cauliflower. That just goes to show how little attention we pay to people we see on a daily basis. At any rate, I grabbed the dough ball on the left and eased it from her ear. I did the same to the one on the right.
Freni looked at me as if I were a magician and had just pulled a pair of rabbits out of her head. “Ach! What do you do now?”
“Is this the same dough that you plugged your ears with on Monday?”
She flushed, her memory coming back to her along with the ability to hear. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean by ’I don’t think so’? Is this something you do on a regular basis? And if so, why haven’t I noticed? Somewhere there is a village missing its eccentric.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Always the riddles, Magdalena.
If I live to be one hundred, I will never understand the English.”
To the Amish, anyone not of their faith is “English.” Because I am her kinswoman, and our denominations share some history, to Freni I am marginally English—depending on her mood. But an Amish woman from London (I’m pretty sure there aren’t any) would not be English, whereas a Buddhist from Japan would most definitely be English.
“Freni, I wasn’t asking you a riddle. I was merely inquiring whether or not sticking bread in your ears was a habit. By the way, how are the guests doing? Any complaints you need to pass on?
Silly me, how could you have heard what they were saying?”
She shrugged. “Yah, but yesterday there is a complaint.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“The woman from Charleston, the one you say is uppity.”
50 Tamar
Myers
“I did not say—let’s move on, shall we? What did she say?”
“She ask me how many threads there are in the bedsheets.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I tell her ’enough.’ ”
As Freni spoke, she calmly brushed melted shortening on the two rolls rescued from her ears, and plopped them in a baking pan along with some others. Waste not, want not. Freni is a woman after my heart. As for the bedsheets in my guest rooms, the thread count is low because I believe in being thrifty. Besides, coarse sheets serve to exfoliate dead skin as my guests toss and turn on their lumpy mattresses. If you ask me, folks should pay extra for the privilege of having their bodies buffed while they sleep.
“You did fine, Freni.”
I started for the door to my suite, which opens off the oppo-site side of the kitchen from the back door.
“Magdalena?”
“Yes?”
“How did it go with the Jewish preacher?”
“The rabbi? He seemed very nice, but I really didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”
“Yah?”
“Her.”
Freni nodded. Given the fact that she virtually lacks a neck, it looked more like a hiccup.
“I do not know which is worse, Magdalena: your mother-in-law, or my daughter-in-law.”
“She’s not my mother-in-law yet! Besides, your Barbara is the salt of the earth.”
“Too much salt makes high the blood pressure, yah?”
I laughed the laugh of a doomed woman. Several months prior I had oh-so-cleverly palmed the Babester’s mama off on Doc Shafor, a randy octogenarian friend of mine whose libido has been stuck on high for as long as I can remember. I thought it was love HELL HATH NO CURRY
51
at first sight, and I believe they did as well. As insurance I sent them on an all-expenses-paid trip to Bora-Bora in French Poly-nesia, which is as far as one can get from Hernia without cooperation from NASA. But alas, twenty-six hours on an airplane, in economy class, was too much for the budding romance. The fact that they haven’t taken contracts out on each other is only because neither of them has any money.
“Just think, Freni,” I said meanly, “if she moves in here with me, you’ll have her and Barbara.”
“Ach!”
“Ach, indeed. I think you’ll soon find that your daughter-in-law is a picnic compared to Ida Rosen.”
“A picnic with low-salt food, yah?”
We laughed.
“Magdalena, I think maybe your maam would
Freni looked at me as if I were a magician and had just pulled a pair of rabbits out of her head. “Ach! What do you do now?”
“Is this the same dough that you plugged your ears with on Monday?”
She flushed, her memory coming back to her along with the ability to hear. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean by ’I don’t think so’? Is this something you do on a regular basis? And if so, why haven’t I noticed? Somewhere there is a village missing its eccentric.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Always the riddles, Magdalena.
If I live to be one hundred, I will never understand the English.”
To the Amish, anyone not of their faith is “English.” Because I am her kinswoman, and our denominations share some history, to Freni I am marginally English—depending on her mood. But an Amish woman from London (I’m pretty sure there aren’t any) would not be English, whereas a Buddhist from Japan would most definitely be English.
“Freni, I wasn’t asking you a riddle. I was merely inquiring whether or not sticking bread in your ears was a habit. By the way, how are the guests doing? Any complaints you need to pass on?
Silly me, how could you have heard what they were saying?”
She shrugged. “Yah, but yesterday there is a complaint.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“The woman from Charleston, the one you say is uppity.”
50 Tamar
Myers
“I did not say—let’s move on, shall we? What did she say?”
“She ask me how many threads there are in the bedsheets.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I tell her ’enough.’ ”
As Freni spoke, she calmly brushed melted shortening on the two rolls rescued from her ears, and plopped them in a baking pan along with some others. Waste not, want not. Freni is a woman after my heart. As for the bedsheets in my guest rooms, the thread count is low because I believe in being thrifty. Besides, coarse sheets serve to exfoliate dead skin as my guests toss and turn on their lumpy mattresses. If you ask me, folks should pay extra for the privilege of having their bodies buffed while they sleep.
“You did fine, Freni.”
I started for the door to my suite, which opens off the oppo-site side of the kitchen from the back door.
“Magdalena?”
“Yes?”
“How did it go with the Jewish preacher?”
“The rabbi? He seemed very nice, but I really didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”
“Yah?”
“Her.”
Freni nodded. Given the fact that she virtually lacks a neck, it looked more like a hiccup.
“I do not know which is worse, Magdalena: your mother-in-law, or my daughter-in-law.”
“She’s not my mother-in-law yet! Besides, your Barbara is the salt of the earth.”
“Too much salt makes high the blood pressure, yah?”
I laughed the laugh of a doomed woman. Several months prior I had oh-so-cleverly palmed the Babester’s mama off on Doc Shafor, a randy octogenarian friend of mine whose libido has been stuck on high for as long as I can remember. I thought it was love HELL HATH NO CURRY
51
at first sight, and I believe they did as well. As insurance I sent them on an all-expenses-paid trip to Bora-Bora in French Poly-nesia, which is as far as one can get from Hernia without cooperation from NASA. But alas, twenty-six hours on an airplane, in economy class, was too much for the budding romance. The fact that they haven’t taken contracts out on each other is only because neither of them has any money.
“Just think, Freni,” I said meanly, “if she moves in here with me, you’ll have her and Barbara.”
“Ach!”
“Ach, indeed. I think you’ll soon find that your daughter-in-law is a picnic compared to Ida Rosen.”
“A picnic with low-salt food, yah?”
We laughed.
“Magdalena, I think maybe your maam would
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