After breakfast I help the girls clean up, but it’s time for them to go to school before the dishes are washed. Assuring them I can handle it, I wave them off on their way and continue the long, laborious process of washing, rinsing, drying, and putting away the dishes for nine people. It’s sort of like running a small café. At least our number will be reduced for lunch, or dinner, as they call it.
“Today is baking day,” Mrs. Miller informs me from where she’s seated in a chair with her injured foot resting on the bench. “Do you know how to bake?”
“Sure,” I say with confidence. “I’ve baked cookies and brownies and even a few cakes before.”
She looks surprised. “You bake from scratch?”
I try to look confident as I scratch my elbow, but naturally I don’t confess that my baking expertise is limited to boxed mixes where you only add eggs and oil and water, then stir. But really, how much more difficult could her way be?
As she barks commands at me like she thinks this is Le Cordon Bleu, I discover baking from scratch is a lot more difficult. For instance, how am I supposed to know what a flour sifter looks like or that when used improperly it can coat everything within a three-foot radius with a fine white powder that’s very tedious to clean up? Or that when she says to “cream” the wet ingredients, she doesn’t mean to add cream to them? Somehow I muddle through a batch of cornbread muffins. Despite being a little scorched on top, they seem okay. But when we start in on cookies, I can tell her patience is wearing thin.
“Samuel,” she calls out to the back porch where her youngest son is just setting some firewood in the box. “I need you to run an errand for me.”
When Samuel comes into the kitchen, she immediately switches over to Pennsylvania Dutch to converse with him. Obviously it’s to keep me out of the loop, not that I care. After she’s done, he glances at me with his hand over his mouth and breaks into boyish giggles. But he nods a confirmation to his mother, then darts out the back door as if on a mission. Probably to go tell his daed that his mamm is about to kick me out of her kitchen. Maybe she’ll send me to work in the field again. One can only hope.
I continue muddling my way through combining the dry ingredients with the wet ones. Why couldn’t I have just put them all into one big bowl in the first place, so there would be no need to “combine” anything, plus it would save on dishwashing? But I keep my contrary thoughts to myself as I struggle to push the big wooden spoon through the thick, lumpy batter that is supposed to transform itself into delicious oatmeal cookies by the time I’m done.
Finally I’ve chopped nuts and added these along with oatmeal and raisins and stirred some more until Mrs. Miller holds out her hand, insisting on sampling my work. I spoon out a generous dollop of the rather aromatic cookie dough and give it to her, waiting expectantly—and hoping for praise—as she takes a tentative bite.
But her nose immediately wrinkles up, and she gives me a severely disappointed look. “You forgot the salt,” she tells me.
“How do you know?” I demand.
Now she gives me a hopeless look. “Because I tasted it. Try it for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
I take a small sample of dough and realize that something about it does taste slightly off, or maybe it’s just a bit bland. “Okay,” I agree. “Can’t I just add some salt now?”
She makes an exasperated sigh. “You can and you will. But it must be thoroughly mixed into the dough.” She proceeds to explain how I should carefully sprinkle it over the dough, little by little, and patiently stir it all in until it’s thoroughly mixed. This seems to take forever, and by the time it finally meets her satisfaction, I feel like my arm is about to fall off.
“Do you know how far apart to put the cookies on the cookie sheets?” she asks doubtfully.
I shrug. “An inch or so?”
She holds up two fingers.
“Two inches?”
“About two fingers’ width,” she explains. “And do you know how big to make the cookies?”
I give her another shrug.
“The size of a large walnut.”
“A large walnut?” Really, could she make this any more complicated?
She holds her thumb and forefinger together, making an oval.
Trying hard to match her specifications, I begin to put “large walnut– sized” blobs on the first cookie sheet. I’m just doing the second row when she holds up her hands and yells to stop. “Did you grease the sheets?”
“Grease?”
“Yes,” she declares. “So the cookies don’t stick.”
“But I never grease them at home.”
