Tamar Myers - Butter Safe Than Sorry

The events that happened next transpired so quickly that in retrospect they seemed to happen simultaneously. First, I heard a loud grunt come from Carl, followed by a bellow of pain.

“Dat is vhat you git for trying to keel my Magdalena,” Ida roared.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch! Oh please, Mommy, Mommy, help me! Ouch, ouch, dang it!”

By then I’d turned to witness Carl hopping about like a crazed wallaby, his hands cupped over his privates, his face screwed into an expression of intense pain.

Ida stood several feet from where we’d lined up, with her hands on her hips. Her large, broad face wore a small, satisfied smile.

Melvin too was watching. He was still decked out in a size fourteen dress and size twelve shoes-not that there is anything wrong with those measurements-but without Olivia’s wig, I appreciated for the very first time what a truly unconvincing woman he made. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? For one thing, he had absolutely no waist (although many insects do!). It was his stance, however, that should have tipped me off.

Most women carry themselves forward with their hips, for that would appear to be their center of gravity. For men, I have noticed, it is the chest that leads the way. That is why they stride; they are essentially trying to catch up with runaway rib cages.

Melvin saw me watching the curious scene unfold. “Yoder, that woman is crazy; you need to do something.”

I saw that the gun was lying in the leaves, practically at my feet. “Indeed, I do need to do something,” I said, as I stooped and picked up the pistol. “Ida, thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re velcome,” my dear, sweet mother-in-law said.

“That’s it, Yoder?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Zambezi . Now it’s time for you and your hippity-hoppity husband to climb back into the car and we’ll take it from there.” I waved the gun at each man in turn.

The man who as yet went by the name Carl Zambezi, whilst still clutching his family jewels-if I may be so crude-moved obediently toward the SUV. But just as he was about to climb in, a sleek black car came flying around the curve, screeching to a stop inches behind the SUV’s back bumper.

As I said, it all happened so fast that the details remain fuzzy in my mind. The more I try to sort them out, the more convoluted the situation becomes, and more absurd in its telling. But the truth is the truth, and it deserves to be told. And anyway, even someone who has been known to embellish the truth a tad-such as myself, for example-will find that there are enough bizarre happenings in life to supply good stories even when all is stripped to the bone.

I do remember that Carl Zambezi had tremendously quick reflexes. He took advantage of the sudden distraction by darting into the woods, and even if I had been inclined to shoot him, he was soon too far away to make that a possibility.

As for Mrs. Zambezi-aka Melvin Stoltzfus-he too tried to bolt, but running in pumps down a hill covered with thick leaf litter was not his forte. He twisted his left ankle not three yards from where he started, although he continued to hobble for another ten. But it was the fetching blue frock in the tiny flowered print that hung him up. Literally. When I caught up with Melvin, he was swinging by his jeweled neckline over a small gulley. The man was perfectly fine, something that could not be said for the young sycamore from whose broken branches he swung.

Having satisfied myself that there was nothing else that needed to be done vis-à-vis the bank robbers at that moment, I turned my entire attention to the cause of their great distress: the occupant of the sleek black car.

Sour Cream Pound Cake

1 cup butter, softened

2¾ cups sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

6 eggs

3 cups flour

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon baking soda

1 cup sour cream

Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and eggs, one at a time, beating thoroughly after each addition. Sift flour, salt and soda together 3 times. Add dry ingredients to creamed mixture alternately with sour cream, beating well after each addition. Stir in pecans. Pour into buttered 9-inch tube pan or two 9x5-inch loaf pans. Bake at 350°F for 60 to 80 minutes. Cool 5 minutes in pan. Remove and cool thoroughly.

Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/

“Do you remember that beautiful long coat that the Russian woman had?” Agnes said. “You know, the one who was spying on us from the hill opposite my house?”

This was, incidentally, four years after the Melfia paid a visit to the PennDutch Inn. They say that time flies by when you’re having fun. I’d like to add that it can also seem to pass by quickly-especially in retrospect-even when you’re alone and miserable. Not that I ever am; I can usually manage to drag at least one person down in the dumps with me.

“She wasn’t Russian,” I said calmly, as I refilled the cookie plate for the third time. “She was an FBI agent and as American as you or I, or these butter cookies. I thank the Good Lord she was spying on me the day I climbed into the SUV containing Mr. and Mrs. Zambezi and the not so helpless Ida. She was doing a good job of following us that afternoon until she ran out of gas. Fortunately she kept a jerrican in her trunk. Better late than never, they say.”

“Yes, but do you remember her coat?”

“I remember that she dressed beautifully-and that she was beautiful. You know, the Bureau had been on the trail of this gang of six for almost a year with no results, and then they assigned her, and within a week she not only had proof of their culpability-she had everyone in custody except for Carl Zambezi.”

Agnes is a portly woman who doesn’t gain weight by osmosis. For every two cookies I’d been putting on the plate, she’d been putting one in her mouth. She is, however, my very best friend in the entire world, and I would never say a word against her.

“But, Magdalena, it wasn’t Suri-Sura-whoever-”

“Surimanda.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t her who apprehended all those gang members; it was you. You even stuffed one in the clothes dryer. You know, Magdalena, you’re my hero.”

“Hero, shmero,” I mumbled, feeling my face turn red. “Agnes, dear, I am going to miss you.”

“Nah, you won’t. Not on the trip you’re going on. A three-month cruise through the South Pacific; I can’t imagine how wonderful that would be.”

“Let’s not forget the extended land portions in New Zealand and Australia. Little Jacob will be staying with his father and grandmother in Manhattan, so I know he’ll be well taken care of.”

I paused to blink back some tears. It had been two years since the divorce was final, but there was still a part of me that wished Gabe could share this great experience. At least we were still friends.

Our marriage, which had always been rocky, never recovered from the Melfia’s invasion into our lives and my husband’s inability to protect us. Once again it was Magdalena to the rescue, and that was once too many for him. Soon after Little Jacob’s safe return to the PennDutch, Gabe moved across the road to the kooky convent, and six months later he was back in his native Manhattan. But enough of those thoughts.

“Anyway,” I said, “I decided to hike the Southern Alps and see Milford Sound. And I’ve always had a thing for Ayers Rock. Isn’t that odd?”

“Forgive me, Magdalena, but nothing’s odd when it comes to you.”

“Hmm, I think I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should.” Agnes found room for three butter cookies simultaneously in her mouth.