Hell Hath No Curry (4 page)

“That’s what I said. Now, are we done here?”

“Almost. Where were you when you learned that Cornelius had passed?”

“Passed on what? I told him to sell that ’67 Mustang convert-ible of his and buy an SUV like everyone else. I can’t have my babies riding around without a roof over their heads.”

“Indeed. But I’m speaking of his death. Where were you when you learned that he’d had a heart attack?”

“At my house, sleeping in my own bed. Cornelius said he had a killer multigrain and was just going to lie low for the evening.”

“Now, that’s what I call a cereal killer.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Who called you?”

“That cute young police sergeant, what’s-his-name.”

“Chris Ackerman.”

“Yeah. He said Cornelius had suffered a heart attack, and that I should meet him at Bedford County Memorial Hospital. I didn’t even take time to get dressed; I just put on a robe. I got to the hospital the same time the ambulance did, but Cornelius was already dead. It doesn’t surprise me that Cornelius hadn’t called for help when the attack began; he was such a stubborn man. He thought he could tough out anything, but you can’t tough out a heart attack.”

That was interesting. Priscilla had unwittingly exposed a cover-up. Chief Hornsby-Anderson and her protégé had con-HELL HATH NO CURRY

25

spired to make it look as though Cornelius had called 911 himself, and died on the way to the hospital. When I agreed to keep secret the fact that the Grim Reaper had caught Cornelius and the chief in flagrante delicto, I hadn’t fully realized the ramifications of such a problem. It was one thing not to mention the chief’s presence at the house, but quite another to be party to a story that had Cornelius dying someplace else altogether. What was I thinking?

“Magdalena,” Priscilla said, waving her hand in front of my eyes, “you’ve zoned out on me. Have you been hitting the sauté again?”

“Excuse me?”

“The bottle. You know, drinking.”

“I most certainly have not! And for your information, I don’t hit the sauce on a regular basis, not unless it’s au jus. The three times I
did
partake of the funny juice were all by accident.”

“Whatever. So, then we’re through here?”

“One last question. Are you on the drug Elavil?”

“Just because you drink, doesn’t mean I take drugs.”

“Indeed it doesn’t. This is a prescription drug.”

“For your information, I don’t take any drugs, not even an aspirin, unless I’ve just had a procedure. Then the doctor gives me pain pills, but I get off them as soon as I can.”

“Did Cornelius take Elavil?”

“Not that I know of. But I never snooped in his medicine cabinet, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. You’ve been very helpful.” I headed for the door, but stopped when the most important question of the day occurred to me. “Priscilla, just out of curiosity, what are the two procedures you’ll be having?”

“Liposuction on my upper arms, and floating rib removal.”

I jiggled pinkies in both ears to make sure they weren’t blocked and I could hear right. “I’m sorry, I thought for a second you said ’rib removal.’ ”

“I did.”

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“But that’s so bizarre. And painful, I would imagine.”

“Magdalena, don’t you be judging me until you’ve walked a mile in my pumps. What does a perfect woman like you know, anyway?”

Apparently not as much as I thought. But until that morning I thought I knew everything there was to know about having a poor self-image. Well, color me wrong! I never could have dreamed that I would meet someone who felt even worse about her body than I did. And I still did. Jimmy’s lecture had yet to sink in fully, although I had already begun to pray that he was right.

To have a woman as beautiful, albeit unbalanced, as Priscilla Livingood call me perfect—well, it was an indescribably wonderful experience. The sad part is, there may have been many nice things said about my appearance over my life span; things I’d managed to block out because I couldn’t possibly believe they were true. Perhaps my ears were deceiving me now. Perhaps I was nuts, as well as ugly. Perhaps I was dreaming. Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to hang around Jimmy’s office any longer to find out.

“Toodle-oo,” I said, and sailed from the room.

My full name is Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, and I have a life apart from my amateur detecting work and my killer bod. I’m the co-owner, but sole proprietress, of the PennDutch Inn, one of the most desirable full-board establishments east of the Mississippi.