She lets out another sigh, then in a resentful tone instructs me to remove the cookies from the sheet, clean it off, and start over. “The lard is in the pantry. The big red can on the second shelf.”
I find the can, trying not to cringe over the hydrogenated fat content as I slather the white lard onto the cookie sheets. I’ve barely gotten the first batch of cookies into the propane oven before she starts directing me in how to get some things started for the midday meal. I can tell this is going to be one of the longest days of my life.
I’m just removing the last of the cookies, some which got a little scorched, when Samuel returns. I can tell he’s reporting something back to his mother, but following her lead, he speaks only in their secret language. However, she seems satisfied, and to my surprise, her patience seems to have increased as she continues directing me in the preparations for lunch. Just the same, I can’t help but feel like a marionette—and not a very coordinated one either—as she pulls the strings to control me.
Thankfully the lunch menu is a fairly simple one. I make a stew that consists of hamburger that I brown with chopped onions, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. To this I add home-canned jars of tomatoes, corn, and green beans. It looks like some kind of goulash to me, but it smells okay. The plan is to serve this with the corn muffins. Maybe the cookies are for dessert.
“Put out some peaches too,” she tells me as I’m gathering plates to set on the table.
“Okay,” I agree as I lay out five place settings.
“And set another place.”
“Oh?” I go get another heavy white plate. Most of the dinnerware seems to be chipped and stained, but I realize these are plain and simple, no-frills people. Chipped dishes just come with the territory. I’m curious as to who the sixth guest is, but since I feel like it’s none of my business, plus I have enough to keep me busy, I don’t ask.
“Good morning,” a cheerful female voice says from behind me.
“Rachel!” Mrs. Miller exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
I turn to see a young woman coming into the kitchen. “I heard the news—that you hurt your foot. Mamm told me to come over and lend you a hand.” She holds out a paper bag. “And Mamm sent over blueberry muffins. Just baked.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Mrs. Miller graces the young woman with a lovely smile. “Have you met our house guest yet?”
“No, but I have heard about the girl named Micah.” Rachel exchanges glances with the older woman and giggles as she sets a cloth bag on a bench by the door.
“That’s me,” I say glibly. “Zach’s pen pal from Cleveland.”
Rachel laughs more openly. “The pen pal that Zach thought was a boy but turned out to be a girl.”
“Yeah. The joke was on him.” I sigh. “Poor Zach.”
“I had a pen pal too,” Rachel tells me. “But she quit writing to me. Her name was Lizzie.”
“Lizzie?” I say in surprise. “That’s my best friend.”
“Oh?” Rachel tips her head to one side. “She doesn’t like to write too much?”
I shrug, remembering how Lizzie complained about the boring letters about cooking and cleaning and kittens. “I, uh, I really don’t know.”
“But Zach kept on writing his pen pal,” Rachel says in a knowing sort of way. “He was always that kind of boy. He loved school. Loved books. Loved to write. Mos
t boys aren’t like that.” She peers at me. “Or maybe English boys are like that?”
“Some are.” I set the jar of peaches on the table. “Some aren’t.”
“Do you want me to put the peaches in a bowl?” Rachel asks Zach’s mother.
“Oh, ja, Rachel. That would be nice.” Mrs. Miller smiles again. “Rachel is good in the kitchen. She knows how things are supposed to be done.”
As we put the finishing touches on the meal, it becomes very clear that Rachel Yoder meets all of Mrs. Miller’s high expectations of what a good woman should be. It also becomes clear that Rachel would be Mrs. Miller’s first choice for Zach’s wife.
“I have always told your mother that you and my boy would be good for each other,” Mrs. Miller tells Rachel. “Zach could do no better.”
Rachel makes a nervous giggle. “Oh . . . I don’t know.”
“Ja, it’s true. You are a good cook and a good housekeeper. A hard worker. You will make someone a good wife. I hope it will be my Zach.”
For some reason I find this conversation to be more than just a little aggravating. Oh, I know that it’s perfectly normal for an Amish mother to want to help her son secure a good Amish wife. But to speak so blatantly in front of me, well, it seems a bit over the top.
