“It’s you,” I groaned, having opened the door to some fierce pounding.
“So now you lock zee door on me?”
“Melvin’s on the prowl in these parts again; I suggest you do the same over there at the Funny Farm.”
Ida wagged a finger so close to my nose that it trimmed a few hairs. “Eet eez a convent, not a farm, und you should be so lucky to join. But enough about dis; I vant to know vhere my grandson eez.”
“So you heard already?”
“Of course! Vhere do you tink I leef? In zee shtetl?”
“Uh-”
“My Gabeleh told me. Who else? But not to vorry. I haf not told a soul; I am zee model of eendeescreshion.”
I smiled generously. “I’m sure you are, dear. But I’m not telling anyone-and neither is your son telling anyone. Even Freni’s being kept in the dark. As a matter of fact, she quit over it.”
“Und your friend?”
I offered her a face as bland as noodles on mashed potatoes, which, I hear, is a Hoosier delicacy. “Which friend, dear? There’s Gwen, Mignon, Kay, Georgia Ann, Daisy, Carolyn, Gene, Janie, Janet-”
“Ugh-uh-nuss.”
“Excuse me.
“Zee von mitt zee naked brodders. Ughuhnuss.”
“That would be Agnes. And what she knows is only on a need-to-know basis.”
Even a wolverine will stop digging if you pave over the wilderness. Sadly those animals are quitters compared to Ida. She glared at me and rubbed her shoulders with hands the size of tea bags while she considered her next move. The woman is tiny-or she would be tiny, were it not for Dollyesque bosoms, which even the nastiest of habits couldn’t hide.
“Nu,” she said at last, “eet eez gut that you protect my grandson, but who vill protect dis Agnes und her meshuggeneh brodders? Eef Melvin tinks dat dey know too much, und dey leef out in zee boonies by demselves-den boom, he vill kill them, yust like I kill de rats in my barn mitt zee firecrackers I buy at Crazy Joe’s down in Maryland.”
“But you don’t have a barn over there anymore; you converted it into dorm rooms for pseudo-postulants, who pensively postulate apostasy in part due to only partial alliteration.”
“Boom!” This time Ida mimed an explosion.
“All right, all right,” I said. “Perhaps you have a point. I’ll talk to Agnes about seeking safety in numbers. But while I’m on the subject, Ida, I have a suspicion that one of your de facto dingalings is spying on me.”
She blinked. “Vhat are my dingalings?”
“Your self-proclaimed, so-called sisters. How nuts is it to join a group wherein the only common bond is apathy? That means as soon as you start to care about the group, or even just another individual, you no longer qualify for admission.”
“Und?”
“Und? That’s all you have to say?”
“Vhy should I care vhat happens to the group?”
“But you’re their Mother Superior!”
“So?”
“Come on, even you can’t be that apathetic! Besides, you seem to care about what happens to the Mishlers.”
“Zee Mishlers vas only a suggestion. So now I tell you a secret: I care about my grandson, and my Gabeleh, of course.” She paused to look studiously at a zigzag crack in the kitchen floor. “Und mebbe you.”
“Does that warm the cockles of my heart, or what?” I cried. “Let me clasp thee to my bosom from henceforth and forevermore!”
Ida could move like a prizefighter-I should know; I’ve had a few of them stay here at my inn. And ’twas true: she could float like a butterfly, whilst stinging like a bee, and after a few stings, I decided to let go of her and leave well enough alone. It was nice knowing that she cared. In fact, silly me. Having a mother- in-law who cared from a distance, and from beneath the cloak-literally and figuratively-of apathy, was really the ideal situation.
I patted her wimple fondly. “When it’s safe to tell you where the little shaver is, you’ll be the first to know, Idaleh.”
20
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1¼ cups firmly packed light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 cup shredded unsweetened coconut
1 cup candied ginger pieces, diced[3]
4 cups crispy rice cereal
Optionaclass="underline" 2 tablepoons sesame seeds
Preheat oven to 350°F.
In a mixing bowl, beat together butter, sugars, vanilla and salt until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and beat until smooth.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour and baking powder. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and beat until blended. Stir in coconut, ginger, and cereal, mixing until just blended. Using a teaspoon, drop the dough onto parchment-lined cookie sheets about ½ inch apart. Sprinkle the top of each cookie with sesame seeds, if desired.
Bake until edges just start to turn golden but centers are still moist, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove to a cooling rack to cool completely.
Store in an airtight container for up to one week.
Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/
21
Oh, what a dummkopf I can be. I don’t know what made me think that the gang from the Garden State would be satisfied with a supper of scrambled eggs and franks and beans. The Babester and I often made do with just such a repast on Freni’s day off. A couple tubes of jumbo-size biscuits and a tossed salad, and what more does one need? Why, throw in a vitamin pill, and one has a veritable banquet!
“This isn’t what we paid for,” Olivia Zambezi said.
“You paid for a filling meal,” I said evenly. “Now fill up.”
“We paid for authentic Pennsylvania Dutch cuisine,” George Nyle said.
“I am an authentic Pennsylvania Dutch woman, and I made this cuisine; thus it is authentic Dutch cuisine.”
“It’s crap,” Peewee Timms said. “My grandma used to serve this on Sunday nights when we visited. Neither she nor my mother could cook worth a darn.”
“Yet somehow you didn’t starve,” I said, and not nearly as unkindly as I might have.
“Hon,” Gabe said under his breath. He is always the conciliator, although it’s not because he believes in peace, so much as he fears conflict.
“Yes, that was mean,” Tiny said. “I thought you were nicer than that.”
“I am nice. Look, our Amish cook quit, and since I really don’t need your money, I’d be happy to give you all refunds.”
“Please, if I may,” Surimanda said, by way of breaking into the conversation. She was dressed in a black velvet blouse with kimono sleeves, a black velvet ankle-length skirt and high-heeled black suede boots. Around her waist was a gold chain belt. Her blue-black hair was gathered in a chignon and adorned by a single silk rose the color of fresh blood.
“Certainly, you may,” I said. “And just so you know, in this country April showers bring May flowers, and I’m told we can look forward to a very soggy April.”