As the World Churns (19 page)

    Then you can do one of three things:

    
A
. Pour the cooled custard into a bowl, and add your chosen flavoring, then transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.

    
B
. Pour the cooled custard into a bowl, and add cream plus your chosen flavoring, then transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.

    
C
. Chill the cooled custard thoroughly in the refrigerator. Whip some double cream, and fold it into the chilled custard, then add your chosen flavoring, and transfer mixture to an ice cream maker.

    For this recipe, we suggest option C. First, create a custard base. At the point when you remove the saucepan from the heat to allow the mixture to cool, add the cocoa. Then chill the custard until it’s really cold.
Once chilled, mix until slushy.
Add the cream (whipped), and make sure it mixes in well. Transfer the mixture to an ice cream maker, and freeze according to the manufactur-er’s instructions.

    This is ideal for the kids or anyone wanting something quick and delicious!

    
Ingredients:

    
1
can
(large) sweetened condensed milk

    
1/2 pint (250 ml) milk

    
5 tablespoons cocoa

    Mix together the milk and condensed milk. Dissolve the cocoa in a little hot water. When fully dissolved, stir it into the milk/con-densed milk mixture. Transfer the whole mixture into an ice cream maker, and freeze according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

    The window was halfway open. Something was terribly wrong. Doc may be a veterinarian, and thus a man of science, but he also belongs to a generation of draft-dodgers. By that, I don’t mean that he evaded military conscription; au contraire, although of Mennonite background, Doc volunteered for active service the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. What I mean is that Doc, who is not averse to spending time outside, is convinced that outside air flowing into a house or an automobile is somehow dangerous.

    He is, of course, not alone on this score. For hundreds of years people in Europe sealed their homes in winter-sometimes year-round-to ward off the dangerous night vapors. As a result, houses became stuffy, almost tomblike. This approach to ventilation persisted through Victorian times, and lingers still in the groundless belief that exposure to cold air will result in one catching the common cold. As for Doc, he would no sooner crack a window-even on a cold night-than he would lie down across the fast lane of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

    
“Heavens to Betsy!”
I
exclaimed,
when the gravity of the situation had sunk in thoroughly. I quickly opened the bathroom door, whereupon Old Blue merely whimpered a final time, as she gazed at me with eyes that seemed to say, “See, I told you so.”

    “Is the intruder still here?” I whispered into one of her drooping ears.

    She closed her eyes, then immediately opened them.

    “Good doggy,” I cooed. “Let’s do that again; blink once for yes and two for no.”

    Again, she blinked once.

    To be sure, I prayed for inner strength and wisdom. But even though my faith eschews violence, even armed resistance, I could not (at least at that moment) recall a single sermon or Sunday school lesson that stated, unequivocally, that the
appearance
of power was a sin. Perhaps my very inability to recall such a teaching was itself an answer to my prayer. Satisfied that this was so, I snatched a much-used plunger from the corner of the tiny room.

    “I’m coming out!” I hollered. “This dog may be a wimp, but I’m full of urine and vinegar.” This declaration of boldness was a paraphrase of something I’d heard Doc say.

    Silence reigned.

    “Be forewarned, I’m heavily armed-not to mention mentally unstable. There are those who think I belong in a padded cell.” Alas, there really are folks who share this sentiment, and not just the residents of Hernia.

    More silence.

    I peeked out just far enough so that I could see the main rooms. I did this by slow degrees. In the meantime, Old Blue wedged herself between my legs and the toilet, her head sensibly tucked under my skirt. I mean, what better way to deal with terror than to prevent oneself from seeing it? Perhaps I should have taken a cue from her.

    “Look, whoever you are, the police are on their way.
The sheriff as well.
But if you skedaddle now, you stand a chance of getting away, especially if you hightail it out the back and head for Stucky Ridge. There’s a cave along the base of Lover’s Leap that is rumored to be quite comfy. Just don’t believe the graffiti on the walls-unless it’s about Wanda Hemphopple. I may even have understated that.”

    The back door slammed.
Hard.
There was no mistaking that.

    I did indeed call the sheriff-I’ve gotten to know him quite well over the years, and consider him a personal friend-and together we combed every inch of Doc’s small house for clues that might point to an intruder. Unfortunately, ever since Belinda died, which was more than twenty years ago, Doc’s standards of housekeeping have slipped steadily. For instance, he no longer changes out the box of baking soda in his fridge on a regular basis. One box- which I initialed with a ballpoint-was in there for three months before getting the old heave-ho. On another occasion, I watched him place a dirty skillet in the kitchen sink and not wash it for another four hours. My point is that the good sheriff and I found nothing amiss except a small fragment of a dried leaf stuck to the living room carpet, and as tempting as it was to assign criminal provenance to this, it might just as well have been due to Doc’s well-documented slovenliness.

