I forbid swearing on my premises, and usually take any such offenders to task, but that evening I prudently bit my tongue. The guests bit their tongues for other reasons - one hundred thousand reasons, to be exact.
"Then it's settled?" George Mitchell looked at each contestant in turn.
One by one, they nodded mutely.
Freni, however, shamefully continued to gloat. I was going to have to take her aside and tell her that gloating did her cause no good. It might even prejudice me against her.
I try and give credit where credit is due. Ms. Holt, I am obliged to say, was no dummy. She was able to switch sides like a governor who has seen the political light.
"Did I say how charming I find your inn, Miss Yoder?"
"Not to my face, dear."
She smiled, revealing a mouth full of sparkling caps. "Last year, when I took my cooking show on the road, we did a segment from an inn just like this. Only it was in Vermont. You know" - paused and pretended to be thinking -"this would be a perfect location for one of my shows. Maybe even two or three. What would you say to that?"
"I'd say you have more chutzpah than the man who killed his parents, and then threw himself upon the mercy of the court because he was an orphan."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Chutzpah, dear. It means nerve. Unmitigated gall." Thanks to Babs, I knew almost as much Yiddish as I did Pennsylvania Dutch.
"I know what it means," she hissed, and then catching herself, gave me another glimpse of her caps. "Of course I understand that yours is a very popular inn, and hosting a cooking show might be a trifle inconvenient."
"Pun intended?"
She chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. From that moment on, I knew I had the upper hand.
Susannah slid into her seat, breathless as usual, and mumbled something about a defective alarm clock. I gave her an obligatory frown, and then prayed for the grace to forgive and, above all, forget. My prayer worked, and the rest of the meal would have progressed without incident had not Carlie found something unusual in her stew.
"Hey, everybody!" she shouted, startling us all. "I found a diamond!"
"I don't think so, dear," I said kindly. Her outburst had caused me to drop my fork, and I had gravy splattered on a relatively new dress.
"But I did!" Carlie held up an object the size of a lima bean. Despite the gravy that dripped off it, I could see that it sparkled.
"Pass that down, dear, will you?"
Her fist closed around it. "No way! Finders keepers, losers weepers."
"This is my inn, I said sternly, "whatever you find here belongs to me." Frankly, I didn't really think she'd found a diamond in Freni's stew, but in a Pittsburgh restaurant, I once found a glass eye in a bowl of bouillabaisse.
"I ain't passing nothing," Carlie said.
I glared at the impudent child.
"Pass it," Art said. He was sitting across from his ward.
Carlie glared back at me, but made no move to give up her treasure.
Thanks to Susannah, who was watching the proceedings with some amusement, I knew how to handle Carlie's type. I stood up and ut my fists on my hips.
"Pass it, toots, or you're out of here."
Art could tell I meant business. "Carlie, do as Miss Yoder asked, and do it now!"
"Ah, shit! Why does everyone get to boss me around? It ain't fair, you know. It's my diamond `cause I found it."
"Maybe Miss Yoder will give you a reward."
Carlie stuck a ring-studded tongue out at me, but dropped the object in Art's extended hand.
He bravely polished it with his napkin. "Why, it isn't a diamond at all. It's just a piece of glass."
"No way! Let me see!" Carlie lunged across the table and snatched the object in question from her mentor's hand.
"Well?" I said, tapping my foot.
"Aw, shit! It is glass! Man, I could have cut myself on this sucker. I could have split my tongue wide open."
"How would you even know the difference?" I demanded.
Ms. Holt condescended to snicker.
I glared at her. Then I pointed a long, bony finger at Carlie.
"Now you go straight to your room, young lady.
Carlie's eyes widened. "You mean me?"
"I don't allow swearing in my establishment. It says so clearly on the back of every bedroom door."
"But I'm staying in the f - well, you know - cellar!"
"Just the same, I've made it very clear. So stop arguing and go to your room - I mean, cellar."
"Man, that's not fair. That's discrimination or something. He swears and gets away with it." Shepointed a black-lacquered nail at the dapper Mr. Mitchell.
George Mitchell's eyes were twinkling like the lights of Philadelphia on a clear summer night. He seemed to e enjoying the show as much as Susannah.
In the interest of fairness, I glared at him.
"Now scoot," I said to Carlie, "and make it fast if you know what's good for you."
In desperation, Carlie turned to my sister. "She ain't serious, is she?"
Susannah nodded solemnly. "She'll tan your hide."
Carlie scooted, but made a point of slamming the kitchen door behind her. She was, after all, just a child.
We had barely gotten back into the buzz of conversation when George Mitchell tapped on his water glass again. "Ladies, gentlemen - the time has come for another announcement. But first, we need Mrs. Hostetler."
That very second the kitchen door swung open and Freni flounced in, wiping her hands on her apron. To the others she may have been the picture of innocence, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had been holding an empty water glass between her ear and the door.
George Mitchell smiled warmly at Freni before clearing his throat. "It is my pleasure to announce the order in which you will be presenting your efforts to the judges."
The CEO of E.C.D. was anything if not a skilled manipulator. During his dramatic pause the national debt was paid off, peace came to the Middle East, and Michael Jackson grew a beard. Of less consequence, but somewhat closer to home, Ms. Holt gasped softly and then dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Gladys Dolby's fork hand began to tremble, Art shifted nervously in his seat, Alma Cornwater shoved her glasses up in yet another futile effort to keep them in place, and Freni frowned.
