Just Plain Pickled to Death (14 page)

Auntie Leah’s Pork Chops with Sauerkraut und Apples

4 pork chops

2 tablespoons flour

salt and pepper to taste

3 tablespoons bacon grease

1 large onion (diced)

½ cup brown sugar

2 cups sauerkraut (juice included)

2 apples (peeled, cored, and sliced)

1 tablespoons sesame seeds

Dredge pork chops in flour, and then salt and pepper them. In a heavy skillet brown the chops in bacon grease. Add diced onion and cook a few minutes more. Dissolve brown sugar in kraut juice and return to kraut. Mix in apples and sesame seeds, and spoon over chops. Cover tightly and cook over low heat for 45 minutes.

Serves 4.

Chapter Sixteen

A promise is a promise. Before supper I made a quick dash into Hernia to see Delores about her rooms. The poor dear must be hard up for entertainment. She laughed so hard she had to turn the volume down on her hearing aid.

“Imagine you coming in personally to see me about a room. If that don’t beat all.”

“It’s for a guest who can’t afford my place,” I shouted. That should have said it all.

“I could have a fancy place like yours—an inn, you call it. Yes, ma’am, I could have one. All I would have had to do is capitalize on those poor people.”

“Those poor people are my people. Why don’t you capitalize on your own?”

“Eh?”

I repeated my suggestion, taking great care to enunciate carefully while I stared into her eyes. She took the hint and turned up her hearing aid.

“You don’t need to shout, Magdalena.”

I smiled amiably. “I wasn’t shouting, dear. I was merely making a practical suggestion—from one businesswoman to another. Why not make use of your Methodist connections? You could turn your place into a retreat for other Methodists.”

“They already have one.”

“Then play up your Methodist heritage and share those quaint qualities with the rest of us. Why, you could call it Wesley World! Now that has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Delores is a mere slip of a woman, all suntanned wrinkles and bottle-blond hair. Her pale eyes look like they might have been bleached as well.

“Methodists aren’t in,” she said, focusing those colorless corneas accusingly on my countenance.

“We accept converts,” I said gaily. “Of course, we are one of the more restrictive denominations. You’d have to give up drinking and dancing for starters.”

She grimaced. “So, how long does this guest want to stay? Remember, I’m a rooming house, not a motel. I don’t take one-nighters. Too much sheet washing.’

“He wants to stay indefinitely. He’s Jonas Weaver. You remember him, don’t you?”

“You don’t mean Rebecca’s husband? The one who went missing?”

I nodded.

“Oh me oh my! If that don’t beat everything. I just heard today—it isn’t true, is it?”

I was surprised it had taken her so long to hear. Deafness is no barrier to gossip in a town like Hernia. Clearly Norah Hall and her cronies had fallen down on the job.

“It’s true,” I said.

“In a barrel of apple butter! Imagine that! Well, you tell Jonas he’s welcome to come right on over. He can stay as long as he wants. On the house. For old time’s sake, tell him.”

“Sauerkraut, Delores. Do you know Jonas?”

“Know him? Why, he and I were as sweet as two peas in a pod back in high school. That is, until Rebecca Miller caught his eye.”

“Yes. I never paid much attention to her, but from what I’ve heard, she was beautiful.”

“Well, that isn’t exactly the word I would have chosen.”

“Gorgeous? With bodacious curves?” I couldn’t very well use the foul word Sam used, now could I?

Delores smiled, scattering wrinkles in every direction. “Well, now, I don’t mean to be unkind, mind you, but she looked rather like you.”

“What?”

Delores had the gall to grab one of my hands and pat it. “Face it, Magdalena, you’re not exactly a raving beauty. Neither was Rebecca Miller. That’s my point. Had she been just another pretty face, Jonas wouldn’t have looked twice at her. But, of course, she wasn’t. A pretty face, I mean.”

“Well, I never!”

“And neither did Rebecca, which is my second point. Women with that kind of disadvantage have that certain special weapon.”

“I am not loose!” I snapped.

