I tried to smile, but I knew Freni would throw a fit. She does all the cooking for the PennDutch, and it's done her way.
Meals are served family style, and the choices are between starch and grease. "I'll see what we can do."
"What do you mean by 'I'll see'? Linda, you did mark that down on the application, didn't you?"
Linda chewed nervously on a nail. "I'm pretty sure."
I was pretty sure she hadn't, but just to prove them wrong, I dug their application out of my files and spread it on the counter.
"There! See?" said Ms. Parker triumphantly.
I studied the sheet. Sure enough the words "lac to" and "vegan" did appear, after their names. But you can hardly fault me for not recognizing their significance, can you? At least a third of my applicants have letters after their names, but until now I'd always assumed they stood for titles or degrees. "I'll speak to the cook," I said humbly.
"Very well," said Ms. Parker magnanimously. "Please have the bellboy bring our bags up at once."
We have no bellboy. The only male in our operation is Mose, and I wasn't about to saddle a seventy-three-year-old man with suitcases that two healthy women could carry themselves. "Carrying your own bags is part of the Amish Lifestyle Plan
Option," I said matter-of-factly. "Bellboys cost extra."
"Put it on the bill."
I did. Then I went around the counter and picked up the two closest bags, tucking the smaller one under my arm. Then I got the remaining two. Slowly I straightened. "Follow me."
"We can't let her carry all of them," I heard Linda whisper to her companion. "She's too old!"
I straightened my back even more and led the way briskly down the back hall and up our unfortunately steep stairs. There is nothing quite like a jolt of adrenaline to rejuvenate this middle-aged body, and the Mss. McMahon and Parker were keeping me well supplied with energy.
Just as I thought, cousin Freni almost blew a gasket when I told her she had two vegetarians to cook for that evening.
Freni's temper functions just like a pressure cooker. The steam builds up slowly but steadily and, if unchecked, is liable to explode with dire consequences.
"I'm making chicken and dumplings and they can eat It or not.
"Chicken and dumplings is fine for the rest of us," I said soothingly. "But we need to think up some vegetable dishes for those two."
"There's carrots, onions, and celery in the chicken stock. If you like, I'll throw in a potato or two, even though that's not the right way to make dumplings. And there's pickled beets and eggs on the side."
I smiled encouragingly, despite the fact that I have been trying for years to convince Freni that eggs are not a vegetable.
"That's the spirit, Freni, but I'm afraid they're going to want their vegetables cooked outside of the chicken broth."
"Fine." But of course it wasn't. I could tell by the way the lines around Freni's mouth were beginning to disappear that the pressure was building. Foolishly I pressed just a little further. Trapped between Freni and Ms. Parker was not a comfortable place to be, but at least I knew what Freni's limitations were.
"What about fruit, Freni? Are we serving any fruit?"
"There's apple butter with the bread, and apple pie with cheese for dessert."
I'd long since given up trying to convince Freni that cheese was not a fruit. To Freni the hard-to-classify foods (for Freni that included eggs, grains, and dairy products) took on the category of the food with which they were commonly served. By logical extension, macaroni and cheese would be a fruit dish, something with which Freni would have no quarrel.
"And there's cream for the coffee!" added Freni triumphantly.
"How about serving some stewed fruit? Maybe a nice compote that you put away in September?"
Freni's lines began to disappear faster, and I knew I'd gone about as far as I dared.
"Anything else, Magdalena?"
I was about to say "no," when I remembered Ms. Parker's cold blue eyes staring at me through their pale red lashes. "I don't suppose any of that compote was put up without sugar?" I began to back out of the kitchen. "And could you bake up a batch of oat or whole grain bread?" I almost sprinted to the sitting room.
I had just gotten settled back down in my rocker when the next guest arrived. He was a very tall, skinny man, with an eggshell complexion, who was dressed from head to toe in blue denim. Even his shoes were denim. Although he looked frail, he almost beat me to the front desk. He was not carrying any suitcases, only a small backpack.
"Goot aftahnoon. Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn."
"Raidstu Yiddish?"
I put a lid on the fake accent and opened the register. "You are Mr. - ?"
"Teitlebaum. Joel Teitlebaum. Ova."
"Magdalena Yoder. Mercury Comet."
"I mean that I eat eggs. But no fish or dairy products, of course."
"Of course. Meat?"
Joel Teitlebaum blanched and may even have swayed a little. "Of course not!"
I nodded. At least I had figured out on my own that we had another vegetarian on our hands. "Would you like the Amish
Lifestyle Package Option?" I asked bravely. These were not the kinds of guests I was used to.
"Yes, I would." I smiled in relief. "You'll find the broom, dustpan, and dust cloth in your room closet. So are the bathroom supplies. Rooms must be cleaned and beds made before breakfast. You do want three meals a day, don't you?"
"Are your eggs organic?"
I nodded assuringly, which isn't the same as lying. As far as I know, the only inorganic eggs are the marble kind sold in gift shops. "Yours is room three, in this wing, on the second floor."
When I got back from showing Joel his room, I found a party of three waiting for me at the desk. "Goot aftahnoon!" I called cheerily. Believe me, forced cheer is an art that can be learned, no matter how grumpy it makes you.
I knew at once that this party consisted of United States Congressman Garrett Ream, his wife, the socialite Lydia Johns
Ream, and the Congressman's aide, somebody James. I knew this not only because they were to be our only party of three that week, but also because I had seen both Reams' pictures in the paper dozens of times.
