by Tamar Myers
I must admit there isn’t much for men to do in the way of indoor activities, so I always suggest they shuck corn. For that purpose I keep a bushel basket of tasseled corn beside each of the armchairs that ring the back fireplace. Except for the odd ear, the men never shuck any. It seems that they much prefer to nap after Freni’s meals, than engage in any kind of activity. Any kind. Or so their wives sometimes confide to me.
We do, of course, actually eat in the dining room. The single, solid oak table that stretches almost two thirds of the length of the room is the same table we used when Susannah and I were growing up. It was built by my great-grandfather Jacob “The Strong” Yoder from a tree that occupied the site of the original farmhouse. This table can seat twenty people comfortably, twenty-six in a pinch. Incidentally, Jacob “The Strong” and his wife, Magdalena, had sixteen children and forty-seven grandchildren.
But enough of my family history. My point is that all the guests eat at the same table. I sit at my rightful place at the head of the table, which just happens to be the end nearest the kitchen door, and Susannah takes her rightful place at the foot. If she happens to be home.
Freni and Mose do not eat with us. Even if Freni could countenance supping with the English, her sensitivities would never allow her to watch them eat her food. Or not eat it, as the case may be. Freni and Mose live in what is called a “grandparents house” on their youngest son’s farm, which is really only a stone’s throw from here if you take the shortcut. They eat a late supper there. Although I am tempted to digress further and tell you a little about their rather strange relationship with this son, it really isn’t your business, is it? Or mine, for that matter.
At any rate, it seems to work out fairly well, having the guests eating together at the same table at the same time. Nobody ever feels lonely, although a few people have complained about feeling snubbed. But then, you can’t have everything, can you? Of course, I’m the one who determines the seating arrangement. It wouldn’t do for perfect strangers to plop themselves down just anywhere. I at least know a little bit about each one, and try to maximize compatibility. So just ignore Susannah’s complaints.
Speaking of which, Susannah is supposed to help me set the table, but I usually end up doing it all myself. I keep it simple. I don’t use tablecloths. It’s not that I’m theologically opposed to tablecloths, but you wouldn’t believe the way some of our guests eat! Money does not equate with manners. If I used tablecloths I’d have to spend most of my time doing laundry, which is no way to run a business. Besides, not only does the bare, plank table seem authentically Amish, but the splinters it imparts go a long way to keeping elbows off the table.
Of course we use dishes. I will admit, however, that I am a little tight-fisted when it comes to shelling out for crockery. What is the point of using bone china when the guests are expecting to eat off hand-thrown clay pottery? Believe me, the ironstone I originally picked up at the Woolworth’s in Somerset, and have been supplementing from garage sales ever since, works just fine.
And is it my fault if people assume that I, or one of many relations, made the stuff? I was not trying to be devious when I put tape over the manufacturer’s name on the back. I merely needed someplace to write “Property of the PennDutch Inn.”
Guests never quite know what to expect when it comes to their first meal at the inn; still, I do my best not to disappoint them. Atmosphere is what they’re paying for, and atmosphere is what I give them. If I had my way, I’d begin each meal with everyone holding hands and bowing their heads for a prayer. After meals I would read the Bible to them, in German of course, and we’d sing a few ancient Swiss hymns. But not even Susannah would sit still for that.
Instead, I have to content myself with hostessing stuff. I greet each of the guests as they officially enter the dining room for the first time and take them to their seat. Normally I would speak to them in my fake German accent, which is frankly quite charming.
But on this particular day, the one just prior to deer-hunting season, I was in a quandary. Thanks to the rude Congressman, Garrett Ream, and the huffy Ms. Parker, my guests all knew my accent was a fake. The question now was whether or not I should resume this quaint affectation, or talk like the English. Reluctantly I decided to abandon my cultural heritage. Susannah, I knew, would be relieved.
“Good evening,” I said pleasantly to Mrs. Ream, who was the first person to enter the dining room. People of her breeding are precise about time. “Allow me to show you to your seat.”