She raised a penciled eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“When I wear white next Saturday it will be for a good reason.”

“Well, that’s exactly my point after all.”

“It is? From what I hear, Rebecca Miller did more than her share of flirting—and did more than just flirt as well. If you know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do, and you are absolutely wrong about that. Rebecca Miller was not a flirt. Pretty girls flirt, dear. Not so pretty girls”—at least she had the decency to look discreetly away—”marry. Some men like that, you know. Girls that will marry them at the drop of a hat. Mama’s boys mostly, I’d say.”

“My Aaron is not a mama’s boy.”

“Jonas was, that’s for sure. On account of that he couldn’t handle a real woman. Not like yours truly. Oh, no, my Jonas had to go and feel sorry for poor homely Becca and marry her.” She took a deep breath and peered intently into my eyes. “Is he married now?”

I shrugged. “Not that I can tell.”

She patted her dyed do with leathery paws. “You tell poor Jonas he’s welcome to stay here as long as he wants.”

“I don’t think he’s looking, dear,” I said kindly.

“Nonsense. Every man is looking. They just don’t know it.”

I tried a different tack. “Well, surely you’re not looking. You’re one of the pretty ones, remember? You don’t have to get married. And Jonas—you said so yourself—is just a mama’s boy.”

“Well, that was then, and this is now,” she said, sounding just like Susannah.

It was my turn to grab one of her hands. “Look, Toots, Jonas Weaver is off limits. His daughter is being buried this week, for heaven’s sake. Besides which, he is still a Mennonite. A Mennonite, not a Methodist.” I didn’t mean to hiss that final word.

The pale pupils peered peevishly at me. “Why, Magdalena Yoder, I don’t believe it. You’re jealous! You’re getting married Saturday to Hernia’s most eligible bachelor, but you still want Jonas on the side!”

“That’s an ugly lie!” I screamed and exited quickly, with most of my dignity still intact.

And indeed it was a lie. Aaron Miller Jr. was all the man I would ever need. Perhaps even more. I certainly didn’t need a man Jonas’s age on the side. It just irritated me that some women—my baby sister included—have got to get their claws into every available man who passes within striking distance. It was bad enough that Susannah did it, but in Delores’s case it was ridiculous, if not downright obscene. The woman was old enough to be a great-grandmother, no less, and here she was, slinking around like a vamp.

It had to be sex that was to blame. Carnal knowledge was the downfall of Adam and Eve and has been the downfall of every generation since. It is all some people seem to think about. The human loins— to use one of Mama’s favorite words—appear to be the strongest motivational force on the planet. People are nothing but mere puppets, controlled by pubic pulses. Mama, you were right. “Loin” is a four-letter word!

But I didn’t get it. Not yet, at any rate. Come Saturday night, however, and the mystery of life might well be revealed to me. A shudder of delicious anticipation ran through me, and for a split second I forgot to feel guilty.

When I got back to the inn I found Freni in a huff. This, of course, was nothing new, but it was nothing to sneeze at either. If Freni quit on me, I’d have to feed that crowd myself, or recruit Auntie Leah. But, given the fact that I was about to stab Auntie Leah in the back (figuratively, I assure you), I didn’t feel right about pressing her into service as my chef, no matter how willing she seemed.

“What’s wrong, dear?” I asked with practiced sympathy.

“It’s that Leah woman,” she snapped. “Always popping into my kitchen and giving advice where it’s not needed.”

I maturely refrained from reminding Freni that it was really my kitchen and that she might actually be able to benefit from some of Leah’s advice.

“Just consider the source,” I said, quoting Mama.

“Ach, but if that source sticks her head in here one more time, I quit!”

“Freni, dear, you wouldn’t want to deprive these people of another opportunity to rave about your scrumptious cooking, would you?”

She waved a blue enamel ladle at me. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Magdalena.”

“But they are all from out of town, dear. When they get back home they won’t stop talking about what a wonderful cook you are. You’ll be famous.”

For a mere second or two a dreamy look swept over her face. Then it was gone. She put down the ladle.

