I’d been a wife for five months when I left my husband at home to go on tour with the choir to recruit students for the church college where we lived. Denny had to stay home to teach classes and guard the wine we’d hidden in our refrigerator.  Is Denny as worried as I am?

As much as I wanted to go on this trip, I felt troubled about leaving. The half-empty bottle of wine nagged at my conscience. We shoud’ve thrown it away, but didn’t want to waste it. When our bus stopped for gas I placed a collect call. The operator asked for my name and I said, “Betty Peal,” forgetting I had a new last name. Luckily, Denny knew who I was. When he answered I said, “Honey, I can’t explain how much I miss you. Do you miss me?”

“Betty, I haven’t had time.”

“Denny, I’ve been gone for five whole hours.”

“I know, I know—but right after you left, something happened. A scandal broke on campus.”

“A scandal?”

“Yes. The college president wants to fire the football coach because he cusses and steals towels from any team that beats us, and whenever we win he drinks beer with the team .”

“Denny, why are you so upset? Are you and the coach really good buddies?”

“Not at all. I’m upset because someone will be questioning the faculty under oath about these accusations that I know are true. But, how can I report anyone when we’re hiding wine in our own refrigerator?”

All we had wanted to do was create a fine dinner but we created a dreadful mess instead. Denny’s predicament at the college frustrated and worried me. He promised to keep me informed by way of the church addresses supplied ahead of time. I shared his troubles with his sister and her husband who were also on the trip. When Denny’s first letter arrived, all three of us huddled close to read his one-line letter.

“Dear Betty, I transferred the beet juice into a canning jar.”

Glenna said, “I hope he saved that pretty bottle.”

I said, “Me too.”

In the short time we’d been married, I discovered that no matter how upset he was, Denny appeared calm. I wasn’t used to such unnatural composure.

A longer letter arrived the next day.

“My dearest Betty–tomorrow is interrogation day.

I flushed the beet juice down the toilet. It was spoiled.” — Denny  

Denny’s impending grilling could flatten our future in one meeting. He didn’t like to rock the boat or do anything to alter the way people saw him. Me? I was just angry.” I lingered on those thoughts too long, causing my stomach to boil. I had a solo with the choir that night and on the way to the stage, I whispered to our director, “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Good Grief, Betty! Drop out of line.”

I slipped away from the procession and went to the back of the church, eyes scanning every row for an isolated pew where I could lie down. I used an opened hymnal for a pillow, and stretched out flat so no one could see me but God. Then I closed my eyes and listened to our entire concert while hidden from view.

The pure, clear tones of our choir sounded prayer-like, a distraction from my worries. I barely felt the hardness of the bench under my hip bones and the music sent thrills down my arms and legs. When the program ended with a tender rendition of “All on an April Evening,” warm tears trickled into my ears, and my nose ran something awful. I turned into an emotional mess caught with no handkerchief and wiped it all away with the back of my hand.  

The next day I dreaded calling Denny, afraid of what might have happened at the interrogation. When he answered I said, “Okay, Honey…break it to me gently.”

He said, “I will. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Before my turn to be questioned even came up…they had fired the coach.”

I almost fainted from relief and couldn’t wait to tell Carl and Glenna. I felt guilty that someone else got fired and not us, believing that stealing towels was worse than drinking wine.

We performed our last concert in Southern California then headed home where Denny welcomed us with a simple dinner he’d fixed by himself. After giving thanks for our many blessings, Carl said, “Hey, Auch, did you put any of that Manny-shevvy in these pork chops?”

Denny said, “Heck no. That stuff traumatized me so much that I dumped it.”

Glenna said, “I loved that pretty bottle.”

“That fancy decanter was a real pain. I wrapped it in five layers of newspaper, wound string around it, and put it in a gunny sack. After the boys upstairs went to sleep, I sneaked to the basement with a hammer and whacked the daylights out of that bottle and pushed the bag deep into the garbage can.”

I said, “Well, I’m glad it’s over.”

Denny said, “Me too. Never again will we buy anything we have to hide.”

I said, “I’ll drink to that.”

Denny said, “Betty, that’s not one bit funny.”

Carl and Glenna hid their smiles while I reminded myself that Denny had no sense of humor.  I would have to change that.