Lydia Ream smiled her appreciation and followed obediently. “The Congressman and Mr. James will be down shortly. They’re taking a call.”
I seated Lydia to my immediate left. I had every reason to trust her table manners and I wanted to get a better look at her dress. I have never had to institute a dress code at the Inn, because people of this ilk generally conform to acceptable standards. However, seldom do they dress as swank and spiffy as Lydia Johns Ream.
I guess you would call it a ball gown. It was floor-length, made of some kind of taffeta, and in front it was cut low enough to cause a chest cold. It was also bright red, a color our mother had always forbidden Susannah and me to wear for modesty’s sake. Mrs. Ream was also wearing jewelry. Real jewelry. Diamonds and rubies and things.
“You look very nice,” I said. I meant it.
“Thank you. I hope I haven’t overdressed.” Thankfully, just then Ms. Parker strode into the room followed by her young protegee, Linda McMahon. I scurried to meet them, but before I could intercept them they had settled themselves at the far end of the table. Linda had seated herself on the far end, opposite Lydia’s side, and Jeanette was seated at the very end, right in Susannah’s chair.
“Good evening,” I said perfunctorily, and then cut right to the chase. “This end seat is reserved.”
“There is no card or sign to indicate that.” Jeanette Parker did not display the slightest intention of moving.
“Actually, we have no need for cards, because all the seating is done by me, your hostess.”
Linda stood up, but Jeanette remained rooted to Susannah’s chair. Perhaps literally so. She was, after all, wearing a homespun cotton pajama outfit that was dyed a very pale shade of green. Had it not been for her flaming orange hair, she would have looked for all the world like a giant rutabaga. Of course most rutabagas don’t talk.
“Ms. Yoder,” said this rutabaga, “I just about broke my neck coming down those impossibly steep stairs of yours, not to mention that I pinched a nerve in my lower vertebrae trying to nap on that hideous thing you call a mattress. The fact that I can sit at all is something of a miracle. Is it really so necessary that I move, now that I’ve finally gotten comfortable?”
“Yes,” I said and turned to greet Joel Teitlebaum and Billy Dee Grizzle, who had appeared at the door. I may never be a mother, but twenty-two years of teaching Sunday School at Beech Grove Mennonite Church have taught me how to deal with children.
“Evening, ma’am,” said Billy Dee cordially. He had changed from a plaid to a plain denim shirt, which was the perfect foil for the rather attractive bola tie he was wearing.
“Good evening,” I said just as pleasantly, and then for his ears only I whispered, “Don’t worry. The reporter doesn’t take meals with us.”
Billy Dee nodded, and I turned my attention to Joel Teitlebaum.
If possible, Joel Teitlebaum was looking even taller and skinnier than he had before. He was wearing corduroy slacks, a striped shirt, and a narrow striped tie, which undoubtedly accounted for it. And although it might have been just my imagination, it seemed to me that his color had improved. Milking must have agreed with him.
“How did you like milking?” I asked. Frankly, I found it strange that someone who didn’t drink milk on principle would be interested in such an activity.
Joel’s color improved even more when he blushed. “Actually, I didn’t go milking after all. I decided to nap instead. But Mose, I mean Mr. Hostetler, said he’d let me
help him tomorrow.”
“I see,” I said. Actually I didn’t. Not only was there far too much napping going on, but an hour of Mose’s time was now unaccounted for. Unless he’d been napping as well. Either way, it was best Freni not find out about it.
I seated Joel to the left of Linda, who had scooted up one chair to make room for Jeanette. They were, after all, roughly the same age, and undoubtedly knew each other, since they were both conspirators for A.P.E.S.
Billy Dee, however, posed a problem. If I put him down on the far end, on the other side of Susannah, my sister would just make a fool of herself. I couldn’t very well move him next to Lydia and have him come between her and her husband, could I? So I took the only option I had left and put him on my immediate right, next to Joel. My intentions were entirely pure, I assure you.
Fortunately we didn’t have to wait much longer for Congressman Ream and Delbert James. But no sooner did they step into the room than both men appeared to do a double take. It was as if they had accidentally entered the wrong room and were flustered at their mistake.
