Tamar Myers
Butter Safe Than Sorry
Book 18 in the Pennsylvania Dutch Mysteries with Recipes series, 2010
This book is dedicated to my dear friend Kay Chalk.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks to the Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board, who graciously consented to the use of the recipes in this book. For lots of other delicious (and free) recipes with butter, consult their Web site at www.eatwisconsincheese.com.
1
Finally, after almost two hundred years, my hometown had its first bona fide hooker. Of course I don’t approve of a woman selling her body for sex-or even for a great deal of money-but I must confess that I found this particular situation rather titillating. After all, Dorothy Yoder was the wife of Hernia’s most notorious lecher. But apparently Sam wasn’t enough for her, so she tried selling herself to a handsome young tourist and got herself arrested. I mean, really, it had all the ingredients of a poorly written novel, a medium with which I am well acquainted.
To be painfully honest, when I first heard this news, my feet began a happy dance of their own accord. Since dancing is a sin, and I could not stop my tootsies from moving, I had no choice but to hop on my husband’s bicycle and take a couple of spins around the farmyard. For once, hallelujah, Hernia’s confirmed floozy wasn’t my sister, Susannah.
No siree, Bob. This time Hernia’s strumpet without a trumpet, her trollop who packed a wallop, was none other than
Two years, and many cosmetic surgeries later, seven-hundred-pound Dorothy was a svelte size sixteen and looked twenty years younger than her husband. As our town’s only grocer, married to the daughter of a wealthy man, Sam had long perched on our highest social rung. But when Dorothy got her looks back-her words, not mine-she started wearing clothes that revealed her decolletage and emphasized her still-impressive derriere. Not only that, but she got her flaming red hair cut and styled, and started applying more makeup than even a fallen Methodist has a right to. Trust me, I am not exaggerating-not this time. For her maiden outing as the painted Whore of Babylon, Dorothy had a professional apply the goop and glop, and when she returned home, her three daughters didn’t recognize her and tried to have her arrested as an intruder.
Schadenfreude, that peculiarly German, but oh so useful, word described my feelings perfectly when I heard this. The reason that Dorothy has never been nice to me is because her husband, Sam, carries a torch for Yours Truly. Sam’s torch is like one of those trick birthday candles that can’t be blown out-no matter what. Sam delivered my son on the floor of his so-called grocery store (Yoder’s Corner Market), but even seeing my “business” at its worst, so to speak, was not enough to dampen his ardor.
I should hasten to clarify that I have absolutely no interest in Sam and have never encouraged him. We are, in fact, first cousins on my mother’s side of the family, and whilst I am not biologically related to the woman who raised me, that doesn’t matter: Sam was, is, and will always be, an annoying cousin who must be endured-somewhat like toenail fungus when prescription ointments won’t work.
Thus it was a bittersweet thing to find Dorothy hanging about the store when I popped in that Friday afternoon with my son, Little Jacob, in tow. The woman was wearing a moleskin leopard-print dress and six- inch spike heels. Her eyeliner was so heavy, it looked like she’d glued slivers of charcoal to her eyelids. As for her eye
“Is that a real woman, Mama?” Little Jacob asked the second his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
“ ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ ” I said, quoting Psalms 8:2.
“What did that child say?”
“I’m sure he was admiring you,” Sam said. He dotes on Little Jacob and often gives him candy or other treats. I wouldn’t mind that so much if the sweets weren’t stale.
I gave Dorothy a placating smile that was at least partly genuine. Despite the animosity she feels toward me, I feel nothing more than pity for her.
“You always were beautiful, Dorothy. But if you want my opinion, this is a classic case of less being more.”
She teetered closer for a few steps, her eyes flashing with rage. “Well, I don’t want your opinion, Magdalena.”
“But you look like a hoochie-mama, dear.”
My four-year-old son doesn’t let anything slip by him. “Mama, what’s a ‘hoochie-mama’?”
“Hmm-remember the pictures I showed you of your aunt Susannah?”
He nodded. “She’s the lady in the hooch, right?”
“Right.”
“Oh, I get it! So that’s why she’s a hoochie-mama, right?”
“Well-”
“Like this lady, right?”
“Not ex-”
“Cousin Sam, can I have a cookie?”
Sam gave the love of my life three cookies and then got back to me ASAP. In the meantime, the huffy hoochie- mama snarled at me and showed her claws, but mercifully retreated to watch television at the back of the store, where Sam maintains a little “break room” for himself. The redundancy of such a place makes as much sense as a fish wearing a life vest. At any rate, Sam wasted no time in pouncing.
“Couldn’t stay away from me, could you, Mags?”
“I came to buy lined poster board for Little Jacob’s kindergarten project. Do you have any?”
He shook his head. “You’re the tenth person today to come in here and ask for some. It’s for that for family-tree project Miss Kuhnberger assigned, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“She does that every year, and every year you poor parents have to drive into Bedford just to get some poster board. You’d think that old bat would catch on and change her lessons plans.”
“Or”-I leaned forward conspiratorially-“some aging lothario whose wife looks like she’s about to step out on him would catch on to a solution just as obvious and stock poster board each fall.”
Sam rolled his watery blue eyes. “My vendor doesn’t carry it. And since I’d make only about a nickel a sheet on it anyway, it wouldn’t pay me to put in a special order with another vendor. But you can take back your insinuation.”
“My insinuation?”
“That all Dorothy needs is a little loving on the home front and everything will be hunky-dory-as you are so fond of saying.”
“Mama, what’s ‘hunky-pory’?”
I jumped. The trouble with children is that when not in use, they can’t be folded and put away like TV trays-not that I’ve tried very often, mind you. Lord, if you’re listening, I’m not complaining, seeing as how I fully expected to be as barren as the Gobi Desert, or at the very least give birth to a miniature version of myself, which would be punishment for all the times that I indulged in the sin of self-
“Mama!”
You see? Children can be so impatient at times!
“What?”
“What is ‘hunky-pory’?”
“It’s ‘dory,’ dear, and it means ‘fine.’ Now see if you can find the can that has the most numbers after the dollar sign. That’s the one Cousin Sam is going to give us for free.”
“Okay!” Off he skipped, as gay as a Broadway producer and twice as happy.
“Cous,” Sam said accusingly, “it may be all be hunky-dory on her end, but not so on mine. You have to remember that I’m the one who had to bathe and dress her when she was too big to get out of bed. And I was the one who had to empty her reinforced, jumbo-size bedpan. How do you recapture romantic feelings after twenty years of that?”
“Marriage counseling?”
“Ha! Where would I find a marriage counselor who would have even an inkling of what I’ve been through?”
Much to my surprise, I actually saw his point. In the same vein, I’ve often wondered how a celibate person could offer marital advice-well, I still do. There is, I think, only so much that one can extrapolate from the experiences related to them by others.
I shrugged. “Have you tried the Internet?”
“Mama, what’s ‘twapolate’ mean?”
It was Sam’s turn to jump. “Hey, buddy, back so soon?”
Little Jacob nodded and proudly held forth a large jug of maple syrup. This wasn’t that sugar water over which a maple leaf has been waved; this was the genuine stuff, the real McCoy-literally, in