I confess that I hadn't given the contest dynamics much thought. Now it occurred to me that some of the contestants might prefer specific time slots. A very nervous cook might, for instance, prefer to get his or her stint over with the first night. An extremely confident person might wish to wow us all at the last supper with the spectacular finale.
"The contestants, in the order in which they will cook are" - he paused wickedly again - "Mrs. Alma Cornwater, Ms. Gladys Dolby, Mr. Arthur Strump, Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt, and last, but not least, Mrs. Freni Hostetler."
I would have expected Alma Cornwater to sigh with relief, or Freni to flare with frustration, but that was not the case. The five contestants were as inscrutable as the iguana that Susannah briefly had as a pet (this was before Shnookums, and the lizard did not take to being carried around in a bra). Not an eye batted, not a lip twitched.
"Well, isn't that nice," I said finally, just to get the ball rolling again.
Freni was the first to crack. "Ach," she said, looking at me, "the last day? Is this some kind of punishment, Magdalena?"
"Of course not, dear." I turned to George Mitchell for confirmation.
"It was a random drawing from an actual hat," he said. "The lovely Miss Benedict selected the names back at headquarters."
Marge Benedict favored us with the thin-lipped smile and a slight rolling of the eyes.
Art sat back and crossed his arms. "Just like I said yesterday, Mrs. Hostetler has an unfair advantage. Y'all tasted her bread pudding first, and it's the last thing you'll taste. If you ask me, she should be disqualified."
"Ach!" Freni squawked. Perhaps the noble Art seemed a little less so.
"Mr. Strump has a good point," Gladys said in her soft little girl voice. "Couldn't Mrs. Hostetler trade with one of us?"
"What if the order was reversed?" Ms. Holt asked. Personally, I thought it was a remarkably sensible suggestion.
Alma Cornwater came alive for the first time that evening. "Y'all are being ridiculous Where I come from, we treat our elders with respect. So, she inadvertently served us her bread pudding before the contest began. So what?"
Freni nodded vigorously. "Yah!"
But Alma wasn't through. "It could just as easily backfire, you know. Maybe the judges' taste buds will be in the mood for something else."
"Ach! I thought you were my friend."
Alma removed her heavy glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. "I am. I just want them to know that it doesn't really matter who goes when."
"Ha," Ms. Holt said. "A likely story. Maybe you just don't want to go last."
I stood up. "Well, it's a moot point, isn't it? The bottom line is that this is Mr. Mitchell's contest. He sets the rules. And while I plan to be as impartial as Solomon, a cooking contest can never really be fair. It's not like grading a math problem where there's only one right answer. Besides, life isn't fair. At least four of you are just going to have to accept that."
"Well spoken!" George Mitchell's eyes were twinkling like the Milky Way.
Freni and I were wiping down the counters, the dishes dried and put away, when someone knocked on the door. It was past time for Mose to collect Freni, but Mose doesn't knock.
"Who is it?" I called.
"It's me, Jonathan Hostetler."
"Ach!" Freni practically flew to the door.
Jonathan Hostetler is six feet two inches tall, a good foot taller than his mother, but they share the same beaky features. He is an intensely shy man, and has only graced my kitchen on a handful of occasions. Something clearly out of the ordinary had transpire.
"Where's your papa?" Freni demanded.
"At home," Jonathan mumbled, at the same time looking around the kitchen as if it were the inside of a spaceship.
"Why at home?"
"I think Papa has the flue."
"Ach!" Freni's plump little hands flew to her face. She and Mose may not be the most demonstrative of couples, but their affection for each other is genuine. When Freni had an emergency appendectomy five years ago, Mose was beside himself with concern. During her recovery time in the hospital he had a cot placed in her private room, and stayed with her until she was released. The staff at Bedford County Hospital couldn't get over how devoted the tall, bearded Amish man was to his wife.
"He just has stomach problems, Mama. No fever. He sent me over to do the milking and bring you home."
Freni whirled. "Magdalena, are you up to milking?"
What choice did I have? Betsy and Matilda, my two Holstein cows, have to milked morning and evening without fail. If not, they will experience significant pain. Imagine, if you will, drinking a two-liter bottle of soda in the morning, not voiding during the day, and then have someone punch you in the groin just before bedtime.
"Sure, I'll milk," I said. I don't mind milking, my head resting against their warm bodies - it's the long cold trek to the barn I detest.
"Thank you," Jonathan said. "Don't worry, I'll do it tomorrow morning, if Papa's not better."
Freni, bless her heart, was already out the door.
"You've got your own chores, Jonathan. If your folks aren't here by six-thirty, then I'll just assume your papa's still under the weather, and your mama's stayed home to take care of him. But not to worry. I can manage just fine until he's back on his feet."
Jonathan thanked me profusely, and followed his mother out into the cold.
But milking two cows and cooking for an inn full of guests was easier said than done. And since even saints grumble from time to time, I may have been doing a little of that when Mr. Mitchell popped into the kitchen.
"Any refills on coffee?" he asked.
Why the English consume caffeine just before bedtime is beyond me, but it is not my place to judge. "The kitchen is closed, dear," I said politely. "You want to mess up the internal clock the good Lord gave you? Fine, then you're going to have to drive all the way into Bedford. Just stay away from Desperate Joe's."
Mr. Mitchell laughed so hard, I looked around to see if Joan Rivers had popped in for a visit. Alas, Joan and her wonder dog, Spike, were nowhere to be seen.
