“You need help,” she announced, and without further ado, she put on an apron that displayed two pigs hunched over a trough. “My daughter, Meg, gave me this. It reminded me of Ed and Shirley. Where’s your biggest kettle?” I showed her. She shucked corn, and I greased potatoes. “I went to see Fuzzy after work,” Vida said. “That must be his real hair. It looked like it had died instead of him.” “How was he?” I asked, using a cooking fork to poke holes in the potatoes. “Critical, my foot! He should be out of there tomorrow. Or Sunday, anyway.” She filled the big cast-iron kettle with water from the tap. “At least I found out why he had the heart attack. Spasm, I should say. Or so young Doc Dewey told me. No wonder, Neeny is enough to give anybody a stroke. Or a spasm.” I closed the oven and eyed Vida curiously. She was dumping salt with one hand and sugar with the other into the kettle. I refrained from asking her why. Vida had been cooking a lot longer than I had, though, I knew from experience, not necessarily better.
What do You think about The Alpine Advocate (2010)?
