Play It Again, Spam (7 page)

sequentially. And I went to college, whereas Freni only graduated from the eighth grade.

"Okay, you pass." I wiped my pinkie tips on my skirt. "Look dear, I'm sure Susannah is planning to invite you. I only found out

about it yesterday."

Freni removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. Funny, but without her glasses she looked ten

years older. No doubt the thick lenses hid her wrinkles.

"And Elvina," she sniffed. "That hurts me too. Why didn't she tell me? We're supposed to be best friends."

"Maybe she was afraid to."

"Afraid?"

"More like embarrassed. I mean on account of it's Susannah's second wedding, and Melvin is - well - "

"An ox short of a plow team?"

I stared at her. She seemed to be staring, only half-seeing, back at me. We burst into laughter simultaneously. We didn't

laugh for very long, of course, seeing as how we are both wary of intimacy.

"So what do you think of this group of English?" I asked when it was time for us to stop laughing. "They're not like that

Hollywood crowd, are they?"

"Yah, not the same." Freni sighed. No doubt she was thinking of Mel Gibson. She had never been to a movie, never even

watched television, so she had no idea her precious Mel has been a killer on screen.

Leaving well enough alone seems like a waste of potential to me. "Did you know that in the movie Braveheart your precious

Mel hacked people to death with a sword?"

"So did Moses and Joshua," Freni said, without batting an eye.

I can stop and turn on a dime, if that means I get to pick it up. "Exactly, dear. So the fact that our guests may have blown a

few German tanks into oblivion is no big deal, right?"

"Ach!" She looked like Miss Muffet when she realized that not only was a there a spider beside her, but there had been one in

her whey as well.

"Give me a break, Freni. It's hard to imagine these gray-haired men as killers, isn't it?"

She nodded reluctantly. "Yah, they're just old, like me. But they're very strange, Magdalena. Maybe they're spies."

"Spies?"

"Did you know they locked themselves in the parlor this morning?"

"I gave them permission to use it, Freni. It's their conference room."

"But they wouldn't even come out for lunch. I had to leave a tray outside the door!"

Confidentially, that hiked my hackles as well. I'd had to run into Bedford to do some banking and had grabbed a bite there.

But normally I eat with my guests, and the meals are at fixed times.

"They'll come out for dinner," I growled. "And they'll be there on time, or they'll do without."

Freni smiled approvingly. Our ancestors are Swiss, after all. We eat on time, we sleep on time, we even go to the bathroom

on time. It was the good Lord who invented schedules when He created the world in six days, and it is our Christian duty to follow

his example.

"You go, girl," she said, demonstrating that I had hosted one too many Hollywood guests. "But I need you to do me a favor,

Magdalena."

I frowned. "I will not talk Barbara into giving her triplets up for adoption. You're too old to be their mother. I thought I made

that perfectly clear the last time you brought it up."

My kinswoman colored. "Ach, not that! I just need you to run to the market for me. I decided to serve this SPAM® luncheon

meat for dinner."

"But I just came back from town," I wailed. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I hadn't tasted it then, that's why. So, what do you want - fried calves liver or SPAM® Jambalaya?"

That was a no-brainer, as Susannah is fond of saying. I high-tailed it off to Hernia in search of SPAM®.

5

SPAM® Jambalaya

1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Lite luncheon meat, cubed

1 cup chopped onion

2/3 cup chopped green bell pepper

½ cup chopped celery

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 (14 ½ ounce) can tomatoes, cut up

1 (10 ¾ ounce) can lower-sodium chicken broth

½ teaspoon dried leaf thyme

6 to 8 drops hot pepper sauce

1 bay leaf

1 cup long-grain rice

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

In large nonstick skillet or 3-quart nonstick saucepan, sauté SPAM®, onion, green pepper,

celery, and garlic until vegetables are tender. Add tomatoes, chicken broth, thyme, hot pepper

sauce, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil; stir in rice. Cover. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes or

until rice is tender. Discard bay leaf. Sprinkle with parsley. Serves 6.

NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:

Calories: 261; Protein 13g; Carbohydrate 32g; Fat 8g; Cholesterol 45mg; Sodium 850mg

6

Before high-tailing it into town I did the polite thing and checked on my guests in the parlor. Okay, so I didn't knock, but what's the

big deal? It is my inn, after all. "You gentlemen need anything?" I asked graciously. Four elderly men stared at me, their

expressions every bit as frozen as the figures on Mt. Rushmore.

"You know, pencils, paper, breath mints" - I looked pointedly at Scott Montgomery - "low-fat snacks."

The men said nothing.

I smiled. "Well, how about some gun powder? Maybe a few sticks of dynamite?"

Bob Hart stood slowly. "Beg your pardon, ma'am?"

"For your conspiracy."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, aren't you trying to overthrow the government? I mean, this isn't your average army reunion. You've got to admit that.

Even I know that you're supposed to be singing war songs and swapping stories of courage under fire. But it's quiet as a tomb in

here." Then I noticed that the shades were pulled. "And dark as a tomb, too. Well, I can easily fix that."

Scott stood, which put him shoulder to head with Bob.

"Thanks, Miss Yoder, but we like it like this."

"No problem, really.”

I started toward the nearest window, but Bob, moving with surprising adroitness, blocked my way.

