Mustard Pickles and Potato Pie

Genevieve slid her skis, one after the other, over the untouched snow, staring at the limp bundle of hair protruding from Marcel’s beanie like the damp tail of an elderly marmot. Only a sliver of orange on the horizon remained of this miserable day. Genevieve vowed to finally tell him how much she hated that ponytail as soon as they were safe and warm. They drew closer to the little cabin on the horizon, its cheerful plume of smoke an oasis in the never-ending white. A figure in a checked flannel coat and patchwork skirt swept snow from the porch, her long gray hair twisted into an intricate knot on the top of her head.         

 As they approached the cabin Marcel addressed the woman. “Good evening, ma’am, my wife and I got turned around on our ski day and are in a bit of a pickle.”

“Oh, you little Potato Pies must be frozen right down to your piglets.” She ushered them into the house, instructing them to leave their skis propped against the door, below the Rise and Brine B&B sign. “Lucky for you, there is a room left at the inn. Come warm yourselves by the fire, you look frozen as a snowman’s nose.” 

“What a relief!” Marcel pulled at one of Genevieve’s pack straps, and she shrugged off his hand and stripped off her own gear. 

“I’m Genevieve.” She held out a hand toward their eager host. “And this is my husband, Marcel.”

“Sweetie, anyone staying here is family. And who shakes hands with family?” Genevieve caught a whiff of vinegar and cloves as the woman pulled her into a tight hug. “My name is plain old Dorothea. Genevieve could be a royal name. You’re the picture of a magical snow princess with all that golden hair and rosy cheeks!” Dorothea reached up and pinched Genevieve’s face. 

Dorothea turned her attention to Marcel. “You’re a lucky ducky to have such a pretty peach!” She pulled his lanky frame into a crushing embrace.   

Genevieve’s head throbbed with the change in temperature and Dorothea’s exuberant welcome. She flopped into a recliner facing the crackling fire, trying to still the spinning room. She focused on the portrait hung above the mantle: a slightly younger Dorothea, in a white gown, grinned next to a dimpled man with a thick moustache. Her apron read In This House We Do It With Relish. 

Dorothea released Marcel and yanked a stunned Genevieve to her feet. “Oh no dear, that’s where Jack sits.” She dragged a wooden rocker across the pine floor and pushed Genevieve into it. “He’ll be back soon! He’ll want to dry his boots by the hearth.” 

Marcel settled into the other recliner, rubbing the chill out of his hands. “We are so lucky to have stumbled upon your B&B tonight.” 

“Well, I’m happy as a puppy with two tails that you found our little spot in the woods.” Dorothea tossed a log on the fire, stabbing it aggressively with an iron poker, sparks exploding from the embers.

“How long have you and Jack been running this place?” Marcel asked. 

“Oh dear, let me think.” Dorothea touched each of her fingers. “At least ten years–not enough gherkins to keep track past that.” Her laughter tinkled like a hundred silver Christmas bells. “Oh, fiddly flop, I’m the most terrible hostess. Your poor bellies must be touching your backs–I’ll round up a little snack and something hot to drink!” 

Dorothea scrambled to the kitchen. Through the open door, Genevieve watched her fill the kettle and prepare a tray of tea things.  

“That old lady’s an odd duck,” Marcel whispered. “Look at this.” He passed her the lace-trimmed pillow. When Life Gives You Pickles… Dill With it and Move On was cross-stitched in every shade of green from chartreuse to viridian to emerald. 

“Oh, you’re speaking to me again?” Genevieve tossed the pillow aside. “I thought you’d had…what were the exact words you used? Enough of my incompetence and stupidity for one day.” 

“I didn’t say that exactly.” Marcel sighed. “But you were supposed to be keeping an eye on the compass.”

“Then I guess I’m a liar as well as stupid.” Genevieve scooted the wooden chair closer to the fire.

“I told you three times we were going too far south, but your ‘navigation wand’ knew better.” Geneveive gestured towards her husband’s crotch.

“You should have said it louder.” Marcel stretched, his legs taking up the space in front of both chairs. 

“Your wand is as useless as that ridiculous rat-tail.” Genevieve kicked away his leg. “Was. That. Loud. Enough?”

Dorothea coughed from the doorway. “Well, well, aren’t you two just cozy as my Mama’s quilt on a snowy Sunday. She set a loaded tray on the table between them. “I baked the buns fresh this morning, made a rose from our sweet piggly-piggy Buttercup’s smoked ham, and, as a special treat, some of my famous homemade mustard pickles.” 

