Between a Wok and a Hard Place (2 page)

Freni and I are related through both of my parents. Freni is also related to her husband Mose, who is related to me, and I

am related to my husband, Aaron, who is related to both Freni and Mose. The four of us in turn, are related to 80 percent

of the Amish families in America.

Although this may sound confusing, it has its advantages. I am, in fact, my own cousin. I can be alone and still be at

a family reunion. Throw in a sandwich and it becomes a family picnic. And who needs baby pictures when I can simply

gaze upon all the tow-headed youngsters in the community? I'm not claiming that these children are interchangeable, but

Rebecca Neubrander, who came home from church with the wrong toddler, didn't notice the difference until two years

later. By then it was too late to do anything about it, and little Samson had her name changed to Sarah.

My point is that not only do Freni and I have fewer genes than a one-legged man, we are genetically challenged.

Being a pacifist does not come easy to either of us. Sometimes it is a struggle to be the cheerful, even-tempered woman I

present to the world. Freni, I know, feels the same. In fact, she had only recently confided to me that she was making a

special effort to curb her tongue. Apparently her daughter-in-law, Barbara, had complained to the church elders that

Freni's tongue was sharper than a two-edged sword. Freni was doing her level best to rectify the situation, but it was a

monumental task.

"Calm down, Freni," I said to my cook and kinswoman, "it's only temporary. Poor Melvin can barely hobble around

with that cast. Have you seen it?"

"Ach!" Freni exclaimed, and then her jaw clamped tighter than a pit bull on a mailman's leg.

"So, how are the guests doing?" I asked pleasantly. Freni was rolling out dough for fresh yeast cinnamon rolls on the

heavy plank table in the middle of the kitchen. Dough, rolling pin, and table were all getting a vigorous workout while she

pondered her answer.

"You told me I wouldn't have to cook for children," she said, without moving her lips.

She had me there. I did have an "adults only" policy. The brochure I sent the Dixons had stated that quite clearly. But

what was I to do when they showed up for their scheduled week with three children in tow? I "But these children have

famous parents," I said.

The rolling pin came down with a thud that shook the rafters. "I never heard of them."

"Angus Dixon is a Pulitzer prize-winning photographer," I explained patiently, "and his wife Dorothy is a very popular

children's book author."

She stopped pounding and began slathering butter on the dough. "Bible stories?"

"Minerva the Mermaid books," I said reluctantly. "I hear they're best-sellers."

Freni stared at me. "There is no such thing as a mermaid, Magdalena. What kind of a parent would put such crazy

ideas into a child's head?"

"Actually, she seems to be a very good parent. But then, what do I know?" I added quickly.

Freni took a handful of cinnamon and sprinkled it liberally across the dough. "The children are hard enough to cook

for, Magdalena, but that movie star! He wanted to know if the vegetables we serve are organic." She tossed a handful of

sugar after the cinnamon. "Are they?" she asked hesitantly.

My heart went out to the woman. To her, food is food. I had only recently convinced her that cheese was not a fruit.

We had yet to tackle organic gardening.

"Yes, our vegetables are organic." It was the truth. We grow our own vegetables, and I much prefer to use the free

fertilizer our two milk cows provide than to pay good bucks to get similar results out of a bag.

"So now I'll tell the movie star." Freni actually smiled, and began rolling the dough into a long, thick coil. It reminded

me of something and I glanced away in shame.

"Terry Slock is not a movie star, dear. Susannah says he's a former child actor from that popular TV show, Mama

Wore Pearls. After that he made one or two guest appearances on a soap opera. The Young and the Spiteful, I think it

was. He played a vampire. Anyway, Susannah says he hasn't been on TV for years."

My sister Susannah knows these things because, unlike Freni or I she watches television. It will undoubtedly shock

you to learn that my sister is not a Mennonite. Her apple not only fell far from the tree, it rolled into another orchard

altogether. Susannah is a Presbyterian - and a lapsed Presbyterian at that!

I fully expected Freni to go ballistic upon hearing that Terry Slock had played the role of a vampire; Amish theology

and vampires don't mix. I glanced !back at the table just long enough to see that Freni was calmly slicing the offensive

coil.

"Well, at least the movie star is a nice man," she said. "That's more than I can say about the doctor."

"Oh?" I said, leading her tongue into temptation. She grabbed a wad of butter and rubbed it vigorously along the

insides of several baking pans. For a brief moment self-discipline and self-expression battled it out. In the end, experience

won.

"He is not a friendly man, Magdalena. Yesterday I asked him a simple question about my bunions, and he told me to

make an appointment with a podiatrist. When I told him we didn't have one in Hernia, he said I should see my primary

care physician. He didn't even offer to look at my feet."

"Your feet are beneath him, dear. Wilmar Brack is a world-famous osteopath."

"Famous shamus," Freni mumbled as she plopped the rolls into the pans. "I saw that back brace he invented, and I

wouldn't put that on a plow mule."

"It won him a Nobel prize," I said.

" And made him millions," Freni said, and gave me an accusing look.

"Man does not live by bread alone. Or even cinnamon rolls."

Freni limped over to the oven, a pan of rolls in each hand. "As far as I'm concerned, you have only one good English

in this batch."

I knew exactly what and who she meant, and she wasn't referring to the rolls. To the Amish all outsiders are English.

Without a doubt the good one in, this case was Ms. Shirley Pearson, a high-level executive of Silver Spoon Foods. I'm

sure you've heard of them - they make that new breakfast cereal Chocolate Troglodytes, of which Susannah is so fond.

At any rate, I am all for women in high places, and if the truth be known, I jockeyed my applicant's list around and bumped

her ahead of a few very wealthy, but less wholesome folks.

"Ms. Pearson is very pleasant," I agreed.

"She dresses sensibly."

"Maybe too sensibly."

The oven door slammed. "Ach, what is that supposed to mean?"

"She dresses plain," I said.

I didn't mean that as a slight, merely a statement of fact. Ms. Pearson with her midcalf skirts, and her elbow-length

sleeves, could have traded dresses with the "plain" women of a number of Pennsylvania Dutch sects. Her shoes were

boxy brown oxfords, the kind Susannah referred to as clodhoppers. And it wasn't only her clothes that set her apart from

past and present female guests. Ms. Pearson was totally devoid of ornamentation, be it cosmetics or jewelry. She wore

her dark blond hair in braids piled at the back of her head and held in place with bobby pins. It was not the look I expected

to see from an important executive.

"Yah, plain is good," Freni said stubbornly.

"Freni, the woman is - "

I was interrupted by a high-pitched wail that could only mean one thing. My sister was home. I whirled.

Susannah swirled in. I mean that literally. My sister wears neither slacks nor dresses, but outfits consisting of yards

and yards of flowing fabric. Just; one of her getups could clothe an entire, small, third world country. And so as to not

speak critically of my sister twice, I will tell you here that she owns a very small and nasty dog, Shnookums, which she

carries around in her purse and, upon occasion, in her bra.

"You're home!" Freni and I chorused. Susannah had only recently been hired by a paint company in Bedford,

Pennsylvania, to name their color chips.

"I was fired!" Susannah wailed, and flung herself into my arms.

There followed a pitiful yelp, which led me to conclude that the despicable Shnookums was spending the day aloft.

I steered the poor girl over to the nearest chair. "Tell me what happened."

"I told you, Mags. I was fired. I worked there for only a month, and then they fired me."

"Why?" Susannah, much to everyone's surprise, had loved the job and thrown herself into it.

"Oh, they did some stupid survey and it said that sales were down on account of my color names."

I patted her comfortingly. There was not much I could say. I had tried to warn her that Mucus Mellow was never going

to replace Buttercup, and as for Gonad Green - I shuddered at the thought.

"Ach, there'll be other jobs," Freni said. She peered into the oven, willing the rolls to rise further and turn a light

golden brown.

Susannah sat slumped in her chair, like a pile of unfolded laundry. "What jobs?" she asked weakly.

"You could help out here."

It was a radical thought. Before our parents died a dozen years ago they wisely left the farm under my control. Even

at age twenty-four my sister could outlaze the most shiftless of teenagers - not that all teenagers are shiftless, mind you,

but you know what I mean. Susannah could sleep for thirty-six hours and not have to use the bathroom. When she was

awake, her spine was incapable of supporting her in an upright position.

I am ashamed to admit that my sister did not outgrow this adolescent characteristic, until the paint chip job came

along. That first day, when she got up with the chickens, Freni and I both went into shock. Even Freni's husband Mose,

who is never shaken, examined Susannah's pupils with a flashlight to see if she was sleepwalking.

"Yah, I could use some help," Freni said. "What with your sister taking off to play policeman."

Susannah sat up. "What?"

I filled her in. It was already clear I had made a colossal mistake. Two, in fact.

"How much will you pay me to help out?" Susannah asked.

The nerve of that girl. She gets a hefty allowance, plus room, board, and the occasional use of my car just because

we share more genes than two pairs of identical twins.

"I'll double your allowance," I said generously, "but you have to earn it."

"I'm thirty-six years old, Mags, and I still get an allowance! I want a salary."

"Then call it a salary, dear. Already you get enough money to support two Democrats or one Republican."

The oven door slammed, although nothing had i been taken out. "Why Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Miller! I slave

over a hot stove for you day and night, and do I get my salary doubled?"

"Freni, please! I pay you plenty."

Freni yanked the oven mitt off her right hand and wagged a finger at me. "I want my allowance doubled, too. On

principle."

That would make Freni the highest-paid professional cook in Bedford County, but since I could afford it, and she was

both family and a friend, why not?

"Okay. But you have to stop serving headcheese to the English just to see their reactions."

Freni nodded. Among her kind, that was as binding as a vow.

"No fair," Susannah wailed. "I'm your sister, so I should get mine tripled then."

I sighed wearily. I was breaking. I would have admitted to being Anonymous if anyone had asked.

"Fine. Just get to work."

"Magdalena ?" Freni was staring at me through flour-dusted glasses.

"Freni, you'll still be making more than Susannah. She really was getting only an allowance. I mean - "

The oven door slammed and a pan of half-baked rolls came crashing down on the heavy plank table. "I quit!"

3

I woke up from my mid-morning nap with a splitting headache. The phone was ringing.

"What?" I may have snapped.

"Mags?"

It was Aaron. My husband. My Pooky Bear.

"So how is Minnesota?" I asked, after we had exchanged a few intimate words which I will not share with you.