Hens and Chickens (22 page)

Yes, Rebecca had been busy. No wonder that women such as Rebecca champion poor Martha’s cause (the worker) and cast a disdainful eye upon her sister Mary (the thinker) in the New Testament tale. Although Jesus had the power to fed multitudes, he more often relied on Martha than upon miracles to provide for himself and his retinue.

And the feeding of hungry souls was important to Rebecca, as it was to Martha. For is not the preparing and sharing of a meal as sacred an act as sitting still and contemplating deep theological questions as Martha’s sister Mary elected to do?  Rebecca longed to create a meal by which she and Lila could show their deep appreciation to their new friends, those who had been supporting their offbeat hopes and dreams for a new life. Simple, good food over which friends could gather and felicity could be found was the order of the day. 

Spurred on by the “Woodland Turkey” dinner plates, Rebecca purchased a Bourbon Red heritage breed turkey from a local farmer for the main course. She naturally elected to complement the meat with Lila’s fiddleheads, baked potatoes secured from a grower in Troy, spicy rhubarb sauce (a recipe she would attempt from Grammie Addie’s cookbook), stuffing and gravy, Wendell’s sweet overwintered carrots, a small garden salad, and a variety of pickles from Maine’s organic foodie Cheryl Wixson (whom Lila had discovered on Twitter @CWKitchen and whose products were available at Crosstrax in nearby Unity). In addition, Rebecca would bake whole wheat yeast rolls and the two pies for dessert. Altogether it was as satisfying a Sunday dinner as could be found in any Maine home over the past 200 years.

“We just need to figure out where everyone is going to sit,” said an apron-bedecked Rebecca, her pretty faced flushed from cooking, as she contemplated the dining room table on Sunday morning. The scent of the roasting turkey wafted through the spacious old farmhouse.

“Why do we need to assign places in advance?” asked Lila, who had been summoned from her chores for her opinion. “Why don’t we just let everyone sit where they WANT to sit?”

“That won’t work,” Rebecca said, with a small but determined shake of her head.

“Why not?”  

“Well, if you don’t know, I don’t think I can’t explain it to you,” Rebecca replied. “That’s just the way it is when you’re hosting an intimate dinner party like this.” Rebecca felt slightly taken aback that something so obvious was not known by her young friend.

 Wendell, who was hovering in the background as Rebecca’s aide de camp, spoke up. “Wal, you know, folks is like dairy cows. They need to know what stall to git into or they gits all mixed up in the bahn.”

“Right,” said Lila. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” she added, bemused.

“Thet’s jest it,” said Wendell, winking. “Ain’t it more comfortable jest being told?”

Now, liking her own way was a cross that Lila had to bear. She did not take direction well, and she knew it. Therefore, it was with some difficulty that she swallowed back her initial sarcastic retort to the kind-hearted chicken farmer, and smiled sweetly. “Yep,” she said. “Sure is.”

Heartened, Rebecca began assigning seats. “I think we’ll put the two men at the ends,” she said. “Wendell, you’ll go here,” and she touched the pressed-back oak chair at the head of the table nearest to the kitchen. Wendell instantly puffed up with importance at this declaration. “And Mike will go at the other end.”

This new development cut across the grain of Lila’s young, feminist spirit. She didn’t know much about seating arrangements, but she was acutely aware of the symbolism of placing two men not even FROM the household at the heads of the table. “What about Ralph Gilpin? He’s a man!”

“It’s not quite the same, dear,” said Rebecca, who could easily see the difference between the two single men and the one married man.

“Right,” Lila said, dryly. She noted, however, that Wendell was standing straight and tall with his unexpected new authority, and she discovered she couldn’t put a crimp in his posture. And what was the big deal, anyway? Did she really care where she sat or who sat next to whom? As long as she got to sit next to Mike Hobart!

“And I’ll sit on this side here, next to you Wendell, so I can have easy access to the kitchen,” Rebecca continued. “I’ll have a lot of jumping up and down to do and this will keep me out of everyone’s way.”

“Where do you want me to sit?” asked Lila, feeling like a small child instead of the co-hostess of the dinner party.

“I think you should sit down there around the corner from Mike, with young Grayden next to you, and Miss Hastings next to him and Wendell—you’ll keep an eye on Miss Hastings, won’t you, Wendell?”

“Ayuh,” he said, with even more importance.

