“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
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
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.
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).