    While waiting for the sheriff to arrive, I took Old Blue outside where she was fed, watered, and walked again. Then, just before the sheriff left, seeing as how I have great fondness for all things old, I loaded the big galoot into the back seat of my car and drove all the way up to the Sausage Barn just outside Bedford. The reason for picking this destination was threefold: Wanda loves dogs, Wanda loves to gossip, and Wanda serves remarkably edible food.

    The one thing that can’t be said for Wanda is that she has a soft spot in her heart for yours truly. It may even be said that she harbors an intense dislike for my internal organs. As a sincere Christian, I try not to hate anyone-but if I ever did, Wanda would be at the top of my list. At any rate, when I pranced into the Sausage Barn leading a rather large dog, Wanda’s face turned the color of raw liver, and she began to shake violently.

    “How dare you, Magdalena!” she said. Her teeth were actually chattering from all the motion.

    “It’s actually easier than I thought. One need only keep in mind this face; the sagging skin, the drooping jowls, the comical ears. The dog looks pretty mournful too, doesn’t she?”

    
“Ha, ha, very funny.
Now get that beast-wait just one sau-sage-sizzling minute! Is that Old Blue?”

    
“One and the same.
I’m hoping you’ll agree to watch her until Doc gets back on his feet.”

    Wanda is happily married-
well,
arguably so-but I saw the anguished look of a lovelorn schoolgirl flitter across her birdlike face. When she was sixteen, her cat, Jeckle, was hit by a car. Doc was able to restore the animal to an approximation of its scrappy self, and won his owner’s unflagging devotion. That was forty-two years ago, when Doc was still in his forties and still sported a real stud’s physique, but it was clear that Wanda had still not gotten over her crush.

    “Are you toying with me, Magdalena?”

    “Is the PennDutch Inn the best full-board inn east of the
Mississippi
?”

    “Then you
are
toying with me.”

    
“E pluribus unum.”

    “I was right; you only speak Pennsylvania Dutch when you’re cornered.”

    Shame on Wanda for not being able to recognize the sound of Dutch after having spent her entire life in Amish country, let alone being unfamiliar with a simple Latin phrase that every American worth their stars and stripes should be able to rattle off. But who am I to judge? For years I thought hip-hop was merely the way bunnies moved and that thong underwear referred to a split-toe sock meant to be worn with flip-flops.

    “Wanda, will you take her in or not?”

    
“Of course, you idiot.”
She grabbed Old Blue’s leash and disappeared in the kitchen with her.

    While I waited for her imminent return, I seated myself at my favorite table and scanned a grease-coated menu. Not a thing on it had changed in the last twenty years-except for the prices. One day, perhaps very soon,
trans
fats would be banned in
Bedford
County
. When that time came, old-timers in the business, like Wanda and me, were going to have a very hard time adjusting. Oh, my goodness! That was the one thing that she and I had in common.

    “Are you going to order, Magdalena, or just drool on my menu?”

    I snapped back to the present. “You’re here.”

    “What an odd thing to say.” Wanda, who serves as both hostess and waitress, tapped her order pad with a stubby pencil. “So, what will it be?”

    
“The usual.”

    She nodded. “A small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice; two eggs over medium; four strips of bacon, not too crisp; two slices of lightly toasted whole wheat bread; real butter; grape jelly; and coffee with lots of half and half.
Anything else?”

    
“Gossip.”

    She slid into the booth and sat across from me. “Well, did you hear about the sixteen-pound tumor they removed from Daniel Berkley’s cheek over in Somerset? Turns out it wasn’t a tumor at all, but a perfectly formed second head. Of course it was hidden under a layer of skin, so you really can’t blame the doctors. They say that when the skin was removed and the face revealed, that head began to talk. Marla Kuhnberger says you can’t read about it in the papers because the government wants to keep it top secret. They’ve already whisked it off to
Washington
in a Black Hawk helicopter. What do you suppose will happen to it there?”

    “Beats me-although I imagine it could have a fine career as a political pundit. Talking heads are in great demand. And they wouldn’t have to pay it very much, would they? I mean, it could live in a very small apartment-maybe a renovated birdhouse. It certainly wouldn’t need a clothing allowance. Well, except maybe for hats.”

    “Are you mocking me?”

    
“Nay, just having a bit of fun.
After all, Wanda, you are known for being a good sport.”

    “I am?”

    “Don’t you think so?”

    “Come to think of it, I am.”

    “There you go, then.” I smiled pleasantly, despite the effort. “Wanda, dear, have you heard any gossip about Doc?”

    “Are you kidding? Geraldine Yutzy thinks that Doc’s attacker is none other than the Antichrist. She’s planning to move her brood back to Lancaster, where she thinks there are fewer heathens. Meanwhile, Erma Dietweiler is convinced that it’s Bigfoot.”