When they were seated and the menus were presented, Arch said, “I'd like a big steak.”
His wife said sweetly, “Hon, you can have a big steak when you go to Tipsy’s Tavern. Chef Wingo offers you a chance to expand your gustatory horizons. I think you’d like the garlic-and-black-pepper-marinated strip loin with caramelized onions and merlot-vinegar reduction.”
Arch looked at the others helplessly. “What’s Qwill having?”
His friend said, “Grilled venison tenderloin with smoked bacon, braised cabbage strudel, and Bing cherry demi-glaze.”
Both women were having the seafood Napoleon with carrot gaufrettes and lemon buerre blanc sauce.
The first course was a butternut squash puree served in soup plates with a garnish of fresh blueberries.
Polly remarked, “Do I recognize Mildred’s influence?”
“I told Wingo that blueberries are legendary in Moose County.”
Qwilleran was alerted. He was collecting local legends for his book to be titled
“Wonderful!” she said. “Bring your recorder to the opening of the stitchery exhibition on Sunday.”
“What kind of stitchery?” Polly asked.
“Quilting. But not the kind of traditional bed quilts that I used to make. These are wall hangings, large and small, pictorial and geometric. We’re calling it Touchy-Feely Art, and I'll tell you why. A number of years ago I was visiting an art museum in Chicago and trying to examine the brushwork on a certain painting. The security guard tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Stand back eighteen inches. Breathing on the paintings is prohibited." Well! The artwork we’re showing on Sunday can be touched as well as breathed on. Even if you don’t touch the wall hangings, you get a snuggly feeling just by looking at them.”
“Interesting!” Qwilleran said, as he considered the ramifications of Touchy-Feely Art. “You’d better post signs WASH YOUR HANDS.”
Then the entrees were served, and they talked about food for a while. The server had placed a small plate of lemon wedges in the middle of the table.
“What are those for?” Arch asked.
Mildred explained, “Chef Wingo believes a few drops of lemon add piquancy to any dish, hon.”
“Qwill and I used to use it for invisible ink in secret correspondence... Remember that, Qwill?”
“Was it fourth grade?”
“I think it was fifth. Miss Getz was the teacher.”
Polly said to Mildred, “Here we go again!” The two couples could never get together without another anecdote about rascally boyhood pranks. “Tell us about Miss Getz and the secret correspondence,” she said coyly.
“Arch and I passed slips of blank paper back and forth in class, and she knew we were up to no good, but she never discovered the secret writing.”
“The way it works,” Arch explained, “you dip a cotton swab-stick in lemon juice and write on plain white paper. The writing isn’t visible until you hold it up to a hot lamp bulb. But not too close.”
Polly inquired, “Dare I ask what kind of messages you exchanged in the fourth grade?”
“Fifth,” Arch corrected her. “There’s a big difference.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, as he did when trying to recollect. “Well... there was a girl in our class called Pauline Pringle who had a bad case of acne. One day Arch slipped me a bit of paper. When I got it home and over a hot lightbulb, I laughed so hard—my mother thought I was having convulsions. It said:
Arch chuckled at the memory. The two women remained cool.
“The next day,” Qwilleran went on, “I sent him a message about the teacher. Her face would get very red once in a while, and she’d mop her brow with a handkerchief. The message was:
The women groaned. Polly was not attuned to schoolboy humor; and Mildred, having taught school for thirty years, empathized with the long-suffering Miss Getz. She said, “All you two miscreants deserve for dessert is lemon sorbet.”
All four ordered Chef Wingo’s famous blueberry cobbler, however. Arch wanted a dollop of ice cream on his; Polly asked for a smidgen of yogurt; Mildred thought she would like ‘just a tad’ of whipped cream. The host took his neat.
But he asked, “Should I know what a tad is?”
“Halfway between a smidgen and a wee bit,” Mildred informed him.
As they lingered over coffee, they discussed the Pickax Sesquicentennial celebration scheduled for the following year. Arch had attended the first meeting of the planning committee.
“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but they elected Hixie Rice as general chairman.”
“Oh, no!” Mildred said.
“Oh, dear!” Polly muttered.
