Cool on baking sheets 2 minutes; remove to cooling racks to cool completely. Microwave remaining white chocolate chips in heavy-duty plastic bag, kneading at 10- to 15-second intervals, until totally melted and smooth. Cut a tiny corner from bag; squeeze to drizzle over cookies. Sprinkle with additional coconut and lemongrass powder, if desired. Refrigerate cookies for about 5 minutes or until chocolate is set. Store cookies in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 1 week.
Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/
16
Was I ashamed of myself for having played a joke on a seventy-six-year-old woman? Maybe just a little. Was I sorry for lying? No, because I hadn’t lied; telling a fib within the confines of a joke is not lying, and I should know, because I do it all the time. Now where was I? Oh yes, the breakfast Freni had been working on was utterly ruined by her sudden departure, and I was forced to feed seven hungry, and somewhat grouchy, guests cornflakes and home-canned peaches.
“What’s this?” Carl demanded, his visage as stern as ever.
“A bowl of peaches, dear. Take a couple, put them on your cornflakes, and then pass them around.”
“Why would I want to do that? They look like dog crap.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Miss Yoder. The brochure said that we would get a full farmer’s breakfast-eggs, meat, potatoes, pancakes, toast. These aren’t even peaches; they’re brown balls of crap.”
“It was a bad year for canning, I’ll admit, and they might have been cooked a trifle long. Still, they are quite edible, so you will take at least one and then hush up about it.”
Everyone in the room froze in shocked silence, most especially my beloved husband, Gabe. No doubt he thought it was that time of the month for me: time to give me wide berth, most especially if he entertained any hope of bedding yours truly in the near, or even the distant, future. Of course that was a lot of bunk, given that I am really a pussycat and not given to holding grudges, no matter how well deserved.
Since the clanking of cheap stainless-steel spoons was the only sound to be heard for an unnervingly long period of time, it behooved me to otherwise finally break the silence.
“Tiny, be a dear and pass that plate of delightfully brown toast around.”
I possess extraordinary peripheral vision, and I could see Surimanda Baikal’s torso stiffen. “Forgive me, Miss Yoder, but this brown is the color of your hair, dah? This toast, she is the color of my hair-like coal.”
George Nyle and Peewee Timms, cowards both, chortled under their respective breaths.
“How very rude,” I huffed. “You try using an institutional-size toaster that’s on its last legs. Even on the medium-high setting, nothing seems to happen, but then, when you slide the gizmo up just a hair, suddenly you’ve got hellfire and brimstone.”
Surimanda Baikal looked like President Number 43 after he’d been asked an algebra question. “What is this gizmo and brimstone?”
I am better at complaining than explaining; besides I didn’t have time for a language lesson just then. This, not impatience, is why I steered the conversation in an entirely new direction.
“One of my errands this morning takes me to visit a traditional Amish woman-one who has remained virtually untouched by tourism and the modern world. After all, we are a tiny, somewhat isolated community, not at all like Lancaster. Would any of you be interested in accompanying me?”
Surimanda Baikal immediately raised her petite aristocratic hand, but the other six guests traded looks as if their glances were hot potatoes and the guests were playing a party game. Frankly this really annoyed me. It hadn’t been easy to make this offer. Mary Berkey was more than likely to be skittish if I brought any English with me, and besides, not a single one of these guests was likely to add joy to my day.
I decided to pare my offer down. It had been too generous to start with, and as we all know, universal availability breeds contempt. Diamonds are coveted because the diamond industry conspires to have us believe that they are rare; the truth is, however, that these stones, which are controlled by a cartel, fill up warehouse after warehouse, and are purposely released in a trickle to the retail market.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I’m only going to take two of you. Miss Baikal, you get to come along. The rest of you nominate one person who you think is the most deserving of this honor, and he or she should meet me at the front desk in exactly one hour. Oh, by the way, has everybody met Amy, my new receptionist?”
The subsequent buzz sounded as if a hornet’s nest had been knocked loose from my barn rafters and thrown in the middle of the dining room table. It was clear to me that no one gave a hoot about Amy; all the chatter had to do with the selection of the unlucky victim.
“I met Amy,” Gabe offered gallantly. He was sitting at the other end of the table, spooning sugar on our son’s cornflakes. “I think she’ll work out nicely.”
“Her mother’s hideous,” I lied. “Look at the mother to see how the daughter will age; isn’t that what they say?”
“Hon, you know I only have eyes for you. Besides, she’s far too young for me. I would only ever consider a mature woman who knows her own mind.”
My extraordinary peripheral vision gave me a glimpse of Olivia Zambezi hiking her bosom heavenward with one hand, while patting some stray hairs back into her gray coiffure with the other. How does that old saying go: hope springs eternal in even the most sagging of breasts? Well, something like that.
“Here’s to my mind, dear,” I said, speaking to the coffeepot in front of me. But Olivia’s unseemly, not to mention pathetic, attempt to appear comely in Gabe’s eyes had reminded me of the puzzle involving the transport of a goat, a wolf, and a head of cabbage. The trick is to get them all across the river in a small boat, one at a time, before the wolf can eat the goat, and the goat can eat the cabbage. Using this paradigm the three wives present at the table all represented wolves, the tiny blond one with the not so tiny assets stood the best chance of being the most successful predator: Gabe had a “thing” for blondes, natural or bottle.
“Tiny, dear, I pick you to come along on this morning’s exciting excursion.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Yoder,” she trilled in her tiny voice.
“Meanwhile, what am I supposed to do?” Peewee whined.
“Why, read a book, dear. Take a long walk. There’s a wooded trail through a boulder-studded glen just across the road. Or drive into town and check Yoder’s Corner Market. In the so-called produce section, you’ll find a head of lettuce that bears my initials. They were carved into the stem three years ago.”
“Piffle,” Peewee puffed dismissively.
“She isn’t kidding,” Gabe said. “But you’d have more fun at Miller’s feed store or watching the blacksmith shoe the Amish horses.”
“That really still goes on?” Barbie asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We permit only well-dressed horses in Hernia. In fact, the farrier ’s name is Jimmy, so the horses all wear Jimmy’s shoes.”
The women groaned in unison, whereas the men looked as if they’d been asked to name the three countries which compose North America.
“Hey,” Gabe said, “now that we have someone to watch the desk, why don’t I take you on a tour of the area?”
“And what about our son?” I asked archly.
“What about him?” Gabe said. “What were you planning to do with him?”