As he stood, he flexed his fingers and craned his neck. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”
“You really enjoyed that?”
“Oh yeah!”
“Then how about a repeat performance tomorrow morning-at, say, six o’clock?”
“You got yourself a deal, Miss Yoder.”
Knowing that I was a big hit with everyone did not prevent me from saying grace at the dinner table. The Good Lord should be properly thanked, and if perchance we should lose some of our admirers by doing so-well, so be it.
“Bow your heads and close your eyes, please,” I said. “I am about to subject you folks to a full-length Protestant grace.”
“What does that mean?” Carl Zambezi said. “Olivia and I are Catholic.”
“It means that her prayer will be much longer than anything you’re used to,” my Jewish husband said.
“It means that the food will get cold,” my little munchkin said. “Won’t it, Papa?”
“Shhh.”
“But last time you said the mashed potatoes was like stones they was so cold.”
“Well, there was that-and the gravy was more like a ball of Silly Putty by then.”
Little Jacob giggled. “And tell them what you said about the peas, Papa.”
“You mean that they were so cold and hard, I could have shot them out of your pellet gun-if your mother hadn’t taken it away from you.”
I stood up, inadvertently dragging a good third of the tablecloth with me. Thank heavens I don’t serve my guests anything other than water with which to wet their whistles before dessert is served, because I hear that red wine can be difficult to remove from fine polyester blends. As for the Silly Putty gravy that spilled hither, thither, and yon, in a day or two it would harden enough for me to take hammer and chisel to.
“A pellet gun is not an appropriate gift for a four-year-old! Or for anyone, for that matter!”
“You see what I have to put up with?” the Babester said, but he winked.
Little Jacob, who was sitting at the far end of the table, next to his father, tugged on his arm. “Papa, tell ’em what you said about the wice pudding.”
I stamped a slender but exceptionally long foot. “Stop it! Gabriel, just because you mother doesn’t cook for you anymore is no reason to say vicious things about Freni’s food.”
“It’s not Freni’s cooking, dear; it’s your interminable prayers.”
“Papa, what does ‘termin’ble’ mean?”
“Oy vey!” I said, clapping my hands to my cheeks.
Olivia Zambezi was seated to my immediate left. Perhaps because she was the oldest female present, she felt she had the right to lean toward me and whisper behind the back of her hand. It was, however, a stage whisper that could have been heard in a back bleacher-with a military jet flying maneuvers overhead.
“Really, Miss Yoder, your behavior at the moment is a bit over-the-top.”
“Uh-oh,” the Babester said.
“Uh-oh,” my little man said.
Nobody likes to be chided, much less in front of others, and least of all by a complete stranger. Okay, so maybe
“You are absolutely right,” I said to Olivia Zambezi, as I settled back into my seat. “Gabe, darling, pull the cloth down at your end.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
“And you, dear,” I said to Olivia Zambezi, whilst smiling broadly, “are a lovely bunch of
“Why, thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said brightly.
“What’s Huafa mischt?” Barbie Nyle just had to chirp.
“It must be flowers,” George Nyle said. “Probably roses.”
“Papa,” my littlest troublemaker said, “why did Mama call the old lady a bunch of horse poop?”
It was one thing for the New Jersey gang of six to suddenly decide that they preferred to drive all the way back into Bedford for pizza, but they didn’t have to invite Surimanda Baikal to go with them. Although what really took the cake was when the Babester asked if he and Little Jacob could tag along. Permission was granted as long as he brought dessert home with him, which he was more than happy to do.
So there I was, alone and abandoned, a hapless orphan waif (indeed, my adoptive parents are dead, squished as they were in that horrible tunnel accident). All this pain and sorrow, this
Yes, I know, life is hard for all of us, but for me it has been particularly hard. Who but me could understand the trauma of being just shy of twenty-seven and having to shop for a pair of coffins, each over four feet wide, but only two inches high? Even just recalling that horrible day caused me to throw back my head and commence howling.
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
10
2? cups all-purpose flour
Whisk together flour, cornstarch, and salt in a bowl; set aside. Cream together blue cheese and butter with an electric mixer. Add sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Slowly add flour mixture to butter and cheese mixture; beat to combine. Add cranberries and mix on low just until evenly dispersed.
Divide the dough into two pieces and use parchment paper or plastic wrap to form the dough into two 1?- inch-diameter round or square logs. Set out two fresh pieces of plastic wrap and sprinkle the chopped nuts evenly over both. Roll the logs of dough in nuts until covered. Tightly wrap and seal the logs; refrigerate until firm (at least 2 hours). Preheat oven to 325°F. Working with one log at a time, unwrap and slice logs into ?- inch discs. Place 1 inch apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. Gently press about 3 small rosemary leaves on each cookie. Sprinkle each cookie with sanding sugar.
Bake on a middle rack until bottoms begin to brown and tops just begin to turn from pale to golden; 12 to 18 minutes. Cool on sheets 1 to 2 minutes before removing cookies to a cooling rack to cool completely. Store cookies in an airtight container for up to 1 week.
Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/
11
I shrieked, and because I was in the parlor at that point, I jumped on the nearest chair-
“Oh, calm down, Magdalena; you always were such a drama queen.”
I whirled, which meant that I toppled off the chair. But although I flailed like a downed helicopter, still I managed to somehow land on my feet, and facing the opposite direction to boot.
“Grandma!”