“This is the right place,” I assured them with a laugh. Unfortunately my laughs can sound pretty phony when I’m irritated. Or so says Susannah.
Delbert at least displayed the good manners to apologize for his tardiness. I graciously accepted his apology and seated him down by Susannah, opposite Jeanette. It would be interesting to see if the two of them made a pitch for the man. Although his type didn’t appeal to me personally, he was certainly a dapper man, pale pink dress shirt notwithstanding.
As for Congressman Ream, of course I seated him next to his wife, to the right of Delbert James. Like his wife, he had dressed formally for dinner. Although he did cut a handsome figure in his dinner jacket and bow tie, he was not nearly as impressive as his wife. Then again, one is never quite dressed without good manners, I always say.
Even I was about to give up on Susannah when she came swirling into the room. I might have known. My baby sister must have caught a glimpse of the elegant Mrs. Ream and decided to outdo her. Not that she could, of course. To my knowledge Susannah does not own any ball gowns, much less expensive jewelry. She does, however, possess a first-class imagination.
If Mama could have foreseen Susannah’s outfit, she would have put off dying for another twenty years. “Outfit” is the only word I can use to describe what my sister was wearing. It was definitely neither a dress nor a pants suit. It was definitely hot pink, and sheer enough to strain soup through. It was both billowing and confining. Parts of it trailed behind her like streamers in the wind, yet in a few critical areas there didn’t seem to be enough of it at all. And as if that weren't enough, Susannah had accessorized her creation with five pounds of cheap glass jewelry and a pound or two of makeup. Had I not smelled the cheap scent of her perfume, I would not have known at first who it was.
“You're late,” I whispered as she flowed by.
Susannah didn’t even glance my way. She was far too busy noticing that Billy Dee was not seated down at her end of the table. This made her scowl, until she noticed Delbert James. With a great flutter of fabric, Susannah settled herself in the chair vacated by Jeanette.
I rang the little brass bell in front of my place. Up until then there was no food on the table except pick-led eggs and beets, and the dill seed bread. Of course I am not counting such items as butter and apple butter, which some of us consider a fruit. Or the four large pitchers of fresh-from-the-barn milk. At any rate, it didn’t take long for Freni and Mose to appear, each bearing a steaming tureen. I directed Mose to put his down at Susannah’s end of the table, and Freni at mine. Then they both stepped back a few paces, as if awaiting orders.
I peeked into the nearest tureen and smiled happily. At last Freni had listened to reason and followed my latest instructions. “The tureen in front of me contains traditional Amish chicken and dumplings,” I announced proudly. “And of course some vegetables,” I added pointedly. Everyone appeared to be listening intently. “For those of you with special dietary needs,” I went on, “Mrs. Hostetler has prepared a meatless version, there in the other tureen.”
A glance at Freni told me that she was pleased I had acknowledged her effort.
“Does the meatless version contain dairy products?” asked Jeanette, without even so much as lifting the lid and appreciating the wonderful aroma of Freni’s cooking.
“Or eggs?” inquired the soft-voiced Linda.
From the corner of my eye I could see Freni frowning.
“Well, does it?” demanded Jeanette.
Congressman Ream didn’t even seem to notice there was a conversation going on. “When do we get to see the wine list?” he asked.
Susannah giggled and I scowled. Both at her and the Congressman. “This establishment does not serve alcohol. That was made quite clear in the brochure,” I reminded him.
Garrett Ream looked first at his aide, then his wife for confirmation. Both of them were nodding. “Helluva way to start off the hunting season,” he muttered.
I did my best to transform my scowl into a glare. “Neither does this establishment tolerate bad language.”
Susannah giggled again, and whispered something to Delbert.
“Well, are there eggs and dairy products in that concoction, or not?” Jeanette was not nearly as distractable as I had hoped.
“Mrs. Hostetler uses only fresh, organic ingredients in all of her cooking,” I stalled. It wasn’t much of a stall.
