Tamar Myers - Batter off Dead

“Do you have a copy?”

“No, but I used to. First edition too, eh. I could probably sell it now for a mint. But you know, you can find just about anything on Amazon or eBay.”

“Too true! Toodles, dear,” I said and, like a superhero, practically, flew off the porch in my haste to return home.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Thus said the preacher in the Book of Ecclesiastes. It was a verse that I knew by heart but hadn’t taken to heart, foolish woman that I was.

What the Zug twin failed to mention is that Magdalena Gumshoe was the product of his imagination and, as such, was not available for purchase over the Internet. I didn’t want to believe this at first, but after shaking my computer and whacking my keyboard against the wall, I finally listened to Gabe and did a search from his laptop. The results were the same. Then, with naught left to lose, and possibly a two-dimensional caricature to gain, I called the acquaintance of an acquaintance up in Winnipeg and asked her if she’d ever heard of the comic books starring yours truly.

“We Manitoba Mennonites don’t read a lot of comics, eh,” she said.

“Is that a no?”

“Yes, that’s a no, eh. But I have heard of you. You’re that eccentric woman who owns the bed-and-breakfast, where folks have to pay an enormous sum just to be abused.”

“That’s me, all right! But no Magdalena Gumshoe comic books, eh?”

“Are you making fun of my speech, Miss Yoder?”

“Absolutely. You people would too, if you spoke normal like we do.”

“Good-bye, Miss Yoder.” The woman had the temerity to hang up on me.

Next I called the first cousin of a second cousin once removed in that fair city, followed by the third cousin of a double fifth cousin twice removed. And then a comic book and collectibles shop. All of the above stated unequivocally that they had never heard of Magdalena Gumshoe, and one of the women I contacted went so far as to say that if she ever did come across some copies she’d buy them all up and burn them just to spite me.

Needless to say, I felt both angry and relieved. At least I didn’t have to worry about getting the publisher to correct any misinformation contained in the comic, or to go through the hassle of trying to get him or her to pay me. On the other hand, it was a major letdown; the Zug twin had carried a practical joke way too far-if indeed he’d even meant it in the spirit of fun.

Suppose he’d meant it purely as a distraction? Eh? If so, his ploy had certainly worked. I’d taken off like a bat out of Hades in search of my fictional self, having totally dropped the subject of Miss Jay like an oven rack of hot potatoes. Ding, dang, dong! I didn’t even know which Zug twin I’d been bamboozled by, so I couldn’t throw a proper hissy fit without confirming what everyone from Hernia to Winnipeg already thought about me: in a bag of cashews and raisins, I was not the dried, wrinkled grapes.

“Woe is unto me,” I cried, suddenly feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my thin, though rather comely, shoulders.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more.

“Isn’t anybody going to get that?” I hollered. “Yes!” I may have finally snapped into the receiver. “What on earth is it?”

“ Magdalena,” a soft voice said. “I need to speak to you at once.”

Luscious Lemon Pancakes

No collection of pancake recipes would be complete without this one, and no other lemon pancake could be quite as delicious. The recipe is adapted from Marion Cunningham’s The Breakfast Book (Knopf, 1987).

3 large eggs, separated

¼ cup unbleached all-purpose flour

¾ cup low-fat cottage cheese

4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted

2 tablespoons sugar

¼ teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

Confectioners’ sugar and mixed fruit (sliced strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries) or warm maple syrup

1. In a large bowl, combine the egg yolks, flour, cottage cheese, butter, sugar, salt, and lemon zest. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Carefully fold the beaten whites into the batter just until blended.

2. Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over medium heat until hot enough to sizzle a drop of water. Brush with a thin film of vegetable oil, or spray with nonstick cooking spray. For each pancake, pour a scant ¼ cup batter onto the griddle or into the skillet. Adjust the heat to medium-low. Cook until the tops are covered with small bubbles and the bottoms are lightly browned. Carefully turn and lightly brown the other side. These cook quickly. Repeat with the remaining batter.

3. Serve with confectioners’ sugar, accompanied by sliced fruit or warm maple syrup.

MAKES ABOUT TWELVE 3-INCH PANCAKES.

I agreed to meet Chief Ackerman in Settlers’ Cemetery atop Stucky Ridge. This is where Mama and Papa are buried, along with their forebears, and where I plan to have my weary bones laid to rest someday as well. As the name suggests, this graveyard contains the remains of Hernia’s original European founders. It is reserved for their descendents only and, of course, their spouses.

The fact that I’m adopted doesn’t change my status one whit vis-à-vis burial rights, because the Stoltzfuses, my biological parents, were also both descended from founders. Besides, although both families are currently Mennonite, both arrived in this country as Amish in the early 1700s. As a result, our bloodlines are so intertwined that if I skin my knee, it is my cousin who moans in pain.

Stucky Ridge is the highest point in Bedford County, even higher than Buffalo Mountain. Fortunately, not all of the land was dedicated to the dead. In addition to the cemetery, there is a picnic area overlooking Lovers’ Leap, and a patch of woods where oversexed teenagers come to grope each other on Saturday nights.

I almost lost my life when Melvin the Maniac Mantis, who, it turned out, was a full sibling, as well as my brother-in-law, pushed me over the edge of Lovers’ Leap. Thank heaven for my sturdy Christian underwear, which caught on a tree branch and kept me from plunging to my death. Had I been wearing a thong, I’d have taken up residence next to Mama and Papa long before Little Jacob could be born.

And speaking of the little fella, since I’d never taken him up there, and it was turning out to be a nice warm afternoon, I decided to introduce him to some of the Yoder clan. I started with Granny Yoder’s headstone.

“Here’s your great-grandson, Little Jacob,” I said, minding my manners. (Forty years ago in Miss Entz’s citizenship class I learned that one must always introduce the lady first, especially if she’s older.)

“And this is your great-granny Yoder,” I said. “You may have seen her standing imperiously on the stairs back at the inn. As my friend Abigail Timberlake Washburn from Charleston says, Granny Yoder is an Apparition American. Of course, we people of faith are not supposed to believe in such nonsense, and most of us don’t, but that’s because most of us haven’t come face-to-face with any incontrovertible evidence. I’m telling you, though, once you encounter an Apparition American, it’s all over but the whimpering.”

Little Jacob whimpered.

“Please forgive him,” I said to Granny Yoder’s headstone. “He’s awfully young. And you must admit you are a bit scary, what with that lemon-sucking scowl and those three eight-inch hairs growing from the mole on your left cheek. Really, Granny, even I am-I mean would be-scared of you if I was his age.”

“ Magdalena.”

I jumped clear out of my brogans when the hand, as light as a biscuit, rested on my shoulder. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”