I'm just waking up from a luxurious night's sleep---it's 9:20 am. My bedroom windows are open for my sensory pleasures--lawn mowing, birds, fresh air wafting in causing the sheer curtains to billow like boat sails. I am calm and rested. Various thoughts drift in and out of my head as I slowly awaken. Then, BAM! My friend, Diane's face suddenly bursts into my consciousness. She is glaring at me, wild eyed, and she says, "Why are you just lying there? Get off your lazy butt and help me! (Then, as we used to say in the resaurant business during crazy rushes), she says, "I'm in the weeds, here!!!". (Diane would never use this phrase, of course, since we never worked in a restaurant together, but it's an awesome phrase and this is my drowsy fantasy, not hers...). Suddenly, with a jolt, I realize what day it is. It's a Saturday--in June: we're in the thick of cake season. Weddings, 1st Communions, Confirmations, Graduations...she's glaring because she's been up for hours working her little ass off in the kitchen. It doesn't take long for the quiet contentment I was basking in only moments ago to turn into pity and guilt. Poor Diane. I wish I could help.
---------------------------------------------------
Before I met her, my impression was that Diane was sweet and down to earth-a, 'what you see is what you get' kinda gal. I had seen her at school many times and our oldest boys had recently become good friends. There didn't seem to be anything pretentious about her and I admired that--she stood-out among the crowd we contend with daily, those with lots of money and time to flaunt it. (Besides being frightfully unaware of current trends and styles, I really don't care about that stuff. Plus, it's just plain too much work for me...wears me out thinking about the effort it must take). I could tell Diane and I were kindred spirits in our opinions of this aspect of "the lifestyles of the rich and catholic school families".
She lived on a farm. Basically, that was all I knew about her. When we formally met, it was in my driveway when she dropped-off her son to play. She made a comment like, "I don't know how you always seem so calm. Nothing seems to get you worked-up." Oh, jeez, clearly, this woman knew nothing about me! I liked the sound of it, though, and let her think it was true. It would inevitably turn out to be a joke, since she is the one who is remarkable cool and calm--able to take life in stride; I'm the one who's anxiety levels hit record highs, depression levels--record lows. Regardless, I knew we'd be good friends right from the start.
Our boys' friendship was the reason we met, but we quickly began to have coffee together nearly every week. Our connection seemed somewhat odd, since we were opposite in most ways. Then again, I've always been drawn to an eclectic group of friends--it makes sense, given my short attention span, I guess: I bore easily.
Diane grew up in a farming family--dairy. At college, she met Jack--the son of a corn and bean farmer. They got married and after a few years of living away, they moved into Jack's childhood home, on the farm, where she became the down to earth wife and mother I knew.
When I visited Diane on the farm, it always felt cozy--like farm-life on TV. I was right about her. She was just as she seemed: kind and calm. I usually did most of the talking. She listened and laughed at me. We were a good fit. I really liked when she did talk, though. She's not really shy, it's just that I think she's more comfortable when the topic is something other than her. When the topic was her, she'd let me in on her world; farming, baking, canning, gardening.
My grandma canned everything, and I always wanted to learn, but was secretly afraid. When I was really little, I heard someone--Grandma or one of my aunts, maybe--comment that if the seal on the jar wasn't set properly a person could eat the contents and suffer a grotesque, painful and lingering death by poison. Well, that was enough to scare me away; I'd find other, less dangerous things to eat, thank you very much.
I mentioned this to Diane once and when strawberry season rolled around, she offered to show me how to make jam. While we were going through the steps we chatted. Diane did amazing cake decorating work. Once, a mutual friend even requested a cake with a replica of that famous "Last Supper" picture we all have in our heads--complete with 3-d Apostles! A daunting task for the most seasoned of bakers, Diane took it on and pulled-it off. (I told her to give herself a break and leave Judas off the cake--he wouldn't stick around after dinner anyway. But, not one to leave a task incomplete, Judas was there with the rest of the gang, as Diane delivered that cake, many, many hours later.)
As she coached me on jar boiling and smashing berries, our talk turned to the fair. Our county fair is a pretty big deal. Diane's kids are 4-H kids. They work all summer on projects to present for judging at the fair in late August. Some raise animals, some build things, some sew, some draw, some grow stuff. They take it all very seriously, whatever the project. Everyone knows that, as the time for the fair gets closer, the 4-H'ers are less and less available as they fine-tune their presentations. It's just a given.
Diane was explaining her kids' projects and how much time they had left--not a lot--to complete them. She had to help them, of course, and in a rare moment of complaint, she mentioned, in her mild manner, that she sort of resented that their projects were cutting into the time she had to finish her own fair entries. That's when it happened: from that moment on, I would never look at Diane in quite the same way.
See, underneath this sweet, simple country-girl exterior, lurked a ruthless competitor. As she talked about the fair I could have sworn I was witnessing a 'Jekyll-Hyde' sort of deal going on, right before my eyes. It turned-out that she was living a double life. I couldn't believe it! I watched her whole being transform into something resembling a cut-throat athlete in training; single-minded and fine-point focused. As it turned-out, Diane had been planning and plotting all winter long about how she was going to beat her main opponent this year; an old grandma named Carolyn Dauffenbach. I knew that name from somewhere...
During fair time, the local paper publishes the names of the winners and runners-up of all the categories of competition. There are hundreds (seems like thousands) of categories, and the paper names them all. (Obviously, not a lot goin' on around these parts in late August, if the paper can afford to devote 3 entire pages (of it's 7, or so), to results of flower arranging, watermelon pickle canning and amateur photography contests.)
So, I'd heard of her, the legendary Grandma Dauffenbach. She had indeed made a name for herself in the county fair world. Even I knew she was the one to beat. Diane had saved the papers from last year and studied them closely. She admitted to me, with a cannibalistic grin and a slight foaming at the mouth, (what the--was that a fang, peeking out from under that top lip?), that she had finally identified 'Dauffie's weakness' about mid-October: Candy. Diane knew that, if she could somehow beat Dauffie in this category, she'd make a clean sweep of the entire 'Culinary Arts' competition this year. It had become her mission to work her little fanny off until she had the worlds' best frickin' truffle recipe and could produce it, flawlessly, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind her back, in her sleep. She let me in on another secret: after completing the scientific process of identifying Dauffie's weak spot, Diane had enrolled in a candy-making class at the local community college. Holy Moly. This was serious, I thought. This coupon-cutting frugal farm girl I thought I knew so well, was investing hard-earned money in an effort to whip this lady's butt, and good, at the county fair.
The first day of class, she was running a little behind schedule. She was high on smugness, knowing, beyond a doubt, she had a fool-proof plan. She slipped in to the room a couple of minutes late and found a seat toward the back. She was surprised to see the size of the group assembled. A January night (burr) and all of these people made the after-dinner trip to learn to make candy? Whatever. She needed to focus completely on the task at hand--keep her eyes on the prize.
Just before the instructor began class, Diane scanned the room, mostly to see what ingredients were on the cooking counter, when, much to her horror, she saw, shining through the crowd as if it was spot-lit, the familiar looking silver head of a person sitting front and center. Even though she could only see her from the back, she'd know that grey-haired cranium anywhere: it was CAROLYN DAUFFENBACH.
to be continued...