“Yes or no?” demanded Jeanette. She was standing up now, the purple red of her face clashing with the orange of her hair.
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not.” Undoubtedly my own face was as red as Jeanette’s. I could just feel the shame. I am not used to lying, and it actually hurts each time I have to do it.
Jeanette opened the tureen then and studied its contents. “You know, Ms. Yoder, I am not trying to be purposefully difficult here. I only ask these questions because I have to. It’s been twelve years since I’ve eaten any eggs or dairy products, and in that time I’ve developed an allergic reaction to them.”
I swallowed hard and stole another glance at Freni. Freni wasn’t flinching.
“If you haven’t eaten eggs or dairy products in twelve years, then how the hell—sorry, Ms. Yoder—can you tell you’ve developed an allergic reaction to them?” growled the Congressman.
His wife, bless her soul, immediately opened the tureen in front of her and made a great show of smelling the steam that rose from the huge container. “It smells absolutely delish. I simply must get your recipe.”
I smiled gratefully, and for the next few minutes busied myself serving out portions from the pot containing chicken to the carnivores gathered around the table. Susannah, a card-carrying carnivore herself, obediently did her part by serving the herbivores from the tureen in front of her. At last we all dug in.
“First-class cooking, ma’am,” said Billy Dee, while his mouth was still full. There were murmurs of agreement from the carnivores, and none of the herbivores so much as gagged or spit their food out. Freni smiled broadly.
“I think my grandmother was Pennsylvania Dutch,” volunteered Delbert James proudly.
Susannah recoiled in mock horror. “Your secret’s safe with us.” There were the usual obliging laughs.
“Did I hear you say you were a hunter, sir?” Joel Teitlebaum politely asked the Congressman.
Garrett Ream put down his fork and studied the young man across from him. “Yes, I am. Congressman Garrett Ream.”
“Joel Teitlebaum, sir. From Philly. Not exactly in your district.”
“Are you a hunter, Mr. Teitlebaum?”
“I’m a sculptor, sir. I—”
“And you?” asked Garrett Ream, turning to Billy Dee.
“Billy Dee Grizzle. I’m a contractor.”
Garrett Ream nodded impatiently “Do you hunt?”
“Used to,” said Billy Dee. “Squirrel, pheasant, deer, you name it.”
“I se
e,” said the Congressman sarcastically. “What we have here is a reformed hunter then?”
Billy had just taken a big bite, so he merely nodded.
“Ever shoot boar?”
Billy answered with his mouth full. “Yep. Lots of boar hunting in Texas.”
“What part of Texas?” I asked. Cousin Anna Kauffman married a Methodist and moved to Houston in 1974. I hadn’t heard from her since.
“San Antone,” said Billy Dee proudly. He turned back to the Congressman. “I’ve given up hunting now. But boar hunting was my favorite. More exciting than hunting deer.”
“At least the boar stand a small chance,” said Jeanette. “Deer are just sitting ducks.” A couple of people laughed at her inadvertent joke, and I am ashamed to say I was among them.
“They don’t stand much of a chance in Morocco,” said the Congressman. “There they have beaters that drive them down out of the mountains, while the hunters wait in blinds to pick them off.”
“We were lucky enough to be included in a royal hunting party once,” explained Lydia, “by King Hassan of Morocco. The Atlas Mountains are exquisite in April.”
“We killed over four hundred that day,” said the Congressman proudly. “Stacked them up like a cord of firewood. Of course there were about fifty of us, including His Majesty. Best experience of my life.”
“It sounds utterly disgusting,” said Jeanette. “I can’t believe you’re actually proud of such a barbaric act.”
“What is a boar, anyway?” asked Linda.
“A sort of wild pig,” answered Delbert James. “With tusks.”
“Were you in the hunt too?” asked Susannah.
“Not exactly. The hunt was just for Congressmen and their wives. But I got to do some pretty special skiing that morning up on the higher slopes. Morocco has some first-rate runs.”
“I ski,” said Susannah. “Up at Seven Springs.” That was news to me.