As Rachel is making the coffee, which apparently can be properly made only by a proper Amish girl, I sneak a good long look at her. To my dismay, I must admit she is exceptionally pretty. Her honey-colored hair is glossy and smooth, pulled neatly up under her clean white kapp. Her complexion is peaches and cream, and her lips are pink and plump. Plus she has the biggest blue eyes, even without the aid of mascara. I’m sure a guy could get lost in them. As I notice Zach and his dad washing up on the back porch, I wonder if Zach ever has gotten lost in them.
Soon everyone but Rachel and me is seated at the table. My plan is to start filling the bowls with soup, but Rachel stops me. “I will do the serving,” she says. “You sit down.”
I feel a mixture of relief and annoyance, but I don’t argue as I take my place opposite Zach. While Rachel serves, I watch him watching her. I can tell that he’s curious as to why she’s here, but I can also tell that he’s enjoying watching her. And why not? She is gorgeous—in a sweet, pure, Amish sort of way. As she reaches in front of him to place his full-to-the-brim bowl on his plate, she flashes him a pretty smile, and I think perhaps their shoulders brush. Zach’s cheeks seem a bit ruddier as she stands up straight.
Soon we’re all seated and Zach’s father bows his head. I try to remember to say a prayer of gratitude, but I know that it’s laced with jealousy. As crazy as it sounds, I am suddenly wishing I were Amish. And that Zach would look at me with as much interest as he seems to be lavishing on Rachel.
After the prayer ends and the eating begins, Zach’s mother points out that Rachel has come to help in the kitchen. “I don’t need Micah’s help now,” she tells her husband. “She can help with planting the corn again.” She clears her throat. “Unless it’s time for her to return to her own home.”
“Micah’s father is coming to get her tomorrow,” Zach explains.
“Tomorrow?” Mrs. Miller echoes the word as if that is too far off.
“I am curious,” Rachel says to me, “why you are wearing that dress. I heard you prefer men’s clothes.”
Samuel chuckles.
“It was Katy’s suggestion,” I admit. “But if I’m to work out in the field with the men, I’ll happily change back into my man clothes.” I force a smile.
Zach looks slightly embarrassed by my proclamation.
“And tomorrow I will be gone,” I tell her. “Flying off into the wild blue yonder with my dad.”
“Flying?” Her fine brows arch. “You mean in an airplane?”
“Micah’s father is a pilot,” Zach explains. “He’s picking her up in his very own plane.”
“Are you very rich?” Rachel asks.
I laugh. “No. Not at all. We’re just normal people. Flying planes is my dad’s job. He has an air freight business. He delivers things for people.”
“And tomorrow he will deliver you,” Rachel proclaims in what seems an almost triumphant way. “Back to your English home.”
I just nod, poking my spoon into my soup.
“What will you tell your English friends about us?” Rachel continues in what seems a rather bold sort of way. “What will you say about your visit to the Miller farm?”
Everyone at the table seems to be quietly waiting for my response.
I set down my spoon and think. “I’ll tell them that the Amish are good, hardworking people, and that they aren’t so different from English people. But I’ll also tell them about the lovely countryside and about all the simple pleasures that can be enjoyed here.”
“What kind of pleasures?” Rachel persists.
“Things like green pastures with happy brown cows, well-tended gardens, handsome horses, apple trees, sunshine, big blue sky.” I wave at the table. “Good food.”
“The English don’t have those things?”
I consider this. “Sure, they have them on farms. But I don’t have them where I live. I realize not all Amish people live on farms, just like not all English people live in cities. But you people are lucky—or maybe I should say blessed—to live in such a pretty place. And I know it’s such a pretty place because of how well you take care of it. I admire that.”
“Thank you,” Zach’s father says solemnly. “God has been good to our family.”
“And we do all we can to be good stewards of his bounty,” Zach’s mother finishes for him.
“Speaking of good stewards”—Zach’s father stands—“we have planting to do.”