“This is very kind of you to take us in, especially with no notice.” Marcel sat up straight, running fingers through his frizzy ponytail. “You’re an absolute angel, Dorothea.” 

Hot tea and delicious food took the chill off Genevieve’s body, but her feelings for Marcel remained solidly frozen. 

When the last drop was drunk, Dorothea led the couple upstairs. She flitted around the small bedroom, turning on antique lamps and pulling towels from a pine cabinet. Genevieve admired the rustic furniture, handmade quilts, and feather pillows. “This room is so charming!” She flipped through a leather guest book lying open on the dresser. 

“Sandra and Steven Rathbone. January 5th, 1988.” Genevieve read the last entry aloud. “Has no one else stayed in this room in two years?” 

Dorothea snatched the book and moved to the door. “How’d that old thing get in here? I’ll get you to sign the new one in the morning. Sleep well, Potato Pies. Breakfast will be ready whenever you wake up.” 

Marcel collapsed onto the bed as soon as Dorothea closed the door. “Can we just fast forward through the apology and forgiveness nonsense so we can cuddle up in this bed and fall asleep?”  

Genevieve crawled under the layers of quilts and turned her back to his chest. 

Marcel spoke to her neck. “C’mon we were both being assholes out there. Do you want me to beg for forgiveness?” 

“A massage would be a good start,” Genevieve replied. “My neck is killing me.”

“Good idea. You go first.” Marcel flipped over. “I have a knot on my left shoulder blade.” “Good night.” Genevieve turned off the bedside lamp. “And I meant what I said about that ponytail.” 

Icy air filled the space between their backs. Sleep came instantly for Marcel. Genevieve lay awake listening to the rumble of his moist snores until exhaustion claimed her.

# 

“Jack must’ve come home late last night.” Marcel addressed Dorothea through a mouthful of pancake and syrupy melted butter. “I didn’t hear a thing. Is he still sleeping?” 

“Poor man got stuck in town.” Dorothea gestured at the window. “It’s like God shook a snow globe out there!” 

“I’m trying to figure out how he got out in the first place? Any trace of a road is completely covered by snow,” Marcel said. 

Dorothea’s juice glass smashed on the floor, shards skittering across the linoleum. “What a silly-billy clutzy-nutzy I am.” She disappeared down the basement stairs, reappearing with a corn husk broom. 

“Here, let me do that.” Genevieve took the broom from Dorothea. 

“Oh, thank you, Sugar Pop! I’m going to the barn to see if Blanche, Rose, and Sophia left me any cackleberries overnight. My stock is getting low.” Dorothea gestured to a half-full glass jar of white eggs bobbing in greenish-yellow liquid.  “Help yourself to one of my famous pickled eggs.” 

She bundled up in her thick flannel coat and fur-lined boots, pulled the basement door shut, and slogged through the snow drifts to the red barn. 

“Ok, that was weird, right?” Marcel asked Genevieve. 

“She’s just eccentric.” Genevieve placed her plate in the sink.  “I’m going to have a shower. We will probably need to stay here for a couple days, don’t do anything stupid.”  

# 

The kitchen was empty when Genevieve came back downstairs thirty minutes later. “Marcel…Dorothea?” Neither responded. A thud from below drew Genevieve’s attention to the open basement door. She picked her way down the rickety staircase. Shelves lined the dirt walls of the cold room, sagging under the weight of jars filled with jam, vegetables, and pickles. So many pickles! A single bulb dangling from ceiling beams cast a dim light on dozens of large ceramic crocks. Marcel knelt on the dirt floor, peering into one of them. His pathetic ponytail lay limp on his neck. 

“What are you doing down here?” Genevieve hissed. “Can’t you ever just do what I ask?” 

Marcel didn’t reply. She stepped toward him, her sock slipping in something warm and wet. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Marcel toppled on his side, head lolling unnaturally. His slit throat gaped, still-steaming blood glistening in the dim light. 

“Predictability is the sign of a weak character.” Dorothea’s whisper reached Genevieve at the same time the older woman placed a blade against Genevieve’s throat. 

“A closed door is just an invitation for a man like that.” Dorothea’s voice was flat and frigid as the snow-covered fields surrounding the cabin. “I only had to complain about trying to open a jar of my famous kraut, and he flew down here like Superman rushing to save Lois from a burning building.” 

