixture; whisk until smooth. Add flour mixture in 3 additions, whisking to blend between additions (batter will be thin). Pour batter into prepared pan.
Bake cake until tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Cool in pan 10 minutes. Run knife around pan edges to release cake. Invert ont
o rack; remove pan and parchment. Cool completely.
GANACHE
Put chocolate chips and cream in microwave-safe bowl. Heat in microwave in 15-second intervals, stirring between intervals, until melted and smooth. Stir in butter. Let stand until spreadable, about 30 minutes. While cake is still on rack, spread ganache over top and sides. Transfer to cake plate. Chill at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.
Joe Dunbar’s Versatile
Squashed Squash
1 pound small zucchini, cut into large pieces
1¾ cups vegetable stock
1 onion, chopped
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint leaves
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste
Simmer zucchini in stock until soft. Drain and mash in colander to remove extra liquid (save stock for soup another time or just drink it).
In large frying pan, sauté onion in olive oil until golden. Add garlic and stir just until it begins to color. Add mashed zucchini, mint, lemon juice, salt, and pepper, stirring and mixing well for about 5 minutes.
This makes an excellent dip for raw vegetables or pita chips or a wonderful spread for flatbread or crostini, or can be used as a pizza sauce on a grilled vegetable pizza.
Read on for a sneak peek at the
next Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery,
Spinning in Her Grave
Coming in early 2014 from Obsidian
“What do you mean, you won’t use your gun?” The incredulity in my voice should have scathed the ears off any self-respecting sheriff’s deputy. But the particular deputy standing in front of me did nothing more than momentarily stop staring at the heavy wooden door we were trapped behind and give me some kind of look over his shoulder. There wasn’t time to decipher Cole Dunbar’s look, though. The smoke was getting thicker and I heard an ominous crackling in the far corner. Scratch that. None of the corners in this misbegotten, soon-to-be-flaming outbuilding were far away enough. By then I didn’t care that it might be an early-nineteenth-century loom house—National Register-worthy status be hanged. “Take your stupid gun out and shoot the stupid door down!”
“You’re getting hysterical,” Deputy Dunbar said.
“I’m trying hard not to. I am also trying not to be critical or sarcastic, but I’d like very much not to become a smoked ham in here so please use your gun!”
“Look at me, Kath. Look at me. Am I wearing my holster?” He was using the infuriating tone of voice of someone who doesn’t know how to calm a two-year-old, let alone the woman with whom he’s about to become seared tuna. “Do you see my gun, Kath? I did not say I won’t use my gun; I said I can’t. I can’t use my gun because my gun is not here. No gun. Besides, you obviously watch too much TV or not enough of the right kind of TV. Shooting a door, especially a thick oak plank door with iron hardware, isn’t the best way to get out of a building. Especially a burning building. Especially a burning building that also contains seven cans of gasoline.”
He had to mention the gasoline again. I spun around to see how close we were to being blown sky-high and following the seven cans, the roof, and the whole rest of the building to either North Carolina or Kingdom Come, Kentucky. I’d already dragged the cans from the back wall into the middle of the structure, but that wasn’t going to help much. The whole place was only fifteen by twenty feet. The middle of it wasn’t a safe distance from any other part of it, smoking, smoldering, crackling or otherwise.
“We’d better finish coming up with an alternative exit plan fast, then,” I said, turning back. “Now what are you doing?”
He had the palms of his hands on the door. He held them there for a few seconds, and then moved them to another spot, and then another area lower down.
“Testing for heat,” he said.
“Now the door’s on fire?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he straightened, reared back, and rammed his shoulder into the door. He made a good thump when he hit, and he let out a muffled “oof,” but nothing else happened. The whole sweet little loom house-turned-storage shed may be starting to smolder, but you couldn’t fault its stout materials and construction. Deputy Dunbar rubbed his shoulder and clamped his lips on anything further.
“Ouch,” I said for him. “Okay, now I am going to be critical. Why don’t you have your gun? What were you going to do if you hadn’t found me snooping around in here? Did you think of that? What if I’d been someone else who did have a gun?”
“You know what the difference is between you and me?” he said, turning from the door to scrabble through a motley collection of yard tools I’d already searched. “It’s the difference between talk and action. You can’t shut up about the gun.” He swept aside leaf rakes and a snow shovel. “And I’m trying to get us out of here.”
“With that?”
He held a weed trimmer in his white-knuckled fist.
“No.” He tossed the trimmer aside and lunged past me. “This!” With a look of triumph, he grabbed a three-foot length of black pipe from the shadows against the wall behind me. He weighed it in both hands like a trophy fish. Then he moved his hands apart and I saw, as though he’d performed sleight of hand, that there were actually two pipes, one sliding in and out of the other, with the inner piece ending in a wicked-looking wedged tip, like a giant screwdriver.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Solid steel salvation.”
“Hang on a second, though—”
“No time.”
We were both coughing from the acrid smoke by then, and flames licked the back wall, but there was something there in the shadows…
“But there’s—”
“No buts. Wish me luck, little sweetheart—then stand back.” Before I realized what was happening, he swept me into a one-armed embrace, planted a kiss on my lips, and pushed me behind him.
And then Deputy Cole Dunbar, man of action but not so many listening skills, holding the whatever-it-was like a medieval pole-arm or miniature battering ram, charged full tilt at the door. And in the split second before he smashed our way out of that fiery deathtrap, I knew I should be impressed, grateful, and possibly in starry-eyed love with a true hero.
Instead I felt like a complete heel. There I was, surrounded by smoke, threatened by flames and exploding gasoline cans, being rescued by a tall, fit, gung-ho deputy sheriff, and the only thoughts sputtering in my head were A kiss? Little sweetheart? Well, this is a disturbing turn of events.
Ten days earlier…
“With guns?” I stared at the man standing on the other side of the sales counter in the Weaver’s Cat, my fiber and fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee. I’d only just met him—Mr. J. Scott Prescott, as it said on the card he’d slid across the counter. He was slight and had a well-scrubbed, earnest face that at first glance put him anywhere from his early twenties to mid-thirties. He wore an expensive suit and tie, though, and had the beginnings of crow’s feet. Taken together, those details put him closer to the mature, successful end of that age range. He also came across as calm and operating on an even keel, despite the mention of guns. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to appear the competent, calm business owner so early on a Friday morning, I couldn’t help sounding more edgy than even. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Your town board already gave us—” Mr. Prescott started to say.
I interrupted, holding up my hand. “But you say they’re running through the streets with guns?”
“Only some of them will be running.” Again, the gravitas of his suit and tie helped.
“Okay, well…”
“Half a dozen. A dozen, tops, and we reconsidered the burning torches and decided against them. Most of the rest of the actual participants will be posted at strategic points around town.” He gestured right and left, fingers splayed in his excitement. Thank goodness for the suit—otherwise, he was beginning to look and sound like an eager Boy Scout. “We already have permiss
ion to use the park,” he said, “and the old train depot and the upper porch of Cunningham house. The main concentration of dispersal will be in the two or three blocks surrounding and centering on the courthouse.” His hands outlined several concentric circles, then came together with a ghost of a clap and he leaned toward me. “Oh, and we’ve been given access to the roof of the empty mercantile across from the courthouse. All of those places are for the visible men; the rest will be hiding. As I said, the plans and permissions have been in place for several months, but one of the property owners was recently obliged to back out, and that’s where you and the Weaver’s Hat come in.”
“Cat.”
“Pardon?” He straightened.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we’re the Cat, as in ‘meow.’ Not ‘hat.’”
“Really? I’m embarrassed.”
“It’s okay.”
“Anyway, we’d love it if one or two of the men could sneak in here during the action and watch from the windows upstairs.”
“Hmm.”
“They won’t get in your way at all. They’ll watch at the windows and when they see the other men out there in the street, they’ll stick their heads out and shoot. They might also do the famous yell, but I’ll tell them that’s optional, sort of as the spirit moves them, if you see what I mean. A bloodcurdling yell, like, that really whips up the enthusiasm of the spectators, though, and between that and the shots erupting from unexpected places, it’ll keep things off-balance in a realistic enough way that the whole reenactment will have an incredible sense of authenticity and it’ll be great.” He stopped, eyes wide. I took a step back.
“At this point I should ask you not to divulge any of the details we’ve discussed,” he said. “We’re keeping the program under wraps. Looking for the big reveal, if you see what I mean. The wow. Also, I forgot to ask, do the windows upstairs open? Because, you know, there wouldn’t be much point in anyone hiding up there and then trying to shoot out of them if they don’t.”
I’d processed his words and understood his gesturing hands, and it would have taken a harder history-loving heart than mine to ignore the excitement of a good-natured reenactment. The tourists flocking to town for our annual heritage celebration—Blue Plum Preserves—would no doubt love it, too. But my mind kept skipping back to my original question. “With guns?”
