As the World Churns (6 page)
“It’s never going to happen. But anyway, Doc, you’re impressed with the cows, huh?” Good news can never be repeated too many times.
“They’re all exceptional, but . . .” He sucked air sharply through his teeth.
“But what?”
“I’ve been thinking about one of them. Something’s not quite right. Do you mind if I have another look?” My cow-proud heart sank. “It isn’t one of mine, is it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Which one is it?” Before Doc could answer, I heard a howl call my name.
5
Avocado Ice Cream Recipe
Ingredients:
3 ripe avocados 3/4 pint (375 ml) milk
1/2 pint (250 ml) double (heavy) cream
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup granulated sugar
Take the avocados, peel and seed them then put into a blender with the milk and make a purée. Pour the purée into a mixing bowl, add the sugar, lemon juice, and cream, and beat until creamy. Then transfer the complete mixture into an ice cream maker, and follow the manufacturer’s instructions.
6
“Ma-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahm!”
Alison howled again.
I turned to see my pseudo-stepdaughter stomping up the driveway, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her eyes flashing.
“Later,” I said to Doc. I prayed silently for patience, and if I was not to be given that, then a painless and temporary case of lockjaw. Having delivered up my requests, I braced to face her wrath.
(A mother-especially a pseudo-stepmother-doesn’t have to do anything wrong to be wrong.)
Alison galloped the remaining distance. They were her legs, of course, but disproportionately long like a colt’s. I couldn’t help but marvel at how much she’d grown in the past year.
“Mom!
Where were ya?”
“Right here.
Where did you look?”
“Nowhere.
Didn’t ya see me just come over from across the road?”
“I saw you coming up the drive. What happened?”
“
She
happened, that’s what.”
“She who?
Your
Auntie Susannah?”
“What? Nah, Auntie Susannah’s cool. It’s her I can’t stand.”
“Cousin Barbara?”
“Mom!”
I racked my brain for whoever else might be staying across the road at the family compound. The only other females were the babies-bingo! Toddlers and teenagers don’t always
mix,
especially when the former get their sticky hands on the latter’s stuff.
“Which one was it? It wasn’t little Magdalena, was it? Sweetie, they’re only two years-”
“I’m talking about Grandma Ida! Only she ain’t my real grandma, so I ain’t gonna call her that no more.
Even if ya try and make me.
You ain’t gonna, are ya?”
Oh, what music to my sinful ears. Much to my annoyance, Alison had taken to Gabriel’s mother like ticks to a deer. You would have thought that interfering little woman had hung the moon, for crying out loud. Of course it wasn’t Alison’s fault, seeing as how she was starved for affection; so it was clearly Ida’s fault. And how terribly selfish it was for Ida to encourage this behavior, because she already had a child and-
“Mom, are ya even listening?”
“Of course I am, dear. Prattle on.”
“So then she says that I gotta brush my teeth
three
times a day, instead of the two times ya make me do it, and that if I don’t, I can’t watch
no
TV.”
“She lets you watch
TV
?” I don’t even own a set, much less allow Alison to watch it-although I’m not so stupid as to think that Alison doesn’t watch it when she’s on sleepovers, wherever they might take place. From a practical standpoint, I know that Alison is growing up in a world dominated by television, and that there is nothing I can do to change this. I do not, however, have to be part of the problem.
“Mom, I wanna move back in here.”
“But then you won’t get to watch
any
television.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather read anyway.”
I clasped the child of my heart to my heart. “I love you,” I whispered into her hair.
“Yuck, Mom, don’t get gross.”
I’d seldom been happier.
Freni outdid herself in the kitchen that night: roast beef, mashed potatoes, pan gravy, green beans with bacon, baby peas with pearl onions, buttered corn, wilted endive salad, Jell-O salad with canned fruit, watermelon pickles, homemade chow-chow, homemade rolls, butter and homemade gooseberry jam, and, for dessert, freshly churned vanilla ice cream served with warm peach cobbler.