I am a sister to Susannah, a well-meaning, but slovenly, slothful, and slutty woman who is married to a jailed murderer. I am also a foster mother to a fourteen-year-old girl, who is the issue of my pseudo-ex-husband’s loins. And last, but not least, I am engaged to Dr. Gabriel Rosen, a retired physician, who fancies himself a mystery writer.

When I got back to my car, the first thing I did was consult the rearview mirror. “Mirror, mirror, in the car, who’s not pretty, har, har, har?”

HELL HATH NO CURRY

27

The mirror usually doesn’t hesitate to scream right back at me, “You’re not pretty, you dummkopf.”

Now the mirror was mute.

I tapped it with my index finger. “Come on, wake up. This is an important question.”

The mirror mocked me with its silence.

“Okay then, mirror, how about this: I have a classical face and a killer bod.”

The mirror didn’t even snicker. “Congratulations, Magdalena.

You’ve finally seen the light.”

I turned on the ignition, squealed out of the parking lot, and careened down the highway to the Sausage Barn, where I was scheduled to meet four people for brunch. I knew for sure that one of these, in particular, would not hesitate to tell me the truth.

5

Curries

All of the following recipes reflect typical curries of either meat or vegetables with a masala or curry sauce, which can be wet or dry.

Different regions of India and Pakistan account for the variations in ingredients and preparation methods involved. Northern India and Pakistan see cooler, fragrant ingredients given the climate and spices indigenous to those regions. The farther south you go, the hotter the palate, thus the spicier the cuisine. Why eat hot foods in hot climates? Because the excess heat induced by the cuisine pro-motes perspiration, in turn cooling the person enjoying the dish.

Coastal areas will have more seafood, rugged regions more meat; regional vegetables abound everywhere.

All of these curries came from our kitchen. Curries vary, as do people. There are authentic curries that demand an acquired taste, and very modernized curries that do not resemble anything of the original curry, save for curry powder. These recipes are as homemade as they come. But they also allow one to experiment and make these curries one’s own. Also, since these are curries, and like any dish, really, they are reflective of one’s capacity to HELL HATH NO CURRY

29

withstand spices. Adjust the spices to your liking, and experiment. There is no one right way to make a curry, but don’t let Granny know that!

Garnishes may include finely chopped cilantro (or coriander leaves), julienned ginger, shredded coconut, lime wedges, or fried onions.

Raita is a yogurt salad used to cool the palate while eating spicy foods or to just add a little something to the meal. The basic recipe is as follows.

Ingredients

1–2 green chilies, finely chopped

¼ cup coriander leaves, finely sliced

(optional)

2 cups yogurt, whipped

1–2 teaspoons cumin seeds, slightly

1–2 cups cucumber, grated

roasted

Coriander leaves, crushed cumin, and

Salt and black pepper to taste

black pepper for garnish

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

Yield: 4 servings

Preparation

1. In a blender add chilies, cumin seeds, salt and pepper, garlic, and coriander leaves and process.

2. Add this mixture to yogurt.

3. Fold in cucumber.

4. Garnish with some coriander leaves, crushed cumin, and black pepper.

Notes

Variations are limited only by your imagination: Add ¼ cup chopped mint leaves, a tablespoon or two of a favorite chutney, roasted mashed eggplant, shredded lettuce, or a garden confetti mixture of finely diced onions, green bell pepper, and red bell pepper.

Another idea is to use yogurt and any prepared chutney, 30 Tamar

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whether sweet or hot. Mix a cup of yogurt with the desired amount of chutney for a wonderful sandwich condiment or as a salad dressing.

Ginger-garlic paste is mentioned in these recipes, but you can buy ginger paste or garlic paste separately as well. Or make your own by blending enough water with ginger and/or garlic to make a paste. Store in the fridge; it should last 2 weeks.

Garam masala is a dry ground powder made from a mixture of whole spices such as cloves, cinnamon, and the like. New cooks should use it sparingly.

As you cook, keep tasting the curry, and make adjustments accordingly. If you think a curry is too hot and spicy, add a peeled and diced potato to absorb some of the heat.