*     *     *

 Excerpted from Living with Twelve Men available in e-book and paperback, buy now:

While living on a church college campus in 1950 my husband, Denny, and I had hidden a bottle of Manischewitz wine in the refrigerator. Why? Because in plain sight it could’ve gotten us in a whole lot of trouble. We wanted to cook a gourmet meal with it, but Denny first had to convince his sister that owning a bottle of wine wasn’t a sin. After all, if Jesus turned water into wine it must be good for something. With that behind us, we scheduled a dinner date for my sister-in-law, Glenna and her husband, Carl. I could hardly wait to shine in the kitchen. The week seemed a month long. Finally, the day had come to arrange the pot roast, potatoes, carrots, and onions in the electric roaster before leaving for church. The meal would be ready when we returned.

When Sunday services had ended, Denny, Carl, Glenna and I zoomed home and straight to the kitchen where we could sin in the privacy of our own apartment. Oh joy; the place smelled wonderful. Denny set the table and reminded our guests that we would enjoy this wine-cooked meal without guilt.

Thirty minutes before mealtime, I set the bottle free from its prison behind the milk and baptized the roast with one cup of Manischewitz, then covered the electric roaster and set the timer for 30 minutes. I performed these simple tasks like they were old hat even though I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. Pretending gave me courage.

Carl said, “What’s happening now?”

I said, “I’m allowing the wine to ‘marry’ the flavors of the meat and vegetables.”

“Marry the food?”

“Yeah.”

That’s the way chefs talked. I saw it in the movies.

Thirty minutes later Denny sliced chunks of pot roast and dished food onto each plate. Before placing the offerings on the table, he thanked God for our many blessings then spooned the red juice from the bottom of the pan over the meat and vegetables. It stunned the eyes and shocked the mouth, tasting like meat and vegetables with wine poured on top. I assumed that might’ve been a good thing, but not sure. I hoped to convince everyone, even myself, I had prepared a gourmet meal. Glenna chewed, and through a mouthful of potatoes soaked in wine, my sister-in-law said, “Interesting.”

I wanted to hear more than that and said, “Exotic, isn’t it?” The word “exotic” seemed more appropriate than “interesting.”

Denny got up from the table and through tight lips said, “Scuse me,” and disappeared into the bathroom. Carl and Glenna kept eating just enough to be supportive and not enough to get sick. I cleared away food and dishes and sensed things hadn’t gone as planned. I could still save face and said, “Wait’ll you taste dessert.”

“Dessert?” Carl looked panic-stricken.

That’s when I felt we might be in trouble. Denny and I were trying to recreate a gourmet meal we’d had at the Blue Parrot Restaurant in Denver. The dessert we ordered had a French name: Glace avec Sauce Vin. We didn’t really like it and concluded that our taste buds were unsophisticated just as Carl and Glenna’s taste buds were now.

Denny scooped vanilla ice cream into small bowls and I dribbled Manischewitz over each one. Then I christened each serving with a maraschino cherry thinking the extra touch might save the day. The cherry on top was not what got our attention. What had gotten our attention was the curdled ice cream that looked like baby spit-up. Glenna placed a dainty bite on her tongue, held it there for a few seconds and said, “No thanks.”

Denny said, “This isn’t at all like what we ate in Denver.”

I said, “It’s close.”

What a lie. I’d never eaten  anything that strange, but I ate it, acting like it tasted yummy and finished every bite.  I guess I had something to prove, unsure what that might be.

Carl turned the eating experience in a new direction when he said, “Let’s see what this stuff tastes like straight from the bottle.” Would Carl be the one to save my dinner party?

He poured the wine into little plastic juice glasses, giving each of us about three tablespoons of the scarlet liquid. We took our time sipping it and agreed that it tasted pretty good by itself, so, wine became our dessert. Denny said, “Let’s make a toast”  We clunked our plastic glasses together and he added, “Forget cooking with wine. We should’ve done this in the first place.”

Now free of all pretenses, I joined the group slurping Manischewitz and then we enjoyed a second round and got kind of giggly. I said, “We’d better wrap this up before someone knocks on our door and turns us in.” I put the cork in place and returned the rest of the wine to the fridge where it belonged…behind the milk.

The pretty bottle hid in the refrigerator for a few more months. By spring vacation, Carl, Glenna, and I had to leave for a week while traveling the west coast on our choir concert tour. After our concerts, a representative from our college would recruit new students. We had to leave Denny behind, because he was a faculty member and not in the choir. . As our bus pulled away and we waved goodbye to my husband, sadness and worry settled over me. I leaned back in the seat and whispered to Carl, “I forgot that wine is still in our fridge. What if one of the boys upstairs wants to borrow milk.”

Carl said, “Don’t worry. That Mannychevy, or whatever it’s called, won’t be a problem.”

He was so wrong.

*     *     *

Story and illustration by Betty Auchard

 Excerpted from Living with Twelve Men available in e-book and paperback, buy now: