“Funny, but I don’t recall being deafened yesterday morning when I came down to breakfast-then again, I was greeted by the pleasant Mrs. Hoffenstetter.”

“Her name is Hostetler, dear,” I said through clenched teeth, “and she isn’t all that pleasant all of the time-not that I’m telling tales out of school, mind you.”

Olivia raised a thick black eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Well, you know, the usual. She’s human-that’s all. We all get grumpy from time to time.”

After arranging her thick features in a skeptical mold, she pulled out her chair and plunked her patooty down without further ado.

“We’re not going to eat until everyone is here and the blessing is said,” I informed her crossly. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already know the rules.

“What if I’m an atheist?”

“Then it’s even more important that you hear grace.”

“What about your husband? How does he feel about having to sit through one of your interminable prayers?”

“Would everyone just leave my husband out of it?” To say that I wailed would be too kind; “braying” would be a more apt description. From the distance of a good mile away, I could hear Kaye Cornmesser ’s pet mule bray in response.

Olivia smiled. No doubt she was happy that she’d struck a nerve.

“It must be hard for your husband, living in this closed, judgmental community.”

“Your wig’s on crooked.”

“What?”

“It looks like someone tried to scalp you last night, but got stopped in the middle of the act. You haven’t seen a tomahawk lying about, have you? It would be an awful thing to stub one’s toe on, don’t you think?”

Olivia flushed as both hands flew up to her head. “You are a wicked woman, Miss Yoder. A wicked, wicked woman.” Then she was gone.

But, in the end, everyone returned, hair in place, or properly clothed, as the situation warranted. I said my interminably long grace, after which they were rewarded with one of Gabe’s fabulous omelets-well, part of one, at least.

We were halfway through the scrumptious repast when who should fly in the front door but a nun on a mission. The truth be known, I am loath to refer to the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy as nuns, since none of these so-called nuns has had any theological training, nor are they required to believe in anything except the philosophy that apathy is the best approach to dealing with the stresses life throws one’s way. Some of the pseudo- sisters are even too apathetic to subscribe to that concept.

“Whoa,” I said, to the flying nun. “Hold your horses. A truly apathetic person would never be in such a hurry.”

“Ma?” The Babester can instantly recognize his mother, no matter how many times she changes her habits.

“Ya. Who else?”

“Is something wrong?”

“You tink mebbe I come to twiddle my tumbs?”

My husband was on his feet. “Ma! What’s the problem?”

“Yes, dear,” I said with remarkable patience. “What is so urgent that you had to storm in here-without knocking, I might add-and disturb our breakfast? Especially on a day when I have a particularly unruly lot from the Garden State that I have just now managed to calm down-”

“ ‘Subjugate’ is more like it,” said Carl Zambezi. For the record, he hadn’t been too thrilled by the toast selection, preferring as he did a medium brown hue.

I prayed for a patient tongue. It was a very brief prayer, as I have learned over the years that it is not cost effective to pray for things that are unlikely to happen.

“We serve food family style here,” my tongue said. “You would be wise to remember that I am the mama in this family.”

“Is that some sort of a veiled threat, Miss Yoder?”

“Oh, not at all, dear. I think it’s quite clear: if you continue to complain, you’ll have to leave the table.”

I fully expected there to be an uproar, but everyone fell silent except for Mother Malaise, aka my mother-in-law. “You see, dis von’s a tyrant.”

“I am not!”

“Eet’s a good ting,” the real tyrant had the chutzpah to say. “Das vhy I vant you to be my replacement someday.”

I couldn’t believe my ear pans. “You do?”

“Of course! Who else? You’re meshuggeneh like me, no? Und you like to control zee people around you, ya? Bossy, dat is vhat vee are. Dat eez our God-given talent.”

“I think she might have a point,” the Babester said.

“But I’m not apathetic!” I wailed.

“I thought you were going to stop wailing.” The Babester looked away when he spoke, which was a wise move on his part.

“I am, but there is a time and a place for everything. It’s in Ezekiel-that’s in your Bible too.”

“Dun’t vorry,” Mother Malaise said, exhibiting remarkable generosity. “Someday you vill be apathetic, and by den Sister Disgruntled vill heff moved on to greener pastures, so you can heff her name. Eet vill feet you pearfectly.”

I turned to the guests. “Eat, dears. This isn’t a floor show.” I turned back to mother-in-law. “So, you ran all the way over here on your-uh-petite-legs to recruit me for that distant day when Sister Disgruntled will stand before her Maker and account for her time spent in your loony bin?”

“Mebbe not so distant, ya? Sister Disgruntled is eighty-four and loves bacon-fey! But you are right dis time; I heff come here because of a very beeg problem.”

“What is that?” the Babester asked.

“Zee ooncles!”

“Zee vhat?” I said. It was unconscious on my part, believe me.

“Zee ooncles!” Ida shouted. “Zee brudders of zee modder of Agnes.”

“Ah, the uncles,” the Babester and I said together. “What about them?” I added.

Ida inclined her head toward my guests, as if any of them would have what my mama referred to as “gentle ears.” She waggled a brow that could have used a good trimming with hedge clippers.

“Dey are in zee boof.”

“Ah,” Gabe and I said, again in unison.

There followed a moment of silence, after which my dear husband dared speak first. “Ma, what is a ‘boof’?”

Mother Malaise clapped her liver-spotted hands in annoyance. “Dey are nekkid.”

That I understood. “Holy guacamole,” I cried, swearing like a sailor, “they promised to keep their robes on! They said that they looked forward to having fun playing monk midst all your nuns.”

“My, my,” Olivia opined, “monks running amok amongst nuns. Isn’t that a bit risky? Sort of like having a rooster loose in a henhouse?”

I glared at her. I couldn’t help it.

“They’re more like capons, dear-not that it’s any of your business.”

“What’s a capon?” Tiny asked.

“Just a kind of chicken, dear. Which reminds me”-I turned back to Barbie Nyle-“I read on your guest survey that you play the piano. As you can see I have no Steinway, but I’ll do my best to get you a henweigh by three o’clock.”

“What’s a henweigh?” Olivia demanded rudely.

“About four pounds-plucked. But I’ve had some old fryers that have topped the scale in the six-pound range. Tough old birds though.”

It was Olivia’s turn to glare. “I suppose you think that you’re funny.”

“Au contraire, dear. I don’t have a funny bone in my body. In fact, I eschew humor. Now, about those ooncles-Have you spoken to Agnes?”

“Oy vey,” Mother Malaise said, and rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a cabbage? Of course I speak to her.”

“Nu,” I said, just a tad impatiently. Sometimes learning a foreign language comes in very useful.

“Und she said that dis is America, de land of de free, und dat her ooncles vere yust exercising der rights.”

“Rights, shmights, she’s wrong. It’s your convent, and you make the rules. Besides, they could be a bad influence. Who knows? Maybe some of your nuns will bare all, and pretty soon the place will turn into a nudist colony. Boy, wouldn’t that just be a fine “how do you do”? Movie stars can officially check in here, but spend their time there gawking. Maybe even a few will shed their clothes. If that happens, and you get some good pictures-Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if the National Enquirer would be willing to pay millions.”