After all, if given the choice-and this still a free country-who in Hernia wouldn’t prefer to buy their shoes or plumbing supplies from a good Christian than from a nonbeliever? And just to set the record straight, our good folk were not just discriminating against Jews, Muslims, and Hindus, but anyone who was not “born again”-i.e., the Roman Catholics and Episcopalians.

I cringed dramatically. “Oops. I’m sorry, Freni, but Amy is a heathen.”

“Ach!” She dropped both pot lids as she threw her pudgy hands up to shield her face from impending evil. Then on second thought, she abruptly dropped them. “You are joking. Yah?”

“Oh no, I’m quite serious. This woman’s a card-carrying member of PAPA-Pagan American Princess Association.”

Freni gasped. “Get behind me, Satan!”

“Speaking of whom,” I said casually, “I was thinking of opening a snack bar in the lobby that Amy could run. We could stock it with Devil’s food cupcakes, deviled eggs-”

Freni was beside herself, which made for a crowded space in front of the stove. “Then I quit!”

It was oops for real this time; I hadn’t seen this one coming. Freni has quit a grand total of 187 times. Thank heavens the last time I hired her back, I made her sign a contract stating that she would give me two weeks’ notice and put me in touch with at least three other Amish women who could benefit from earning a little extra pocket money. Since Freni-and she does so with the greatest of humility, not to mention justification-considers herself to be the best cook between the Allegheny and the Delaware rivers, it didn’t seem likely that she would have ever been able to name a replacement.

“Then quit, dear,” I said calmly. “I’ll mark the date on the calendar.”

She tore at her apron. “I quit now.”

“You can’t! Remember?”

“So I signed this paper-but this was before you invited this heathen woman.”

“Besides, dear, I was indeed just joking; I have no idea what Amy believes. For all I know she’s a Holy Roller or even a Southern Baptist who believes that you’re not going to Heaven because you haven’t been dunked.”

“Ach! This is so?”

“Well, I don’t know about Baptists for sure, but there are some denominations who do believe that. At any rate, you’re not quitting, so don’t get your bloomers in a bunch.”

Freni looked like the proverbial sheep that had been asked an algebra question. “My bloomers?”

“Your panties-your underwear. Freni, you still wear them, don’t you?” Freni’s particular subset of Amish is amongst the most conservative there are, and they do not wear the type of undergarments that we are generally familiar with. Instead, the women wear a heavy muslin underslip and the men don loose-fitting muslin underpants that reach to the knees. It took me many moons to talk Freni into wearing a brassiere and white cotton briefs by Hanes Her Way.

“Ach, I cannot believe- Magdalena, you are so-ach!” Freni flushed as she furiously tried to flail past me. Forsooth, given her fervor, it appeared that I was finished. Fortunately for me alliteration was not her forte, so that finally when she ceased to flounder, her speech was neither flowery nor foul.

“You make me so mad sometimes, I must spit cotton! Always the jokes, Magdalena. Always the teasing. This time I have had enough; this time I will not recommend to you the name of Mary Berkey.”

“But you just did,” I said gently, before clapping a hand over my big mouth.

15

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

½ cup confectioners’ sugar

1 teaspoon lemon extract or lemon baking oil

2 cups all-purpose flour

⅔ cup unsweetened coconut, fine or medium shred

2½ tablespoons lemongrass puree or 1 tablespoon lemongrass powder

2 cups (12-ounce package) white chocolate chips, chopped and divided

Additional coconut and lemongrass powder for decoration (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°F. Beat butter and sugar with an electric mixer until creamy. Add lemon oil or extract. Gradually beat in flour, coconut and lemongrass. Stir in 1½ cups white chocolate chips. Shape dough into 1-inch balls and place ½ inch apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake on middle rack until cookies are set and light golden brown on bottom, 10 to 12 minutes.

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.