Tamar Myers - Batter off Dead

“Well, I-”

“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Please just don’t write me off entirely until you’ve given me a chance to prove that I can step up to the plate.”

I sighed. “Don’t take this as a compliment, but you look like you’re already about to swing-maybe even hit a home run-not that I would notice such a thing at a time like this.”

“Does that mean what I think it does?”

“It means that I’m in a hurry and that we’ll talk later. Toodleoo.” I started to flee.

“Mags-”

“I don’t even have a minute, and the doctor says I shouldn’t even think about it for another month.”

“I just got off the phone with Ma.”

“And now let’s add another month.”

“She says she’s never been happier. That makes me very happy too, so I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“You know, making her so miserable that she ran off and became Sister Disgusting-or whatever her name is.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ma says that the rally in Cleveland was a bust because nobody cared enough to show up, so Susannah booked them all into a motel-two to a room. Ma’s roommate was this woman who had to spend more time shaving than Ma, which really made her feel good.”

“Your mother shaves?”

“Sixty percent of American women are unhappy with the amount of their facial or body hair; she is not in the minority.”

“In that case I am glad to have been of assistance.”

“Oh, she said to give you her love and to tell you that she is praying that you achieve a blasé state of mind.”

“I would say how sweet, but I lack the motivation to do even that.”

As I leaned forward to give Little Jacob a parting kiss, I smelled the Babester’s manly scent. My knees went weak, and my heart began to pound, but worst of all, I thought I might throw myself into his arms and crush Little Jacob-so powerful were those pheromones wafting to me on that gentle late April breeze. Gabriel Rosen was a Greek god (albeit a Hebrew man) in a body of steel, and I was a Mennonite magnet, completely powerless over my corpuscles of clay, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor of a hormonally challenged woman.

There was only one thing in the world that could have prevented me from abandoning my mission right then and there. Unfortunately for Minerva J. Jay’s killer-and Elias Whitmore’s, I might add-my cell phone rang.

Is it possible that when the Rapture comes, half the folks will not hear the trumpets of glory because their ears will be glued to their cell phones? Far be it from me to speak on behalf of the Lord, but I don’t think there will be cell phones in Heaven, in which case a good many folks may well ask for a transfer down to the St. Louis Airport, Concourse A. And yet as critical as I am of others being addicted to this horrible Pavlovian device, I am all but powerless to resist when its ringtone beckons me to answer.

“Hello?”

“Magdalena, where are you? I need you right away.” More was said, but I didn’t catch it all. The speaker was quite possibly a woman, but she, or he, was whispering so softly that even a rabbit would have had trouble hearing all that was said.

“I was about to throw myself into my husband’s arms,” I said, “and possibly even do unseemly things in front of our firstborn. To whom am I speaking, by the way?”

Gabe reached for me, but I stepped adroitly away. “It’s not too late, hon,” he said.

“We’ll talk later,” I said to him, and mashed my cell phone hard against my ear. “If you don’t tell me who this is, I’m hanging up.”

“This is Agnes Mishler, for crying out loud! I’m your best friend.”

“Oh. So you are. Look, Agnes, dear, this is not a good time to give you the recipe for chicken walnut salad-”

“This isn’t about a recipe, Magdalena; it’s about Wanda Hemphopple.”

“Just consider the source, dear, and let her remarks-whatever they were-slide off you like rain from a greased duck.”

“Oh no, she didn’t say anything bad about me. But she’s here, and she says that she knows who killed Elias Whitmore. Is he really dead, Magdalena?”

I grew up with the knowledge that the Hernia grapevine was somehow quicker than the telephone, but even I was stunned. “That’s impossible. He was killed just last night. Late last night.”

“Squashed to death with a steamroller, right?”

“Slap me up side of the head and call me Debbie Sue!”

“What?”

“Never mind; I just always wanted to say that. What else did Wanda tell you?”

“That’s it, except that she needed to use the little girls’ room.”

“Agnes, I keep telling you that you’re not a little girl, so using that expression is demeaning. Do you think that the president of the United States visits the ‘little boys’ room’?”

“You’re digressing, Magdalena. You’re fiddling on your soapbox while Rome burns.”

“Touché for the mixed cliché. What is Wanda doing now?”

“I offered her some coffee and a store-bought cinnamon roll, but she’s very agitated. She keeps pacing the kitchen. And every now and then she looks this way-into the living room. That’s why I’m having to whisper.”

“I’ll be right over,” I said. “Have your uncles entertain her, if you must, but whatever you do, keep her there.”

Although Agnes lives in the country, and on the opposite side of Hernia, thanks to some creative driving, I was there much quicker than one might think, if one were to go by the posted speed limits.

Wheat Germ and Buttermilk Cakes with

Peach and Cinnamon Maple Topping

1½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour

½ cup wheat germ

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon baking soda

1¾ cups buttermilk, or more as needed

4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted

1 large egg

Cinnamon Maple Topping (recipe follows)

1. Combine the flour, wheat germ, sugar, salt, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Sieve the baking soda into the flour mixture. Stir to blend.

2. In a separate bowl, whisk the 1¾ cups buttermilk with the butter and egg until blended. Add to the flour mixture and stir just until blended. If the batter thickens too much while standing, stir in a little more buttermilk, about 1 tablespoon at a time, to thin slightly.

3. Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over medium heat until hot enough to sizzle a drop of water. Brush on a thin film of vegetable oil, or spray with nonstick cooking spray. For each pancake, pour 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 cook the other side until lightly browned. Repeat with the remaining batter.

4. Serve the pancakes warm with the warm topping.

MAKES ABOUT TWELVE 4-INCH PANCAKES.

Cinnamon Maple Topping: Melt 1 tablespoon unsalted butter in a medium skillet over medium-low heat. Peel and cut 2 large peaches into thin wedges. Add the peaches to the butter and cook, stirring, to coat and heat through. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice and ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon. Stir to coat. Add ½ cup maple syrup, or more, to taste, and stir to blend. Gently heat. Do not boil.

Agnes Mishler would love to live in town, but she feels responsible for her two elderly uncles. They have to live in the country; after all, the Mishler brothers are nudists who spend a great deal of time outside playing badminton, horseshoes, and shuffleboard. Even on this relatively balmy late April morning, I could tell at a glance that neither man had converted to the Jewish faith since last I’d seen them.