The Crepes of Wrath (6 page)

I put my brain into high gear. “You mean
Three Musketeers
?”

“Yah, that is the one. Boys,” she said, as if that explained everything.

As if on cue, three little boys tumbled into the kitchen from the adjacent room. One was a toddler, the other two just barely older. Remarkable, all three were towheads.

“Mutter,” said the tallest, “how long yet until supper?” He said this in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“When the men are done milking.” Catherine turned and glanced at a windup clock on the window sill behind her. “Ach, it is time to start the beans!”

I glanced at the worldly watch on my bony wrist. “Ach!” I squawked. “It’s time to get ready for my date! From what I hear, those New York types don’t like to wait.”

Catherine’s brown eyes widened. “Yah?” She seemed quite willing to delay supper preparations if I was willing to dispense some juicy details.

“Later,” I cried, and hustled my bustle out the door.

But the second I saw my car, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a long time. Maybe even never.

Crepes can be served for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or dessert depending on the filling. The combinations are endless, so experiment and enjoy!

For simple fillings, try butter and jam; butter, sugar, and lemon juice; mashed berries and sugar; sour cream and brown sugar; or preserves mixed with rum or brandy. (Don’t forget to dust finished product with powdered sugar!)

For a heartier meal, try filling crepes with meats, vegetables, or seafood in a basic cream sauce. Leftover bits of meat and vegetables taste great wrapped in a crepe.

¹
⁄4 cup orange juice

1 teaspoon cornstarch

¹
⁄8 teaspoon nutmeg

2 cups peeled, chopped apples

2 tablespoons vanilla yogurt

¹
⁄8 teaspoon orange extract

Combine all ingredients except yogurt and orange extract in a saucepan. Cook, stirring occasionally, until apples are soft and sauce is thick. Place 3 tablespoons of filling on each crepe and roll up. Combine yogurt and orange extract and top each crepe with the mixture. Makes enough to fill 8 crepes.

My car had three flat tires.
Three.
I knew at once that this horrible situation was a result of my sin.

You see, I am a sinful woman. As a matter of fact, since we are all children of Adam and Eve, we are
all
sinners. Of course, some of us are worse sinners than others. To be honest, I would have to say my worst sin is pride which, I understand, is one of the lesser sins. At least it’s not as bad as lust, which is a form of coveting, and therefore one of the big ten. Come to think of it, my worst sin is probably a lot less worse than yours.

My people are renowned for their humility. Mama was, in fact, proud of hers. “Magdalena, don’t stand with your hands on your hips,” she would say. “That’s
hochmut.
” Prideful. So I stood with my hands to my sides, neck craned forward, shoulders hunched, like the vultures I’d seen in
National Geographic
magazine photos.

But sometimes, alone in my room, I would puff out my undeveloped chest, arms akimbo, and practice pride. Eventually I got very good at it, if I must say so myself. At my peak I could brag and boast along with the best of them—not that I would, of course, since I am a far better Christian than that.

Then about a year ago everything changed. Inspired by the celebrities that often stay at my inn, I bought a brand-new expensive car. A sinfully
red
BMW. I had to go all the way to Pittsburgh to get that car. I may as well have gone to Sodom and Gomorrah. The hubbub that followed that purchase rocked Hernia on its heels.

The very day I came home with that car, Lodema Schrock, our preacher’s wife, organized an emergency meeting of the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle, of which she was the president at the time. This group, incidentally, is the largest, best-attended women’s organization in our church, and its members form the bulk of the attendees at the Annual Prayer Breakfast. Lodema—without her husband’s knowledge, I might add—not only had the women down on their knees praying for me, but she persuaded them to visit me in pairs, in an attempt to talk me out of my purchase and into repentance.

I don’t mind sharing that I so resented this intrusion by Lodema and her ladies that I threatened to transfer my membership from Beechy Grove Mennonite Church to the First Mennonite Church, which happens to be far more liberal. At this point, allow me to humbly explain that I am Beechy Grove’s wealthiest member and by far the largest contributor to their offering plates. When the elders heard about my threats, they gave serious consideration to ousting poor Reverend Schrock. The grounds, they said, was his inability to control his meddling wife.