“Pride is a sin, Magdalena. Shame on you for trying to tempt me. Besides, all your guests are from out of town. I’m probably already famous and just don’t know it.”

“I’m sure you are, dear. But those other guests are all English. These guests are Mennonite. When these guests go back, your fame will spread throughout the Mennonite and Amish communities. ‘Freni Hostetler’ will become a household word among the plain people.”

“Get behind me, Satan!” she said, but her eyes had glazed over.

I knew I had Freni just where I wanted her, and I was about to sew things up with one last compliment when the source did indeed stick her head back into the kitchen.

“How are things coming in here?” Leah boomed.

Freni looked like Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt. “Magdalena,” she grunted through gritted teeth.

“Leah!”

I raced to head her off. But despite her great size, the woman could indeed move like a freight train. By the time I reached her, she had breached Freni’s holy of holies and was peering into the oven.

“That pork roast looks a little dry,” she said. “You might want to add a little water and tent it with aluminum foil.”

Without another word Freni threw down her apron, and without another word Auntie Leah picked it up and put it on. Of course it didn’t fit, but that mattered naught. The mantle of chef had been passed, albeit unpleasantly, and Auntie Leah knew a trophy when she saw one.

Perhaps I should have run after my cousin, pleading with her on bended knee to come back. But I was tired, and Freni, I knew without a doubt, would reappear bright and early the next morning. There would be plenty of time to eat crow then.

“When did you say supper was?” Leah demanded.

“Six. Will the roast be done in time?”

Leah’s laugh is more curious than it is unpleasant. It is reminiscent of the fireworks they shoot over in Bedford on the Fourth of July, but without the bright colors, of course.

“Done?” she finally rasped. “Five more minutes and we could chop this thing into charcoal briquettes.”

“But Aaron and his father are joining us tonight,” I wailed.

“Not to worry. Tell everyone that supper has been postponed until seven and promise them a meal they won’t forget.”

I did what I was told, little realizing that the promise could come true in more ways than one.

The entire herd, along with their cowboys, assembled for supper, so along with Jonas, Susannah, and the two Aarons, we had a full house. True to her word, Auntie Leah had managed to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Well, not literally, of course. But she had managed to turn the dried-out pork roast into something she called barbecue.

“It’s Southern,” she explained, almost loud enough to break the sound barrier. “Sol and I took a trip down south last year. We stopped at a place called Bubba’s Carolina Barbecue and they served us this.”

“South Carolina has some wonderful golf courses, and big-bass fishing—”

“Can the travelogue, Sol,” Auntie Vonnie snapped. She looked at me accusingly. “You said supper would be something special. I was expecting at least a nice prime rib. This looks like shredded pork in sauce.”

“It is. You eat it on a bun, like Sloppy Joes. The sauce is different, though. It’s something special. I made it myself from a recipe I brought back with me.”

“It’s good,” Auntie Lizzie declared, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

If it was good enough for Auntie Lizzie, who had class, then it was good enough for the rest of us. Besides, in addition to the barbecue, there was enough Swiss-German hot potato salad on the table to feed an army. With the fresh sweet peas, homemade applesauce, and shoofly pie for dessert, no Mennonite worth the heritage was going to go hungry.

“Putrid, pupa, puke,” Susannah mumbled.

I kicked her deftly under the table. I’m sure my sister didn’t mean to be rude. A generous person would call her behaviorally challenged.

It was clear from the way folks had arranged themselves at the table that a battle was brewing. A very lopsided battle, if you ask me. The Beeftrust and their herders, including Aaron Senior, were keeping themselves as far away from the bereaved father as possible. Susannah sat to my immediate left, Aaron Junior to my right. As a gesture of respect, and as a means of extending my condolences, I had placed Uncle Jonas at the end of the table opposite me. The Beeftrust, however, were leaning heavily toward my end of the table, like corpulent palms caught in a hurricane. Either they felt that death was contagious or they had it in for the poor man. Given what I already knew of them, it was a toss-up.