Tamar Myers: Butter Safe Than Sorry

“Who changes them out?”

“I do, but I hand them all over to Mr. Yoder.”

“What’s this really big guy’s name?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“In that case I’m calling your ma right now.” I inhaled deeply, to get a lot of calling power, but unfortunately inhaled a lot of dust as well. “Mrs. Ash-choo! Achoo! Achoo!”

My sneezes always come in threes, but the third one in this case was particularly hard-hard enough to knock me out of the bush and onto the cold marble floor. I wasn’t seriously hurt, but my jig was up.

“You ain’t no angel,” Johnny roared.

“Johnny, angel,” I said repeatedly as I scrambled to my feet. Perhaps if I set the words to music I’d have the beginning of a hit rock-and-roll song.

“Get out now, before I call the police!”

I got. In more ways than one. As I hobbled through the rest of the lobby and out the foyer, I stuffed my purse with all manner of free brochures. I know, that was childish of me, and it was a very nongreen way of getting back at Mr. Yoder, and it certainly did nothing to retaliate against Johnny Ashton or the “really big guy,” but it obviously served a need in me at the time.

What’s more, after my fiasco of a visit to the bank, I began to truly let go and heal. Oh, what a blessing that was. Every morning I woke up with a smile on my face, and if there wasn’t already one on it, in fifteen minutes or less, the Babester could put one on that would last all day. Folks actually began to call me cheerful-and mean it!

But all that began to change the week that the three couples from New Jersey came to stay as guests of the inn. Need I say more?

12 ounces dry-roasted and salted macadamia nuts

1 cup flaked sweetened coconut

½ cup (1 stick) butter

1 cup brown sugar, packed

½ cup light corn syrup

1 cup sweetened condensed milk

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

12 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

sea salt, to taste

Preheat oven to 400°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Place macadamia nuts in 36 clusters of 4 to 7 nuts each, 2 inches apart; set aside.

Toast coconut in oven for about 5 minutes or until lightly browned. Pulse in food processor or chop into shorter strands.

Butter the inside of a heavy 3-quart saucepan. Melt ½ cup butter over low heat. Add sugar, corn syrup, and sweetened condensed milk; mix well. Increase heat to medium-high and bring mixture to a boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to medium and continue to boil, stirring frequently until mixture reaches 244°F on a candy thermometer.

Remove saucepan from heat, stir in vanilla and coconut. Cool slightly; spoon a tablespoon of coconut caramel over each nut cluster; cool completely.

Place chocolate in a microwave-safe dish. Microwave 30 seconds on high, stir and continue to microwave in 10- to 20-second intervals, stirring after each. Chocolate should be smooth, but not warm. Dip tops of caramel-nut clusters in chocolate and sprinkle with sea salt. Place in refrigerator to set chocolate. Store in an airtight container at room temperature, separating layers with wax paper for up to 1 week.

Tip: To prevent the formation of sugar crystals in the caramel, wash down the sides of the pan using a pastry brush dipped in water.

Courtesy http://www.eatwisconsincheese.com/

The three couples from the Garden State arrived together, but in separate cars, driving caravan style. I happened to be in the dining room at the time, which has a good view of the driveway, but I didn’t hear them until several of the doors slammed and the last of the folks had already piled out. By then it was already too late to see who had traveled in which car.

They say that couples grow to resemble each other over the years. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but for what it’s worth, Gabe still had his hair, teeth, and just one chin, and folks often said that we made a good couple. But the couples that spilled out of the expensive Jersey vehicles were an odd mix of shapes, sizes and ages, none of which seemed to go together.

Nonetheless, a hostess has to do what a hostess has to do. I snatched a starched white apron from a hook behind the check-in desk on my way to greet them, tied it on with practiced hands, and arranged my lips in a fair approximation of a warm, inviting smile.

“Gut Marriye,” I said in honest-to-goodness Pennsylvania Dutch, but from then on, I faked it with a made- up accent. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn. Deed yousen pipple hobben a gut treep?”

“Yah, yah, eet vas yoost vonderful! Zee cat’s payamas, yah?” A woman who looked very much like Barbara Bush during her White House years stepped regally toward me. She could easily have been the mother-or grandmother-of anyone there.

I gulped. “Uh, ma’am,” I whispered, “I don’t really speak Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Neither do I. But listen, you twit. If this bunch catches on that you’re a fake, they’ll take their money elsewhere. We may look like a motley crew, but we came here for a genuine slice of Americana -just like it said in your brochure.” She pulled one of my brochures from her Hermès bag.

There are times when one is taken aback, and there are times that one wishes to take back, but I had been in the biz too long for either of those scenarios to come into play that day. I straightened my apron, felt to see if my prayer cap was still securely in place, and then licked my pale, unadorned lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said loudly and clearly in my plain old American accent, “welcome to the PennDutch Inn. I am Magdalena Yoder, the proprietress, and I am a genuine Mennonite whose grandparents were Amish, as were their ancestors before them. I will let you shake my hand for a dollar.”

There were no takers.

I plunged on. “The inn in which you will be staying for the coming week is an exact reproduction of the Mennonite farmhouse in which I was born.” I raised my hand to silence some murmurs. “The original was destroyed by a tornado eight years ago. And before you get your bloomers in a bunch, I assure you that when I say ‘exact,’ that’s what I mean. The current inn was built on the original foundation and everything was faithfully reproduced, including the urine stains in Great Uncle Leonard’s bedroom-may he rest in peace.

“How many of you wish to experience the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option-or ALPO, as I affectionately call it? For a measly one hundred bucks more a day you get to make your own beds, clean your own rooms, and the pièce de résistance-muck out the barn.”

“Hey,” a carrot-topped man hollered, and practically in my face, “I thought it was only sixty-five dollars extra.”

“It was, dear, but then I got to thinking: the more that one pays for something, the more it is that one is likely to appreciate it. It is my heartfelt desire that you treasure your stay here.”

“Bull droppings,” the white-haired woman in pearls growled.

I smiled beatifically. “Any takers for that?”

“I’m in,” said a perky young blonde in a tight sweater and a ponytail. She was a wee little thing, whose head barely breached my bosom.

But thanks to example, one by one they all agreed to ALPO-all except the redhead and his wife. He soon identified himself as Carl Zambezi from Rockaway, New Jersey. His wife, by the way, was the Barbara Bush look-alike, and her name was Olivia.

“Carl dyes his hair and uses Botox,” she said right in front of him, “but still, look at his profile, doesn’t that face deserve to be on Mount Rushmore?”