Tamar Myers - Batter off Dead

Ginger, Carrot, and Sesame Pancakes

Grated carrots, sesame seeds, and ground ginger give these small pancakes their distinctively Asian taste. They are perfect finger food with drinks before dinner or served as a side dish with grilled soy-marinated seafood or chicken. Once the ingredients are prepared, the pancakes go together and fry up very quickly. For the full flavor treatment, make sure to serve them with the Thai Dipping Sauce.

2 tablespoons sesame seeds

3 cups shredded carrots (about three medium)

½ cup finely chopped scallions

2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

1 garlic clove, crushed through a press

¼ cup cracker meal

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon salt

Vegetable oil

Thai Dipping Sauce (recipe follows)

1. Toast the sesame seeds in a dry skillet over low heat, stirring until golden, about 2 minutes.

2. Combine the carrots, scallions, ginger, and garlic in a large bowl; stir to blend. Add the cracker meal, eggs, sesame seeds, and salt; stir to blend.

3. Heat ½ inch oil in a medium skillet until hot enough to sizzle a crust of bread. Add the batter by rounded tablespoons and fry, turning once, until browned on both sides. Repeat with the remaining batter.

4. Serve warm with Thai Dipping Sauce.

YIELD: MAKES ABOUT 20 BITE-SIZE PANCAKES.

Thai Dipping Sauce: Combine ¼ cup soy sauce, ¼ cup fish sauce, ¼ cup fresh lime juice, ¼ cup hot water, 2 tablespoons sugar, 2 tablespoons thinly sliced hot chili pepper, and 1 minced garlic clove in a small bowl. Serve at room temperature.

Why was I not surprised? Not that they should gang up on me-that was to be expected-but at the folly of humankind in general. What fools those mortals be that try to hold out against Wanda’s cooking. Throw in my stubbornness, and it’s about as effective as trying to instill moral values in a lost generation by burning one tube top at a time. After all, six of their number were male, three of whom were under forty and had the metabolism of tapeworms.

“We can eat, or you folks can lecture me,” I said, looking at Wanda. “Or, if you’re really clever, you can lecture me while you eat. I recommend the cheese omelet with extra-sharp cheddar, a rasher of bacon-now, that’s a funny word, isn’t it-hash browns, toast with marmalade, a stack of hotcakes, but forget the fruit plate. Wanda’s idea of fresh fruit means that she drained syrup from the can this morning. Extra fresh means that it was packed in light syrup.”

“How’s the oatmeal?” the Zug wife asked.

Frankie Schwartzentruber, who, despite her fearsome visage, is really a kind Christian woman, howled with laughter.

Even George Hooley, who could have gotten a job injecting citric acid into lemons, forced a grin.

“It’s an urban legend,” Wanda said. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Wanda’s right,” I said. “The story about her oatmeal being used to plaster the inside of the Allegheny Tunnel is simply not true, and I ought to know. Now, let’s get down to business: which one of you killed Minerva J. Jay? Who amongst you had the strongest motive?”

After that it was harder to get rid of Wanda than it was to get rid of head lice in a fifth-grade classroom. The promise of all the money in the world couldn’t begin to compare with the amount and quality of gossip she hoped to pass on to her customers. You could almost see the woman grow roots that cracked right through the linoleum-covered cement floor, eventually connecting her to a mighty banyan tree on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur.

Frankie Schwartzentruber was the first quisling in the bunch. “Elias Whitmore did it; he’s the one with the strongest motive.”

“What?” Elias demanded. “She’s crazy!”

I pretended to glower over horn-rimmed reading glasses. Dismissive looks are always more effective when delivered over black plastic frames, don’t you agree?

“Elias is right, dear,” I said. “Your statement does put your sanity in doubt.”

“And why is that?” Frankie said passionately. “Everyone knows how much he detested Minerva.”

“Yes,” I said calmly, “but you all hated her. What I meant is that it’s highly improbable that anyone, especially a woman of your dotage, would just come right out and call Elias handsome to his face. One might think such a thing, but one doesn’t say it.”

“What on earth are you blathering about, Magdalena? I said no such thing! You, however, just did.”

“Oops. Perhaps my internal dialogue could use a wee bit of editing.”

“Minerva tried to blackmail me,” George said, taking me quite by surprise.

I nodded encouragingly. “Go on, dear.”

“She accused me of having an affair with my secretary.”

“And?”

“I confessed, of course. That’s the only thing an honorable man can do when confronted with the evidence. You can expect me to be making a public confession at church this Sunday, Magdalena.”

“Was the secretary named Steve?”

“ Magdalena, that’s just cruel,” the Zug twins said in unison.

“But George told me-”

“She’s always been this way,” James Neufenbakker said. “Ever since she was a little girl. I used to say that if there was one child in Hernia who was going to end up on the wrong side of the law, it would be Magdalena.”

“Is it any wonder she can’t keep a man?” Wanda wondered aloud.

Suddenly I felt sick, and I had yet to eat a single bite of the three basic Mennonite food groups: fat, sugar, and starch. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Wanda said, and pointed a badly maintained fingernail at my minuscule, but arguably beating heart. “Everyone in Hernia knows that Dr. Rosen walked out on you this morning, except for Widow Hastings, who is deaf and dumb-and by that I mean literally less intelligent than a hunk of salt pork.”

When no one objected, I stamped a size eleven down as hard as I could without permanently injuring myself. Having done it many times before, I seem to know just how far to go.

“That was so mean! If I had said that, you folks would be all over me like grease on one of Wanda’s menus.”

“That’s because we know you’re mean-spirited, Magdalena,” Frankie said. “Wanda, on the other hand, doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“Yes, she does,” the Zug wife said. “What else would you call that Dieter’s Surprise?”

“They’re only tourists,” Frankie hissed.

“Yes, but they could have been Canadians.”

Elias Whitmore sprang to his feet, and in the process knocked his chair backward to the floor. His rage made him more than handsome; it made him downright sexy-of course, in a Christian, older-married-lady, younger-unmarried-youth-leader, not-adulterous sort of way.

“And that would have made it all right?” he shouted.

“Simmer down, young fella,” James snapped.

“Don’t you tell me what to do,” Elias shouted, still caught up in his righteous rage. “I organized this intervention so that we could talk some sense into Magdalena, but I almost didn’t invite you. Do you know why? Because you can be a rude old coot, that’s why.”

My ears burned with indignation. “An intervention? Is that what this is supposed to be? For what? I have no addictions except for hot chocolate and ladyfingers.”

“It’s to stop you from picking on the brotherhood volunteers,” Frankie said.

But Elias wasn’t through with his tirade. Turning to George Hooley, he began wagging his finger, à la Bill Clinton.

“You, sir,” he said, “are no longer going to be my banker. I have to trust my banker.”

Merle Waggler snickered.

“Which brings me to you, Merle. I put up with you only because we’re commanded to love one another. If it was a personality contest, Magdalena would win hands down every time.”