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just a Jewish custom?’
    â€˜We Christians don’t do it either,’ I said, ‘but because of all the unflattering things she said about your mother in that trashy novel of hers, your mother’s name tops Chief Toy’s list of murder suspects.’
    At that the Babester bellowed like our prize-winning bull Lester did when our cow, Daisy, accidently kicked those particular blue ribbon features of his that made him a breeding champion. After that, Lester was forced into early retirement and Daisy had to be freshened at a neighbor’s farm.
    â€˜My mother!’ Gabe exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe you dragged my mother into this.’
    â€˜It wasn’t me—’ Quite possibly I would have carried on as loudly as Gabriel, had not I spied Freni’s pitiful attempt to waggle her almost non-existent brows above a pair of rimless glasses. In this code, one perfected by eons of time, across countless cultures, she was trying to warn me about the perils of coming between a man and his mother. The dear woman knew that Gabriel and Mother Malaise shared a bond so tight that one glue company even used their photo on advertisements. While some men have to sever their mother’s apron strings, Gabriel’s mother trotted over from a pseudo-convent every evening to cut his meat for him. I use the word ‘pseudo’ because she made up her own religion, ordained herself as its head, and this so-called Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy is an old farmhouse that once belonged to my inadvertent first husband. Mother Malaise’s misguided followers are a bunch of loonies in search of their tunes. Enough said – for now.
    â€˜Ach!’ said Freni, recoiling as much as a woman can when she lacks any semblance of a neck. ‘What you say is not fair to our skinny Magdalena. Your mama – this Mother Mayonnaise – she has plenty of meat on her bones, and she cannot be dragged by anyone.’
    â€˜It is all right, Freni,’ I said. ‘He didn’t mean it literally.’
    â€˜Yah? Is that so?’ Thankfully she didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to her stew pot, muttering all the time.
    â€˜Got to love her,’ I said. ‘She’s my mother by a different womb.’
    For the next few minutes Freni wisely stirred the stew while my Babester stewed. Meanwhile, the newest love of my life, the male whose apron strings I would never allow to be severed, clung to a stool across the kitchen and stared intently at me. In retrospect, I have no doubt that he was sending me a coded message as well, because without any warning he lunged forward and began lurching in my direction. This was only the third time that the little rug rat had ever attempted to walk on his own.
    Needless to say, my arguably stunted heart threatened to burst with joy. Since nothing can compare to watching the fruit of one’s womb perform amazing deeds, I actually felt a moment of solidarity with the erstwhile maligned Mother Mayonnaise – I mean, Malaise! Alas, my moment of charity lasted just as long as Little Jacob kept his balance. After five weaving steps he plopped on his rump, but instead of crying like I’d fully expected him to, he laughed and held up fat little arms. His little fists opened and closed as if to say, Pick me up. Set me on my feet. I want to do it again!
    I am known for my quick, hawk-like reactions. I would go so far as to say that I am proud of my ability to respond quickly, and appropriately, in any given situation, but we Mennonites believe that pride is a grave sin. Instead, we have been raised to be proud of our humility. Some folks find this conundrum harder to live with than others do.
    At any rate, my Dearly Beloved’s swift actions were not quite as swift as those of yours truly – not by a long shot. The pouty look that his delicious, bow-shaped lips assumed was reminiscent of the time when my mother-in-law forgot to