Garrett Ream had only one more year left until re- election, and everyone knew that his next step was going to be the
Senate. It was also a sure bet that the United States Senate was only a stepping stone to the White House. Tall, dark, and handsome, with an I.Q. higher than room temperature, Garrett Ream seemingly had everything going for him. Especially his wife.
Lydia Johns Ream was none other than the daughter of Senator Archibald Johns and heiress Margaret Lyons Needmore.
It had been said from her cradle days on, that whomever Lydia married would someday be President of the United States. The hand that rocked Lydia's cradle was surely employed by the parents of a future First Lady.
"Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn." I even bowed slightly.
"Can it, fraulein," said Congressman Ream. "Send someone to get the bags. Is the manager in?"
I must admit, my mouth had fallen open wide enough to stuff in even one of Freni's dumplings, but that was no excuse for what he said next. "Speakatee zee English?"
"Apparently about as well as you," I couldn't resist saying. I was still in a state of shock. This man was an elected public official, and even though I didn't live in his district, it was pretty darn cheeky of him to be so rude. Next year, when he ran for the
Senate, we'd see who got the last laugh.
"Well, if you speak English, Miss, then hop to it and get the manager and bellboy out here, pronto!"
I glared at him, pretending I was Ms. Parker and he was me. "I am the manager, mis-ter!"
"You?"
"Darling," said his wife, stepping forward and taking his left arm in both of hers, "let's just check in, shall we? It's been a long drive."
I could tell just by the way she spoke that the lady had class. Everything about her whispered (a soft, cultured whisper, of course) class. The way she moved was pure class. From the tip of her expensively but elegantly coiffed hair to the tips of her make-Imelda-Marcos-envious shoes, she looked classy. What then was she doing with such a clod? Besides the fact that he was handsome?
"I can take care of this, dear," the clod muttered under his breath.
The class act didn't seem to hear him. "We're Congressman and Mrs. Ream," she said smoothly, "and this is Mr. James, my husband's aide. I believe you have us down for reservations."
I pretended to scan the register. "Ah yes, Mrs. Ream. I have you down right here. Are you vegans, lactos, or ovas?"
"We're Episcopalians." A slight smile played at the comers of her perfectly made-up mouth.
"I see. Will that be the Amish Lifestyle Package Option, or do you want Housekeeping snooping in your rooms?"
Again the slight smile. "Why, I think it would be fun to rough it for a change. Put us all down for A.L.P.O." I must mention here that the Ream party had booked three rooms. Couples of their status might occasionally conjugate, but they never cohabit.
"The three-meal plan?"
"By all means. I'm looking forward to your famous Amish cooking." Bingo! A woman after my own heart, and one that might even bring a smile to Freni's lips.
"Very well, Mrs. Ream. Oh, there is one thing. In addition to being the manager and owner, I might add I'm also the bellboy. Now, I would be happy to bring all your bags in myself, except that - "
"No need to say more. Please Delbert, be a darling and get the bags." She had half-turned to Delbert James, who had been standing impassively in the background. She turned back to me. "This is a very charming place you have here, Mrs. - ?"
"Yoder. It's Miss Yoder. Magdalena Yoder. Thank you."
"Not at all. Perhaps when you have a moment you can tell me all about life here in Hershey, Pennsylvania."
"That's Hernia." I stole a glance at the Congressman, who, it happened, was glowering at me from his safe position slightly to the rear of his wife.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Hershey's the chocolate town. The PennDutch is located in Hernia, Pennsylvania."
Lydia Ream laughed then. Actually it was more of a chuckle, but people of her class don't chuckle, do they? "I would love to hear all about Hernia, then."
At that moment the impassive but not bad-looking Delbert James came back in with the first load of luggage. Reluctantly, I gathered up the three necessary keys and led the way through the back hallway and up the unfortunately steep stairs. Mrs. Ream followed directly behind me, and the whole way I was acutely conscious of that fact that I am not a size six with toddler-sized shoes who could move with the grace of a ballerina. So, my ancestors were peasants, can I help it?
And wouldn't you know, this time I didn't even make it all the way back to the sitting room before the next and final guest of the day arrived. Would that I had!
3
I got back to the sitting room to find Susannah and a man engaged in animated conversation by the check-in counter. Immediately my blood began to boil. Fortunately I am not like Freni, who takes a long time to build up steam and then explodes, sometimes with dire consequences. I'm constantly exploding - little tiny puffs, which, like flatulence, are temporarily noxious but ultimately harmless.
When it comes to Susannah, the puffs may be louder, but there is always justification. Susannah, I'm sorry to say, is a slovenly, slothful slut. I know, that's a terrible thing to say about one's own sister, and both Mama and Papa would rollover in their graves if they heard me, but it's the plain truth.
It was bad enough when Susannah married the Presbyterian, but when she divorced him and began sleeping with other men, she became a full-fledged adulteress in the eyes of my church and just about everybody living in the environs of Hernia,
Pennsylvania. Susannah is the first person ever in my entire family history, which can be traced back to sixteenth-century Swiss roots, to get a divorce. Believe me, I'm not judging her. If she had to get a divorce, then she had to. But what she should have done afterward was to withdraw from the public view and buckle down to work here at the inn. Not Susannah!
Susannah is constantly running around, not only in Hernia, but as far away as Somerset and Bedford. She chews gum like a cow munching alfalfa. She wears makeup, perms her hair, and even paints her nails! In the summertime she frequently wears sleeveless dresses, and once I actually caught her wearing shorts. And of course you know where these ideas come from -