"With all due respect, ma' am. This is the way we like it."

"Nonsense. You'll strain your eyes."

"Ma'am, you said we could have complete privacy."

"Oh, all right," I wailed, "but if you pass out secret decoder rings, I want one!"

"We've got you on the list, ma'am."

"And a secret spy name too."

"Yes, ma'am," Bob said. "We'll keep that in mind." He didn't seem to be kidding.

It was time to get my tail out of there and into town.

Yoder's Corner Market is the only place in Hernia one can buy comestibles intended for the human palate - which is not to

say that all the food sold there is palatable. Sam Yoder has been known to sell iceberg lettuce so old a well-aimed head could sink

the Titanic. And his prices are sky high. Normally I eschew the place and do my shopping in Bedford. But there are those isolated

occasions when I prefer to drive two miles instead of twelve, and to be perfectly frank, feel a need to catch up on local news. Don't

get me wrong, it is a sin to gossip, but as a pillar of the community, it is my duty to keep informed. How else am I supposed to

pass an informed judgment, never mind set a better example?

Samuel Nevin Yoder is my father's first cousin once removed, but he never gives me any sort of discount. In fact, he won't

even honor my coupons. That's because Sam likes me, you see. Ever since we were in third grade together, and I purposely

pinched his pinkie with my three-ring binder, Sam has had a thing for me. The day after I damaged his digit Sam smeared peanut

butter in my braids. I retaliated by kissing him, and we have been at war ever since. Sam's biggest victory was when he married

Dorothy Gillman from New York State. She was a Methodist, for crying out loud, and Sam twisted that knife he'd plunged when he

converted to her faith. I would like to think my ill-fated marriage to Aaron paid him back in spades, but on the eve of my wedding

Sam sent me a bottle of alcohol-free Champagne. When my Pooky Bear ditched me in favor of his legal spouse in Minnesota,

Sam asked that I return the bottle. Alas, those are hardly the actions of a man still pining for my love.

But back to my mission. I was in luck. Sam had eight tins of regular SPAM® luncheon meat and seven of SPAM® Lite, all

neatly stacked next to the albacore tuna. I put fifteen cans in my basket, and then had a change of heart and returned two of the

regular cans. I mean, why deprive others of the joy of SPAM®?

I watched carefully as Sam rang up the SPAM®. The man has been known to overcharge me. Perhaps I was looking

especially fine that morning, or Sam had had a squabble with Dorothy, because not only did he charge me the correct price, he

slipped a York peppermint pattie and a bag of Reese's Pieces into my grocery bag along with the meat. I pretended not to notice.

"So what's new?" I asked breezily. Our little war does not prevent the exchange of information, and Sam likes to dish the dis

as much as folks like hearing it.

"Drusilla Stucky had a bunion removed last week."

"That's old news, dear. She asked us to pray for her in church Sunday. The way she carried on, you would have thought

she'd stepped on a land mine. Those Stuckys have always been sissies, if you ask me."

"My mother was a Stucky."

I gulped. "Yes, but only on her father's side. Anything else?"

"Harriet Blough's nail fungus finally cleared up. Apparently she'd been soaking her toes in some sort of herbal tea. The new

growth is pink and as shiny as tiddlywinks."

"That's nice, dear." I meant it. Harriet took her shoes and socks off once at a church picnic and three people threw up, myself

included. "Any news that is not foot related?"

Sam scratched his head. It is not nearly as handsome a head as Aaron's, but it sports a passable amount of hair, and the

infamous Yoder nose has been tamed in this instance by the Schrock blood.

"Peter Schwartzentruber passed a kidney stone last night."

"Well, at least we're moving on up!"

"Tobias Gindlesperger bought electric milkers for his Holsteins."

"You don't say!" The truth is, I already knew that the Gindlespergers, an Amish family, had run an electric line out to their

barn. According to Freni, the Gindlespergers were on the threshold of leaving the Amish community and joining us Mennonites.

Apparently that threshold had just been crossed.

"Now it's your turn."

What?"

Sam winked. "Don't you have any news for me?"

I thought hard. As a Methodist, Sam lives almost entirely in the world, and as a consequence watches a good many movies.

He even owns a large-screen TV. Back in the days when I played Hostess to Hollywood, Sam has displayed a strong interest in

the personal habits of celebrities. Brands of deodorants used on famous underarms seemed to hold a particular fascination for

him.

"There's nobody famous out at the inn," I wailed "Just a bunch of World War II veterans and their wives.”

Sam wrinkled his nose, which, although tamed, was still considerable. "Military. And you call yourself pacifist."

"They're old men now! And besides, they're not at I vets. There's a retired history professor and his wife."

Sam had the audacity to reach into my shopping bag I and withdraw the Reese's Pieces.

"Susannah's getting married," I said quickly before he could get my pattie.

"I know."

"What? Who told you?"

Before Sam could answer, two Amish women wheeled their shopping buggies to the checkout counter. They may have been

wearing bonnets, but you can be sun their ears were straining against the stiff black fabric. I stepped adroitly aside with my tins of

SPAM® and remaining candy.

As soon as the door whooshed shut behind them I was on Sam like white on rice. I mean that metaphorically, of course. I did

not, as he once claimed, have him by the throat.

I plunked the bag of SPAM® on the counter. "Who told you?"

"Melvin himself."