Human nature being what it is
,
it never surprises me when guests don’t appreciate Freni’s culinary skills, or lack even the manners of a drunken orangutan. But whether they’re crude, or just plain rude, the one thing my guests must do is dress neatly for dinner and sit at their assigned places around my massive table. This table, by the way, was made by my ancestor Jacob the
Strong,
and it is the only thing to survive when my inn was demolished by a tornado some years back. At any rate, my place is at the head of the table, facing the kitchen, where I preside like a benevolent dictator-unless my guests misbehave. When that happens, my goodwill can dissolve just as quickly as a campaign promise.
Because this is my establishment, I insist on saying grace before meals. Lately, however, in an effort to be inclusive, I have asked for volunteers-just as long as their version of grace is directed to the one true God, and doesn’t involve statues of any kind. I must admit that I am particularly pleased when Episcopalians and Roman Catholics volunteer to pray, since I know that their efforts will be brief, and thus the food will not get cold.
There are times when I can’t get volunteers, but on this occasion, no sooner had I made the offer than Harmon Dorfman plunged right in. While it was immediately apparent that the beefy farmer from
“Amen,” I said gently.
“. . . and Thou knowest Stanley Dillbaker needs a new combine . . .”
“Amen.”
“. . . and we just thank you Lord for your tender mercies . . .”
“Let’s hope the roast is still tender. Amen.”
“. . . and soften the hearts, Lord, of those who wouldst . . .”
“Amen,”
I growled.
“Oops-sorry, Lord.”
There was a smattering of applause, mostly from Alison. Vance Brown immediately lunged for the mashed potatoes, while Harry Dorfman practically threw himself on the meat. You would have thought Harry would be used to long prayers-then again, maybe he was.
“Miss Yoder,” Jane Pearlmutter muttered, “you don’t have to be so mean.”
“What was that, dear?”
“If you didn’t want him to take forever, you shouldn’t have asked him in the first place.”
“Point well taken.”
I turned to her handsome husband, Dick, whom I’d seated beside me on the left. “Tell me, how did you get interested in dairy cows?”
“I love milk.”
I smiled pleasantly. “Yes, but weren’t you a
“The stress got to be too much. My doctor said either I had to quit or risk a heart attack. I was kicking around for something else to do-I can’t just do
nothing-when
I remembered that my grandparents used to own a farm. I was just a little kid then, but even just thinking about it made me feel calm and peaceful. Then the more I thought about it, the more obsessed I became with the idea. To make a long story short, we bought a hundred and twenty acres about an hour outside the city, and I’ve never looked back. The hard part was convincing Jane to leave the rat race behind.”
“You were a schoolteacher, right?” Despite her attitude, I was as sweet as a piece of brown sugar pie.
“No.”
“But I’m sure that was on your application.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.
Miss Yoder, I was-
am
-a board-certified plastic surgeon.”
“And a very successful one too,” Vance said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “She had a lot of celebrity patients. Go ahead, Jane, tell them who some of your patients were.”
“You know I can’t do that,” she snapped.
He grinned sheepishly. “But if she could tell you, you’d be amazed. Jane perfected a facelift technique that leaves virtually no scars.”
“You must be referring to laser resurfacing,” Gertie said. “I’ve had some of that myself.” The poor thing seemed blissfully unaware that any resurfacing she’d had done, had long since reverted to potholes.
I smiled charitably. “Isn’t that interesting, dear.”
“It certainly wasn’t that,” Jane snapped. “My specialty is cutting, not lasers. In this technique I make small incisions at the
back
of the scalp, not just above the hairline, as is usually done. Then I thread ultrafine filaments-”
“Yuck,” Alison said. “Can we talk about something else?”
“What a capital idea,” I cried gaily. It was forced gaiety, of course.
“Knock, knock, who’s there?”
Alison groaned. “No, Mom. You don’t say ‘who’s there’; I do.”
“No, really.
Did any of you just hear a knock?”
I heard it again. But it wasn’t so much a knock, as it was a thud. Nevertheless, didn’t the irritating interloper-it was the dinner hour, after all-see my lit doorbell? Even the Amish knew to use it, for heaven’s sake. As for my kin across the road, they don’t even knock before barging into my private bath.