Ruth Yoder and Daniel Yoder had just said their wedding vows six weeks ago, but it sure felt like yesterday, and the sweat, pouring through her facial pores, sure showed it. Hastily, with blondish bits of soft locks hanging down the sides of her wet face, she grabbed the black cast iron skillet and put it on the wood-burning stove. “Daniel! Daniel! Can you hear me?”
She spooned a heaping amount of white lard into the skillet, and then wiped her sticky hands on her black apron. A strand of blond hair dangled before he eyes as she leaned over the kitchen counter to peel the yams. Why can’t you stay on? She wiggled her head to see if she was right, and she had been: her prayer kapp was barely hanging on her glowing yellow bun. She’d poked herself with the straight pin six times, for she was in a hurry to prepare a good breakfast for her new husband, and then she had chocolate walnut fudge to make for guests that would be arriving on Christmas day.
There was the Christmas play, too, and she hadn’t been able to help her niece write her poem. In an Amish home, there was just so much to do, so much celebrating, during the week of Christmas. Gott, send me help, please! As she quartered the yams, placed them in the skillet, and thought about how lonely it was to be the only woman in a huge farmhouse. As she peeled an onion, she thought about her neighbor, Beth Miller, who had four grown, independent girls at home. Maybe she could lend a hand while her girls did the farm chores; having friendly chit-chat would be good, over a thick slice of Beef-Rhubarb Sweet Pie, and a cup of rich, creamy hot chocolate.
“Yah!” Daniel ran down the steps that led to the living room, crossed the downstairs hallway, and rounded the kitchen counter. Not two, but three oil lamps were burning: two on the counter, and one on the table. He loved his new wife, but she sure was new at the upkeep and the finances of a new home. He put it to her, politely, “Let’s just have the table lamp; it will be more romantic, Ruthie Mae!
Her back twisted to look at him as she opened the quart jar of tomato salsa. “Romantic? I look romantic don’t I?” She sat the quart of salsa down, took a towel, and blotted her weary face. “A break would be good. Company is coming, and I have no help like Beth does; I need help.” She sighed, turned to the counter, and spread the salsa onto the pizza dough. “Do you think that Beth will help me?” She topped the salsa with scrambled eggs, diced jalapenos, red bell peppers, chopped onion, and bits of crisp bacon, and turning with the pizza pan, she said, “Breakfast pizza and fried yams with fresh maple syrup!”
His watering mouth turned up to a smile, and he gazed into her twinkling baby blues, the lamp’s mighty flame outlining her beautiful face. He studied her lose golden locks, which glowed when she moved closer to the lamp’s flame. She was just as beautiful as the day that he had married her. Life full of faith, the new kitchen adventures of a new wife, and the working on his own farm, with the love of his life by his side, made him the wealthiest man in Sugarcreek. “You created a special Christmas Eve treat, Ruthie Mae!
She blushed, a moment of sheer vanity pricked her rose-colored cheeks, and vanity was not needed in an Amish home. She hated it when he’d call her Ruthie Mae because that was what her mamm and daed called her, when she was a small girl, including her middle name when she was in trouble. Men in the Amish community didn’t have middle names. She bit her bottom lip and wished that they did. “As soon as we eat breakfast, I will walk over to see if Beth can help me make bread,” she explained as she wiped her hands on her black apron, and he nodded.