“Can I help you?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, since Rachel is here to help Mrs. Miller now?”
“Ja.” Zach’s dad reaches for his straw hat. “That would be good.”
“I’ll go change,” I say as I eagerly stand up. I can’t get out of this kitchen quickly enough.
“Meet us in the west field,” Zach tells me.
“I’ll be right out,” I promise as I practically run for the stairs. As I go up, I’m already reaching for the straight pins, stabbing my finger into one as I go into the bedroom. I’m so ready to be rid of this silly dress. Of course, as I’m removing it and all the under-layers, I remember Rachel and how she actually looked rather pretty in her pale blue dress. I think it matched her eyes. For some reason, it also seemed to be more form-fitting than the potato sack dress I’ve been wearing. Or maybe that was just my imagination. After all, Amish girls are not supposed to show off their curves, are they?
As I pull on my jeans and T-shirt, I wonder again what it would be like to live as the Amish live—every single day of my life, 24-7. Just thinking of how torturous it felt in the kitchen this morning makes me think I’d never be suited for a lifestyle like this. But when I think of Zach, suddenly I’m not so sure. Maybe for him . . . maybe I would. Of course, as I’m pulling on my dirt-encrusted shoes, I realize that there’s no need to trouble my mind over this. Especially after I saw the look that Zach gave Rachel while she served him his soup. I suspect Zach’s mother has it just about figured out. It’s probably just a matter of time before Zach decides to settle down and join the church and marry Rachel Yoder. As I go down the stairs, I wonder what Lizzie will say about that. I almost go back up to get my phone so I can text her this weird turn of Amish events. Won’t she laugh to hear that I actually got to meet her old Amish pen pal?
“An English girl going out to work with the men,” Rachel says with disdain as I go through the kitchen.
“I guess it just suits me,” I tell her as I put my dad’s ball cap back on my head. “Kitchens are too hot and stuffy for me.”
“That’s because you don’t cook much.” She gives me a patronizing smile. “Have a good afternoon,” she chirps as I go out the back door.
Okay, I really don’t want to dislike her. And to be fair, I really have no reason to dislike her. Except
that it seems so certain that eventually she will win Zach’s affection, and that just plain irks me. As I march out in the direction of the west field, I tell myself that I should be happy for Zach. After all, he’s my good friend. If he’s going to get himself such a fine wife—and by all Amish standards, Rachel most certainly is—I should be thrilled for him. Instead I am aggravated, bordering on jealous. I can hardly stand to admit this—even to myself—but I am just plain jealous. As ridiculous as it seems, it irks me to realize I could never compete with such a perfectly lovely Amish girl. How dumb is that?
13
Working outside is a welcome relief after my long morning spent in hell’s kitchen. Okay, I know that’s a bit harsh. But being in the company of someone who despises you is not pleasant. As I lead the horse in a straight line and Zach operates the seeder from the other end, I distract myself from obsessing over the perfectly lovely Rachel by trying to figure out why Zach’s mother loathes me so intensely. Why I care or am consumed with this indisputable fact makes absolutely no sense, but I can’t seem to help myself. Besides that, it helps to pass the time.
“I know we’ll be late for supper,” Zach calls out to me as we pause to turn the horse around. The sun is getting low in the sky. “But let’s see if we can do this next row while there’s still some light. That way we can leave the seeder near the barn to be ready for morning.”
I turn back to look at him. “Fine with me.”
He removes his straw hat, running a hand through his hair so that it frames his glistening face in feathery dark curls. I try not to gawk at him, but I can’t help but notice how strikingly handsome he looks in these last golden rays of sunlight. I wish I could sneak a photo. “That is, unless you’re starving,” he calls out as he puts his hat back on.
“I’m okay,” I assure him, turning around and getting the horse lined up to do another row. “Let’s get ’er done.” His dad has already gone into the house to eat, and the truth is, despite the empty rumbling in my stomach, I’m happy to postpone this meal. Hopefully the others—primarily Zach’s mom and Rachel—will be finished by then.
Trading Secrets Page 12