The Reverend is a good man—although his sermons are a mite too long—so I had no intention of actually quitting. I merely wanted to force Lodema into an apology. But the woman is more stubborn than a toddler and a teen combined, and she wouldn’t budge. I am only half as stubborn as she, but it was I who had been wronged, so for as long as Lodema remained recalcitrant, I stayed home on Sunday mornings, my purse tightly zipped.

Of course in a town this size, there are no secrets, and soon every congregation in town was vying to get me as a new member. Even Richard Nixon came knocking on my door. I’m not talking about the dead president, of course, but the pastor of the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah. His is a small, but devout, group out by the interstate, who really could use the bucks, thanks to abnormally high life insurance premiums they pay on behalf of their pastor. But if you ask me, any preacher who routinely handles live snakes during worship, and any congregation who puts up with such a thing, deserves to pay through the nose.

At any rate, the war between Lodema and I, both pacifists that we are, finally ended. But alas, there was no clear victor. Lodema apologized through clenched teeth, and I resumed giving, but with a somewhat clenched fist. Don’t get me wrong though. I still give the same amount of money—ten percent of everything I earn—but I now spread my giving around. Why, just last week I sent a hefty check over to the Hernia Presbyterian Church. (The rumors I’ve heard that Presbyterians bathe in beer and dance naked in their living rooms better not be true.)

It is Lodema who took the low road. She told everyone in Hernia with two ears (about ninety-eight percent of the population) that two terrible things would happen to me because of my pride. The first, she predicted, would involve my personal life. When my bigamist husband Aaron ran off to Minnesota, she claimed her first victory. The second calamity was supposed to involve the sinfully red car itself.

“Three flat tires,” she’d said, “all on the same day. And then something so horrible you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

* * *

I stopped staring at the three flat tires and stared at Benjamin Keim and seven of his stair-step sons who were approaching from the barn. No doubt about it, Benjamin Keim had Yoder blood coursing through his veins. His nose, like mine, required its own zip code, and he had the same watery blue-gray eyes. Same deep folds running from nose to chin, same jowly cheeks. But unlike me, he was a true blond, a trait characteristic of some Yoder clans. In fact, as preposterous as this may sound, generations of inbreeding seem to have produced a dominant blond gene, not only among some of the Yoders, but the Kauffmans, Millers, Troyers, and Hostetlers as well. How else could one explain nine towhead sons in a family all born to a mother as dark as molasses? Only one son, apparently the oldest, was brunette.

“Good evening,” I called to Benjamin when he came within earshot. To my credit, my voice was entirely calm.

“Good evening,” Benjamin answered. His seven older sons said nothing.

I waited a minute. “My name is Magdalena Yoder.”

“Yah, and I am Benjamin Keim.” He was close enough to shake hands, but neither of us made the gesture. He, no doubt, would just as soon not press the flesh with a woman of the world, which was entirely fine with me. I abhor the antiquated custom of greeting folks by touching a part of their bodies that has in turn touched every private part; parts upon which the sun seldom, if ever, shines. Once meant to convey the message that one was indeed unarmed, handshaking is now the number one transmitter of colds and flu virus. If Melvin did get elected to office, I would demand that he introduce a bill banning handshaking in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

“I see there are Yoders in your family tree,” I said to break the ice.

“Yah! My mother was a Yoder.”

“So then we’re cousins,” I said cleverly.

“Yah, maybe so.”

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, aren’t you?”

“Yah, that is so.”

“I came to visit your wife.”

“Catherine?”

“No, the other wife.”

Seven pairs of watery blue eyes, and one pair of dark eyes, widened.

“That was a joke,” I said quickly. Alas, no one laughed. “Yes, I came to see Catherine.”

“Why do you see Catherine?”

It may have been just my imagination, but it sounded to me like Benjamin’s voice had risen half an octave. That is a sure sign of anxiety, if you ask me. And although the seven sons remained silent, they shuffled in the dust like horses just before a thunderstorm.

“We talked about cooking.”

That seemed to satisfy him, although it ought not to have. Most Mennonite women are not in the habit of dropping in on virtual strangers to yap about recipes.