Using canned stewed or crushed tomatoes is just as good, and in some cases better than fresh, since canned tomatoes tend to make much smoother gravies. I prefer canned.

6

As is usually the case, I was the first of my party to arrive. It was not quite eleven; too early for the lunch crowd, and past time for breakfast—at least for most working folks. This meant that Wanda Hemphopple, the world’s meanest restaurateur, would be free to play the part of hostess. She does not, however, have the mostest.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

I scanned the sticky linoleum floor around me, looking for bunny heads and bird legs.

“I meant you, Magdalena.”

“And a cheery good morning to you too, Wanda.”

“I suppose you want your usual booth, and your usual breakfast. How boring, Magdalena.”

“Actually, I’ll be wanting one of the round tables, instead of a booth. There’s going to be five of us.”

Wanda quickly considered, and just as quickly rejected, the idea that I might have friends. “It’s gotta be some church thing.”

No comment from the new, and improved, Magdalena.

“So? Am I right?”

I nodded resignedly. It was better to let her continue to think 32 Tamar

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I was a pariah than to let her know what was really going to take place in her restaurant.

“Ha! That’s what I thought.”

“Wanda, I know we’re not exactly friends—we’ve even had our differences—but I’d like to ask you a personal question.”

“It’s one hundred percent natural. All me. And no, I don’t dye it.”

I knew immediately that she was referring to her hair. Wanda wears her long brown hair coiled on top of her head, around an opening at the top that goes all the way down to her scalp. Imagine, if you will, a model of a volcano made from clay. This hideous do is held in place with thousands of hairpins and gallons of hair-spray. This is only a slight exaggeration.

I am convinced that Wanda has neither washed, nor combed, her hair since we were in high school, lo some thirty years ago.

Over the ensuing decades, new species of vermin have developed in this teetering tower of epidermal outgrowth. Should this unsightly mass ever break loose, plagues will be unleashed that could decimate this nation. In my humble opinion, it was foolish for President Bush to search Iraq for weapons of mass destruction, when all along they were hidden, in plain sight, on Wanda Hemphopple’s head.

“No, dear,” I said with a pleasant smile, “I’m not talking about your WMD.”

“My WMD?”

“Yes. Wanda’s marvelous do. What I want to know is, do you think I’m pretty?”

The coil teetered precariously as Wanda recoiled in surprise.

“Magdalena, I always knew you were a bit odd, but I never thought you were gay.”

“I’m not gay—not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just want to know if you think I’m pretty.”

“No, I don’t think you’re pretty.”

My hopes were dashed, like a bottle of bubble bath in Mr.

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33

Gawronski’s backyard fountain on Halloween. Not that I know about such a thing. And it could have been anyone; the geometry teacher was hated by everyone in the tenth grade.

“Oh. Thanks for not being mean about it.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Magdalena. Of course you’re not pretty; you’re beautiful. Everyone knows you’re the most beautiful woman in Hernia. But just in case you haven’t figured it out, nobody likes a woman with a swollen head.”

“You really mean that?”

“Get over yourself. Lord knows I did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I always thought we could be friends, Magdalena. In fact, I thought we were—until that day you purposely, and maliciously, dropped a hotdog down my hair.”

“You
knew
about that?”

“I’m not stupid. And I may not have such a good sense of smell, but even I could smell it after a week. But you see, that was the beauty of it. A little bit of Vicks VapoRub under my nose, and I could no longer tell it was there. But you kids sure could. If I recall correctly, you sat behind me in bookkeeping class.”

“You mean you
never
removed it?”

She never got a chance to answer, because my brunch party showed.

I am an Amish-Mennonite, which is to say I am a Christian whose ancestors were at one time Amish, but who eventually became Mennonites, and one even became a Presbyterian. So you see, Mennonites and Amish are not the same thing, although both denominations stress pacifism and the belief that only persons old enough to make a confession of faith can be baptized.

Amish generally marry other Amish, and so that part of my family tree is as tangled as any jungle. Scratch me, and my cousin bleeds. Give me a sandwich, and I
am
a family picnic. Freni, my best friend and cook, is not only my first cousin, but cousins 34 Tamar