“And then Ralph will sit next to me, and Maude between her husband and Mike.”

“I thought husbands weren’t supposed to sit next to their wives?” Lila pointed out, with a small amount of sarcasm.

“That’s archaic, dear. You’ve been reading too much Jane Austen. Nobody follows that table etiquette anymore.”

Lila groaned inwardly. She actually knew nothing about the etiquette of formal dining seating arrangements appropriate to Jane Austen’s ear or any other, and immediately elected to secede from the discussion. “Whatever,” she said. “I mean, whatever you think is best, Becca.”

“Well, then we’ll keep Ralph and Maude on the back side of the table with me,” Rebecca concluded, happily. And so the seating arrangements for the dinner party were disposed of exactly in the manner that our good “Martha” had preordained.

Following this exchange, Lila retreated to the relative safety and sanctity of her hen pen (where the flapping and fluttering chickens suddenly appeared much more rational) and Rebecca returned to the kitchen to check the turkey. The full-figured bird sizzled in its juices in the propane oven and boasted a tight-fitting brown vest, upon which Rebecca lovingly basted another layer of herbal oil and succulents. She closed the oven and wiped a stray strand of hair away from her moist forehead.

“Shore smells good,” said Wendell, who had followed her into the kitchen. His eyes widened at the sight of the turkey and his mouth watered. “What else you want me to do afore I go home to change?”

“Do we have enough chairs?” Rebecca inquired, resting lightly back against the counter.

“Ayuh. I counted ‘em twice. We got eight, what with the Captain’s chair I brought down from the open chamber.”

“And there are eight of us ...?”

“Ayuh.”

“And you’re OK with using that chair, Wendell? Or should we give the Captain’s chair to Mike?”

“Wal, you know, I’druther Mike had thet chair. I ain’t as light as I used to be.”

“We’ll give it to Mike, then,” Rebecca decided, wiping her hands on her apron.

And so the conversation went on for several minutes, and was in effect a conversation between Rebecca and Rebecca. No detail was inconsequential; nothing escaped her notice, including ice for the water glasses and the necessity of placing multiple salts and peppers on the table for the convenience of the company. Wendell’s carrots were inspected for faults; the dough was covered and set near the stove for perfect rising; the pickle dishes were selected with the utmost discernment.

Love can be expressed in manifold ways, not just in the soft crooning and kisses bestowed on a farmer’s porch in the dusk of evening. Love can be seen in the bustle and activity of Rebecca’s preparations for her friends; in the way her happy hands melded the flour and lard together and rolled out the pie dough, and in the frequency with which she checked the progress of the stuffed turkey.

Love can also be espied in the special way in which we serve one another. A car door opened, a helping hand, a proffered favor, a suggestion, a sounding board, a reassuring smile—all of these are indicative of an abiding love and respect. While these actions and others like them might not be noticed in the beginning by the beloved, they will be regarded for their true value in the end as actions are much more enduring and endearing than the spoken word.

Unfortunately, while such signs pointed to the fact that our old friend Wendell Russell was smitten, his affection for Rebecca will no doubt be noted sooner by you, my pips, than by Rebecca herself. Had Wendell taken her into his arms in a grand display and declared his passion, Rebecca would have been startled but she would have understood his intentions. As it was, however, while she was unconsciously grateful for Wendell’s help, she was conscious of nothing more than that he was occasionally underfoot in her kitchen.

Wendell was the shy, silent type. For him and men like him, the spoken word acts more like a lead sinker than a bobber. Language to Wendell was an impediment, like an old boat that won’t float. He could no more toss out a pretty phrase than he could throw out the nylon line of an expensive L.L. Bean® fly rod. But give him a few worms and an old fish pole and Wendell will come home with a pocket full of brook trout every time.

Lila was never in doubt of Mike Hobart’s feelings, for he was a man born knowing how to declare his affections to a woman. But Wendell Russell, on the other hand, “Wal, you know, I cain’t git my tongue rigged up right to … wal, you know.”

And we do know, indeed, how difficult it was for Wendell to verbally express his affections. Unfortunately, Rebecca Johnson did not know. And so Wendell remained in her kitchen underfoot, but hopeful.

“Didja want me to put them things on the table?” he asked, indicating three pretty vintage sets of hens and rooster salt and pepper shakers that Rebecca had stumbled upon packed away in a wooden box in the open chamber.