“Yah, my Catherine is a good cook,” he said. There followed an awkward moment of silence until he added, “So, you will be going now?”

“That was my intention, but it appears that my horse-less carriage”—I chuckled pleasantly—“seems to have thrown a couple of shoes.”

My mangled analogy apparently confused the man. The creases on his forehead swelled to match the deep folds on either side of his mouth.

“I have three flat tires,” I explained.

“Ach!” Benjamin exchanged glances with his two tallest sons. “The nails.”

“Yes, nails,” I said. “There are at least two nails in each tire. It’s a wonder the fourth tire wasn’t punctured.”

He bent and inspected each tire. Finally he stood, but avoided direct eye contact.

“For this I am very sorry, Miss Yoder. I do not know how these nails got on this road.”

“Well, I do!”

Benjamin blinked. “Yah?”

“Why don’t you ask your sons?”

“My sons?”

“Yes, your sons. From what I hear, you might want to start with the two oldest.”

“Papa!” the oldest boy said with surprising sharpness. “It is time to go into supper. Mutter will be waiting.”

Benjamin ignored the interruption. “Elam, who speaks now, is the oldest. And this”—he gestured at a lad who could have been his clone—“is his brother Seth.” The latter instantly turned the color of a good beet-pickled egg. Bright pink, but not so dark that the yolk turns color.

I nodded at the introductions. “Now ask them about the nails.”

Benjamin turned to his sons. “Tell me about these nails.”

The two boys stared at their father, as silent as salt and pepper shakers.

I sighed. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to tell you. You see, I really did talk to your wife about recipes, but that was
after
I spoke with your neighbor, Joseph Mast. Boy, did I get an earful over there.”

“Ach—”

“I
listened
to him, Mr. Keim. I didn’t yell at him.”

Benjamin took an anxious step closer. “What did Joseph say?”

“Don’t believe her, Papa!” It was Elam again, the dark one. He may have had his mother’s looks, but he had the hormone-ridden blood of an eighteen-year-old roaring through his veins.

Benjamin’s watery eyes congealed into cold focus. He turned and addressed his other sons.

“Go into the house,” he said in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Mach schnell!”

All the boys obeyed, including Seth. Benjamin then turned to Elam. “Let Miss Yoder speak.”

“But what she says is not true.”

“Silence.”

“But Joseph Mast is a liar,” Elam said vehemently. “And he tried to kill us, remember?”

“I said ‘
silence
’!” Benjamin’s hands remained at his sides, but a thousand snakes couldn’t have hissed more threatening than that.

Elam’s face darkened as it twisted with rage. “Why, Papa? Why do you always listen to the English, and not to us? Well, I will tell you, Papa. It is because you are a fool.”

My mouth opened wide enough to swallow a Philadelphia hoagie. I’ve lived around Amish my entire life but, until then, had never seen an Amish youth talk back to his or her parents. And even Mennonite children—my sister Susannah excepted—wouldn’t dream of calling either of their parents a fool. It says quite clearly in the book of Matthew, chapter five, verse twenty-two, “But anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.”

Even Benjamin had a hard time believing his ears. He gasped like a guppy in a stagnant bowl, barely able to breathe. Speech was not an option just then. Of course, I felt sorry for the poor man.

“Shame on you!” I said to Elam. “You’re supposed to honor your father and your mother.”

Elam gave me a look that only a teenager—and my sister Susannah—is capable of giving. I, who have a hard time swatting a fly, wanted to slap that expression off his face.

Benjamin finally found his tongue. “Go to the house!” he ordered in dialect.

“Nein.”

“Now!”

Elam didn’t budge. “It is the Englisher who should go before she tells more lies.”

That did it. That hiked my hackles. My left hand found its hip in the most English of poses, but I waggled my right index finger presidential style.

“I am
not
an Englisher. I am an old-style Mennonite, and you and I just happen to share the same limited gene pool. And while it is true I am more worldly than you, I would never have spoken to my parents that way. Frankly, I am shocked to hear an Amish boy talk back to his father.”

“Yah,” Benjamin said, “this talk back is not our way. You will apologize now to me and to Miss Yoder.”

Elam closed his eyes, the ultimate act of defiance. “Englisher,” he said coldly.