Hell Hath No Curry (12 page)

“Magdalena, I don’t recall inviting you here. It’s time for you to leave.”

“But I paid double your hair-cutting fee just to speak to you, so I’m not leaving here until I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”

It was Thelma’s turn to fish for the money, which she’d tucked in the pockets of her brown corduroy jumper. But upon finding the money, rather than hand it to me in a mature fashion, she had the nerve to thrust it under my perfectly shaped schnoz.

“Here. I don’t want your money.”

“Keep it; it’s yours.”

“Either take it or I’m dropping it.”

I decided to call her bluff. “Do whatever you want, dear.”

Lo and behold, Thelma was not bluffing. I stared in disbelief HELL HATH NO CURRY

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as the coins hit the porch floor and rolled in all directions. The bills, buoyed by a slight breeze, took longer to land.

What Thelma had done was totally un-American, possibly even illegal in several states. In my book, it was worthy of a one-way pass to the funny farm. It was also, I began to believe, evidence that the gal with the golden locks was not a gold digger.

“Toodle-oo,” I said. “I left something on the stove and need to get back to the inn as soon as possible.”

“Electric or gas?”

“What?”

“Your stove. What does it run on?”

I allowed my mind to visualize my most recent power bill.

“Uh—gas.”

“Ha! You’re not cooking anything, except for another hare-brained theory.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve solved a number of murder cases with this hare brain of mine. And for your information, missy, you were wrong about Cornelius not having any money. We share the same stockbroker and—never you mind. Suffice it to say, the man was loaded.”

Poor Thelma, and I mean that literally, appeared stunned.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that the sun will come out tomorrow.”

“It’s supposed to rain.”

“It’s a saying, dear. Trust me, the dearly departed had more dough than a string of commercial bakeries.”

“In that case you really need to speak to Cornelius’s mother.”

“His mother is dead.”

“His
step
mother isn’t.”

“Veronica Weaver? What does she have to do with the price of cheese in Amsterdam?”

“She had to loan him ten thousand dollars, that’s what.” She turned to go back into the house.

15

Palak Paneer

Ingredients

3 pounds spinach, thoroughly cleaned

1 teaspoon ginger-garlic paste

and roughly chopped

¼ teaspoon turmeric

Pinch salt, plus salt to taste

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or to

½ pound paneer, cut into 1-inch cubes

taste)

¼ cup oil

¼ cup heavy cream

2 medium onions, finely sliced

¼ cup coriander leaves, finely

2 medium tomatoes, chopped

chopped, for garnish (optional)

2 green chilies, split in half

Yield: 4 servings

Preparation

1. Bring a pot of water to a boil. Add spinach and pinch of salt and stir for approximately 5 minutes or till spinach is tender, but do not overcook. Strain spinach and keep ready.

2. Heat a little oil in frying pan and fry paneer cubes till lightly HELL HATH NO CURRY

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golden brown. Remove and drain on paper towels.

3. Heat oil and add onions. Stir-fry till light golden brown.

4. Add tomatoes, green chilies, ginger-garlic paste, turmeric, cayenne pepper, and salt. Thoroughly mix.

5. Let this mixture cook for 10–15 minutes. Add a little water if need be to keep from sticking or burning.

6. Add spinach and mix well.

7. Add heavy cream and stir. Then add paneer cubes and mix.

8. Cover pot and allow to cook on low heat for 5

minutes.

9. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with naan or rice.

Notes

• You can find paneer in the refrigerated section of any Indian or Pakistani grocery store.

• Some like to leave their spinach just as is, while others like to blend it to a paste. The choice is yours. You may also substitute tender spinach leaves.

• Substitute 2 cups peas for the spinach to make Mattar Paneer.

16

“Wait just one Mennonite minute!”

“Now what?” she snapped. If you ask me, only mothers of teens have a right to sound that exasperated.

“Did you mean it when you said I could have this money?”

I pointed at a nice, crisp dollar bill with the toe of a much-worn brogan.

“Yes. And for the record, you’re impossible.” The door slammed behind her.