Genevieve’s eyes flicked into the crock.  

“He..… He just wanted to help, I’m sure,” Genevieve stammered. “Let’s go back upstairs and talk.” 

Dorothea, keeping the knife close to Genevieve, reached over and dipped a finger into the open crock. “Isn’t he handsome as a billy goat on a first date?” The head floating in the pickling liquid had an eerie metallic pallor but was otherwise perfectly preserved. A thick moustache pointed at matching dimples. Glassy black eyes stared lifelessly at the women.  

“Jack loved when we had guests. Especially pretty ones with perky oinkers.” Dorothea tapped Genevieve on her nose. “That whore Sandy Rathbone had a pink piggy nose too. Tee hee hee—she’d giggled at all his stupid jokes.” Dorothea pointed at a crock further down the row. “Her ridiculous blonde head is in that one.”  

Genevieve’s insides clenched. The pancakes, coffee, and homemade preserves she’d eaten for breakfast roiled violently. 

“I usually mind my own soup instead of sprinkling salt in someone else’s, but I could tell your man was cut from the same sprig as mine. Squeezing me when I was just trying to give a friendly hello. And all those shamefully flirtatious compliments. Right in front of his own bride.” Dorothea clicked her teeth together. “I did you a favour, potato pie!”

Genevieve stared down at the older woman and twisted her mouth into a smile. “So what do we do with him now?”

“Great galloping gazelles! I knew we’d be bosom buddies.” Dorothea lowered the knife and handed Genevieve a recipe card from her apron pocket. “You mix up the brine in that empty crock, and I’ll get Marcel’s noggin ready for bobbin!” 

Genevieve shuffled across the room on shaky legs as Dorothea made short, squelching slices through Marcel’s neck and listed the other cold room inhabitants. 

“Poor Steven was an innocent by-product of his whorish wife’s behaviour. I put the poor puppy next to her so he could keep following her around.” Dorothea wiped bits of flesh from the knife before discarding it to pick up a hand saw.

“The far one covered in cobwebs is my mother-in-law, Pruney Juney. She came sniffing around looking for her precious baby boy, beaking off about my famous bread and butter spears being too salty.” Dorothea dragged the teeth of the saw along Marcel’s vertebrae. Pop Pop Pop.  “How’s that brine coming along, sunshine?”

“Just measuring the salt,” Genevieve replied over the chalky snaps of her husband’s delicate bones.

Dorothea’s singsong voice filled the 

“Pickle pickle, pumpernickel. 

I’ll give this guy a little tickle.

One for having little class.

One for acting like an ass.

One for the way he treats his wife.

And a final slice to end his life.”

With a final grinding crunch, Marcel’s head hit the dirt and rolled away from Dorothea’s satisfied squeals.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Genevieve took three quick strides, plucked the discarded knife from the blood-soaked floor, and held it in a trembling hand over Dorothea’s crouching frame.

Dorothea sighed. “I had such high hopes for you, potato pie.” She reached up and slid the saw across Genevieve’s throat before the younger woman knew what happened. 

“Oh dear. That girl ain’t got the sense god gave a goose.” Dorothea wiped a splatter from her face. “And now I have to clean up on my own.” She looked at Jack’s beautiful face. “This is all your fault.” A drop of blood rolled off her chin and bloomed into a beautiful purple cloud over his left dimple.

Dorthea lifted Marcel’s head by the ponytail, twirled it three times, and flung it expertly into the waiting crock. 

She wiped Genevieve’s blood from the recipe card. “A rooster one day, a feather duster the next. Now, where’d I put that vinegar jug?”

Large Batch Preserving – Pickling Fermentation Method 

Gather ingredients and tools: 

• Large crock or food-grade bucket, cleaned 
• ½ cup sea salt  
• handful of oak, grape, or cherry leaves  
• Organic matter to be pickled  
• Large rock or weight, cleaned 

Steps: 

• Clean items to be pickled – needs to be free from dirt and any extraneous fluids 
• Place organic matter in crock 
• Dissolve salt in 1 gallon of water and pour into crock 
• Add leaves – these are important for crispness 
• Use the weight to submerge – add more if necessary 
• Cover crock with a clean cloth to keep out flies and debris 
• Check once a week – skim any visible mold from the top