Rebecca's Christmas Gift. Emma Miller
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Caleb agreed. The smell of the beef heart was strong, but fortunately not strong enough to cover the scent of Rebecca’s stew baked in a pumpkin or the apples and cinnamon.
Martha eyed the biscuits. “I suppose you can eat those with your supper,” she said. “Although my sister-by-marriage—Hannah Yoder, my dead brother’s wife—has taught her girls to cook the Mennonite way. Hannah was born and raised Mennonite, not Amish,” she said, wanting to make certain that he got her point. “Most prefer my recipe for baking powder biscuits. My Grossmama Yoder’s way. She always used lard. Hannah uses butter.” Martha curled her upper lip. “Too rich, by my way of thinking. Not plain.”
“Ne,” Dorcas agreed. “Mam’s biscuits are better.”
“But you’ll love Dorcas’s shoofly pie,” Martha said, patting her daughter on the shoulder. “Extra molasses and a good crumb crust. That’s the secret.”
“Ya,” Dorcas echoed. “That’s the secret.”
Caleb struggled to find something to say. Was he supposed to invite them to stay for supper? It was early yet, but he was hungry—hungrier than he could remember being in a long time. There was something about this mild Delaware autumn that put a spring into his step and made his appetite hearty. “I thank you for your kindness, Martha. And you, Dorcas. I’m not much of a cook myself.”
“Just so,” Martha agreed. “And why would you be? Cooking is a woman’s gift. Men’s work and women’s are separate.” Something that might have been a smile creased the lower half of her face. “We’ll be by again on Sunday with something else. Can’t let our new preacher starve, can we, Dorcas?”
“Ne.” Dorcas blushed and averted her gaze. “Can’t let him starve.”
Martha started for the door and Dorcas followed. “We’ll get the china on Sunday,” the older woman said. She spared a glance at the trash can. “And, mind you, no more of those pagan sweets for Amelia. Our bishop is strict. I can’t imagine what his wife would say if she knew that Rebecca Yoder gave such nonsense to your innocent daughter.”
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