I may be a weensy bit greedy from time to time—I’m only human, after all—but I am certainly not impossible. It was an honest question, a thoughtful one even. For all I knew, she’d changed her mind. Besides, it really was my money in the first place, and we hadn’t even mentioned hair.

Greedy is not necessarily stupid, so before I left the prem-ises I chased down every cent except for one. That penny lies beneath a hole in the porch, one that is guarded by a spi-der so large that, at first glance, I mistook it for a discarded hairbrush.

Having recovered my loot, I headed for the hills.

* * *

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Veronica Weaver never quite recovered from the 1970s. Or would that have been the late sixties? I seemed to have missed out on the whole “make love, not war” movement. For me the “summer of love” was the summer I married Aaron Miller, and it was not so much a
summer
of love as it was a string of three-minute interludes.

At any rate, Veronica Speicher was a hippie who married Latrum Weaver, father of the late Cornelius. (Latrum’s first wife, Willetta, choked to death trying to eat a ham sandwich while singing along to a Mama Cass recording.) Cornelius was only a lad of three when he acquired a stepmother and took to her like dust to a refrigerator top. By all accounts it was a happy marriage, ending only when Latrum succumbed to periodic bouts of increased heart rate—also due to three-minute interludes, or so I am told.

After her husband’s death, Veronica purchased a three-bedroom mobile home and had it hauled up to Speicher’s Meadow, a grassy knoll that had been in her family for generations. Veronica seemed perfectly happy up there—sometimes even too happy, like the time she was busted for growing more than an acre of marijuana hidden only by a border of sunflowers.

It was a miracle that I didn’t wreck the car while driving up to Speicher’s Meadow, given that I was also wrestling with the Devil the entire way. Sometimes Satan pops an idea into my mind that I can’t seem to get rid of. I am ashamed to say that sampling marijuana was a particularly persistent thought.

But let’s face it, what harm would there be in trying it only once? Just
once
. After all, it isn’t like crack or cocaine, in which case once can be one time too many. And it isn’t a manufactured drug, like LSD. Marijuana is a natural herb, like oregano, or basil.

And in the Bible the Good Lord Himself gives us permission to eat every herb He created. Take Genesis 1:29, for example: “And God said, ‘See I have given you every herb that yields seed which is on the face of the earth, and every tree whose fruit yields seed; to you it shall be for food.’ ” There is no exclusion for marijuana, a 100

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seed-bearing plant, just as there is no exclusion for wine-producing grapes, another seed-bearing plant. Seedless grapes, on the other hand, might be problematic.

And if the Good Lord’s endorsement isn’t enough, then look to our nation’s leaders. Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, the two most intelligent men who ever lived, both admitted to some youthful experimenting. Just because my youth was spent toeing the line in my sturdy brogans, does that necessarily mean that I will have to die with a virgin’s nostrils? (In a manner of speaking, that is.)

Still, I know it was a sin to think like that, because just the thought of taking a puff or two got my blood to racing. “If it feels good,” Mama used to say, “then it’s wrong.” That’s why Mama was into hard, uncomfortable furniture and bland, tasteless food.

Although Mama never wore a hair shirt, I once saw her tuck a burr into the waistband of her Sunday skirt, lest she derive too much pleasure from the hymns sung by a visiting choir.

One thing for sure, Mama would not have experienced a speck of pleasure from viewing Speicher’s Meadow in early spring. The flowers and grasses that made it such a delight in the summer had yet to resurrect. The lane that led back to the trailer was muddy and riddled with potholes. The trees Veronica had planted years ago remained spindly and were, of course, still bereft of leaves. Even the mobile home looked tired and weather-beaten, as if biding its time until it could be hauled off to early retirement in a junkyard.