“Yes, please, Wendell. Oh, wait! I need to fill the pepper shakers, first,” said Rebecca. She stood on tip toe to try and knock down the black pepper container, which was just out of her short reach on the third shelf of the baking cupboard.

“I kin git thet for you,” he offered. And then the old chicken farmer actually did lean over Rebecca in an intimate fashion and easily secure the metal container from the top shelf.

“Well, oh, my!” Rebecca said, blushing. She settled back down to her 5-feet, 2-inches, necessarily clasping onto Wendell’s hefty forearms to steady herself. “Thank you!”

His blue eyes twinkled. “Ayuh,” he said, flashing his trademark grin.

Their eyes met. And I think in that moment our good-hearted “Martha” did get an inkling of his intentions.

Chapter 21

Lila and Rebecca “At Home”

The Gilpins were the first to arrive at the dinner party. Young Gray was anxious to check out Lila’s John Deere® riding lawn mower, which he would be using to mow the large yard at the old Russell homestead. Seeing a sizeable amount of cash hovering before his eyes, as well as infinite tractor driving, he hounded his grandmother to arrive at
The Egg Ladies’
Sunday dinner party nearly an hour early.

“She said, any time after 1:00 p.m. would be OK,” Gray said. “So, like, what’s wrong with 1:01?”

Maude could think of no viable argument, and so she simply gave in to her grandson. “Rebecca did SAY that,” she told her husband, who was fidgeting about the house still in his church clothes.

“I ain’t got nuthin’ better to do here dressed like this,” Ralph said; “so we might as well git in the car and go over there!”

Lila greeted them at the side shed door, for which they had made a beeline. Rebecca had left suggestively ajar the house’s rarely used West-facing front door, exposing the glass storm door and thus the interior of the pretty formal entryway. However, no self-respecting Mainer would be caught, well,
alive
entering a home via the front door. That august entrance was reserved for accessing the parlor, and therefore closely linked to the bringing in, taking out, and laying out of the dead.

Lila was disappointed to discover that their first guests were the Gilpins, although she quickly hid her disappointment with a warm welcome. Her old ghosts were now safely crammed back in their lock box, and she had been secretly hoping that Mike Hobart would show up early enough to claim a few kisses. Now, however, she would have to wait until dinner was over and all the guests had left before she could once again feel the security of his muscular embrace. She shivered excitedly at the thought of surrendering to Mike Hobart’s demanding lips.

“Cold one, ain’t it?” said Ralph Gilpin, stepping up into the shed in time to catch Lila’s shiver. He rubbed his arthritic hands together brusquely.

Lila was momentarily befuddled. “What?”

“Say, thet was quite a haul of fiddleheads you ‘n Mike got t’other day!”

“Right,” replied Lila, instinctively.

Wendell, always on the alert, exited Bud’s place as soon as he heard the Gilpins turn into the yard. He sauntered across the way, pulling his comb through his hair and returning it to his back pocket with a practiced move. He followed the Gilpins into the side shed without knocking.  

Ralph stopped to greet him. “Hey-ya old timer!” he said, slapping Wendell on the back. “How the Hell are ya?”

Wendell, who was in fact the junior of the two men by 10 years, flashed his trademark grin. “Wal, you know, young fella – I ain’t too bad!”  

Lila escorted the three Gilpins and Wendell into the kitchen, where she turned Maude and Ralph over to Rebecca’s gracious attendance. Then she took the teenager out to the barn to introduce him to the riding lawn mower, being extra careful not to get any grease or oil on her pretty silk dress.

“Wow, it’s awesome!” said Gray, examining the 20-year-old John Deere®. “Can I start her up?”

Lila nodded. “Mike’s got it going again and sharpened the blade,” she said. “You can try it out today, and then maybe come back and mow sometime next week, OK?”

“Totally awesome!”

The lawn mower’s engine drowned out the identifying hum of Hobart’s pickup as he drove in the yard ferrying Miss Hastings. Hobart and the retired music teacher were thus settled comfortably with the other in the living room area of the great room, beverages in hand, when Lila finally returned to the house.

She paused awkwardly like a schoolgirl, unsure as to how she and Mike Hobart should present themselves to all their friends. He was dressed in fresh jeans and a short-sleeved dress shirt, and looked handsomer than ever. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him.