“Jah.”
“Those must be some pickles.” He couldn’t imagine. Weren’t homemade pickles supposed to be . . . well, disgusting?
Katie Rose rose from her seat and wound her way through the other ladies to the refrigerator that sat in the corner of the kitchen. He made a mental note to ask how the crazy thing worked. It seemed that the Amish may not have electricity, but that didn’t mean they were without creature comforts. Or maybe he should say “necessities.” There was a difference, after all.
She handed him a jar and a fork and waited patiently while he sampled one of Noni’s famous pickles.
One thing was certain: they did indeed warrant celebrity status. They were cool and crunchy, with just the right amount of everything—salt, dill, garlic, and some unknown ingredient that made them different from any pickle he’d ever tasted. They were . . . perfect. No wonder they had jars spread all over the house. What a great addition to his feature.
“Let me get my camera and—”
Katie Rose shook her head. “It is against the Ordnung to have photographs.”
He studied her face to see if this was another chapter of the Fisher family’s book of practical jokes, but she seemed serious enough. “For real?”
“I’m not sure what that means, but yes . . . I think. We do not allow our faces to be in photographs.”
“What about—”
“You may take a picture of the kitchen, but none of us. Maybe the barn and the animals. Anything more, and you’ll have to speak to Dat.”
“Okay.” He’d love to get a picture of the kitchen, but what good was that without at least one cook? He made a mental note to talk to Abram about taking a picture of the women as they made their pickles. Maybe if he photographed them from a side angle or from behind . . .
He’d ask. After all there would be a few more pickle-making days before this assignment was through.
“So once the treatments are paid for, the pickles will stop?”
Katie Rose smiled like Mona Lisa. “We’ll only make enough for our family and any others for trade.”
“Trade?”
“Noni makes the best pickles, but Aaron’s Rachel’s Sarah makes the best applesauce. So we swap.”
He popped the last bite into his mouth. Before he could ask her what that meant and who Aaron, Rachel, and Sarah were, she stood, and with a quick nod, excused herself.
Zane watched her go and tried not to be so pleased that, despite the fact she lived in another house, he would see her next week. He’d just have to make it a point to be closer to the house on pickle-making days.
3
You know today was all in fun, jah?”
Zane sat on his bed, typing in questions, notes, and anecdotes from the day as quickly as he could. The battery light on his computer blinked out a warning. He probably only had about fifteen minutes left before the thing died, and he’d have to resort to pen and paper to record his thoughts. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but he could type much faster than he could write in longhand. In cases like that, he often lost the idea before he had a chance to get it down on paper.