Much to my disappointment, there wasn’t an automobile in sight. Whereas my mind is like a steel trap—rusty and illegal in thirty-seven states—it does work, if given enough notice. I hadn’t called ahead because I knew that Veronica Weaver, like the Amish, did not believe in owning a telephone. This is not to say that Veronica is Amish; she is far from it. Instead, she subscribes to the notion that telephones, rather than bringing folks closer together, actually create distance, as they make face-to-face interaction no longer a necessity. This is, in my humble opinion, ironic coming from a woman HELL HATH NO CURRY

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who has chosen to live out in the tulle weeds, where the only faces she encounters on a daily basis belong to deer and raccoons.

The knowledge that I was quite alone gave me an idea that was borderline sinful. You see, many years ago, during my rebellious college days, when I wore dresses that came down only to my knees, and sandals without socks, I allowed myself to be talked into seeing a movie. I’m not referring to a home movie produced by a lonely missionary in some far-off place like the Congo; I’m talking about a real Hollywood movie.

It was one of only two movies I’ve ever seen; the other being
Eleanor Does Washington,
which I’d been led to believe was a political documentary, and which it would have been rude to walk out of, seeing as how I was seated in the middle of a row. It was, incidentally, an incredibly boring film. Anyway,
The Sound of Music
was the name of the other movie, the one I enjoyed. At the beginning of this film, Julie Andrews runs up over the crest of a hill, singing with joy. It is an image I have carried with me over the years, and from which I have drawn a measure of comfort during some difficult times.

While I do not claim to sing on par with Miss Andrews—oh, who am I kidding? I might well be the world’s worst singer. Papa always told me to be the best I can be, and surely being the best
worst
singer is an accomplishment of sorts. I am unaware of a contest for this negative skill of mine, but the fact that I am guaranteed to put the hens off laying and curdle the milk in dairy cows six pastures away ought to count for something. One Sunday, during a particularly rousing rendition of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” a pack of stray dogs burst into our little church and attempted to have their way with me.

Nonetheless I have enjoyed some musical moments in the privacy of my own home, safe within the soapy embrace of Big Bertha. That I have never tried singing the opening song of my favorite movie whilst cavorting in a meadow is due only to the lack of suitable meadows in the Hernia environs. Our landscape 102

Tamar Myers

consists of wooded ridges and narrow, cultivated valleys. To my knowledge, Speicher’s Meadow is the only grassy sward between the turnpike and Maryland, across which one dare not venture without stocking provisions.

But I have digressed. My point is that I found myself quite alone in a meadow setting, and was overcome with the urge to exercise my lungs. Flinging my purse to the ground, I spread my arms, twirled several times, and then ran to the top of a low rise, all the while braying the words to the opening song of
The Sound
of Music
. Upon ending the song, I cocked my head and pretended to hear the sound of bells clanging in the abbey below.

“Brava! Brava! Encore!”

One can imagine my shock and horror to discover that just below the rise was the supine form of a woman. The nerve of her!

Who in their right mind lies down in a meadow like a tired sheep?

“Veronica Weaver!”

She stood slowly, brushing blades of dead grass from a bohemian-style skirt and blouse. Around her neck hung a tangle of brightly colored beads, a few of which matched the silk flower that was tucked affectedly behind her right ear. Except for the flower, which is fresh when in season, Veronica looked exactly the same as she did three years ago, the last time I saw her.

“Don’t stop now, Magdalena. Sing ‘Climb Every Mountain.’ ”

“You don’t have to be mean.”

“Mean? I don’t get it. I love hearing you sing.”

“And I love boiled turnips and fried liver—not!” Sometimes Alison’s slang comes in handy.

She stared quizzically at me. Her blue-gray eyes are paler than mine, although perhaps they just appear that way thanks to the shaggy dark brow that stretches, uninterrupted, from temple to temple.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” she said.

“And I think I’m about to lose my temper. Enough is enough, Veronica. I know I’m a lousy singer. You don’t need to rub it in.”

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“But I—you think I’m teasing you.”

“Tormenting, is more like it.”

She clapped her hands. No adult woman deserves to have hands that small, if you ask me. Even a Cracker Jack ring would be large on Veronica, which probably explains why I’d never seen her wear a wedding band, even when Latrum was still alive.

“But I’m serious. You may be untrained, but you have one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.”