Excerpt from Goodbye Lie concerning Apple Butter:
Turning to leave the barn Miss Ella asked, "How did you happen to come home so early today? It's just now five o'clock. Are things going well in the world of architecture?" Michael knows supper is always served at six, she thought, unless there's a potluck meal at church or some other social event. Then again, it could be his already bulging belly demands an earlier feeding.
"What's the use of being the boss, if I can't play a little hooky with my baby here?" His tone was short. This was certainly one of his hungry moods coming on.
"I'll see if I can't hurry up your dinner, Michael."
"What? You mean it'll be a while?"
"Yes, darling," she responded in as sarcastic a voice as his question deserved. "If you'd listen to your wife occasionally, you'd hear her say she has a few things to do besides following the timetable of her husband's stomach."
He reacted with a snort.
"Today, as substitute choir mistress, I was called upon to make last minute changes in this Sunday's schedule of hymns because Miss Bayer is out of town visiting her grandfather and Mrs. Lingenfelter is having her baby."
Her husband grumbled in disgust. Unable to stay cross with him for long, she offered, "If you'll give me ten minutes, I'll pull some cornbread from the oven and slather it with apple butter for you to nibble on. That should tide you over for a bit until I'm sure the soup is done."
"You know how I hate it if the beans are the least bit hard," he cautioned.
"We only hate the devil," Marie announced.
"Yes, baby girl. That's right. See there, Michael. It's true what they say about little pitchers having big ears and our little pitcher hears everything. Don't think she doesn't."
Michael replaced his grimace with a smile and kissed his youngest child on the cheek.
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| MISS ELLA |
Miss Ella shook her head at her sometimes moody, but very wonderful husband, thinking how lucky she was to have him. Back inside the aromatic kitchen, she checked the steeping jelly kettle of peaches, stirred the pot of salt pork and bean soup, and cleared a spot for the hot cornbread among the fresh radishes and onions. It had been such a peaceful afternoon. Too peaceful, she realized.
Where was Jack Patrick? Her only son, age eight, was usually so noisy she knew his whereabouts every minute. She left the kitchen, went down the long hall past the stairs, and entered the front parlor to find her mother, Hettie Eckert, known to all as Grammy. Grammy was swaying in her rocker, intently working on a braided rag rug, and there was Jack Patrick, sneaking up from behind, scissors in hand, about to cut the soft wild-hair wispies from his sainted grandmother's head!
"Jack Patrick!" yelped his mother.
Calmly placing the shears back in the sewing basket, he stated, "Mama, I hope lightning flies through the window and kills the cat. I'm innocent!"
She knew exactly how innocent he was. She allowed the boy to dash out the front door before he caught her laughing.
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