Free Funeral Hotdish by Jana Bommersbach

people to feed today. We need to buck up.”
    “You’re sure you want to be here?” Maggie probed again.
    Gertie gave a definitive nod. “It’s the last thing I can do for her.” Her voice caught.
    “Of course. Of course.” Maggie smiled and wiped her own tears with her fingers.
    There was another reason. Being here in the basement preparing dinner meant Gertie couldn’t go out to the cemetery to bury Amber. Circle members always shed their aprons and climbed the back stairs for the funeral, but the minute the casket was out the front door, they came back down to finish the meal that would be ready when mourners returned to the church.
    Maggie herself was glad she wouldn’t have to witness that unbearably sad moment when Amber was put into the ground, so she could imagine how much Gertie wanted to avoid it. Better to visit the grave later, when it was all filled in and grass was growing over the mound of dirt and the headstone was in place—it was hard enough then. Maggie had no doubt Gertie would visit Amber in the cemetery a mile out of town. Just like Maggie visited her own people, who’d been buried there since 1897.
    Maggie blanched as she noticed Gertie’s roller-curler hair. The old woman was so distracted, she’d never realize the mistake, so Maggie stepped in to fix the problem: “The least I can do for you today is comb out your hair, dear friend.”
    Gertie looked puzzled, but one touch of her head and she realized. Maggie grabbed a comb from her purse and quickly turned the roller shapes into a nice hairstyle.
    “Are those all the buns?” Gertie covered her embarrassment and got back on track.
    “No, I’ve got more in the car, but I couldn’t carry them all in one load. We ordered five hundred. Do you think that will be enough?” Gertie thought it would.
    “I’ve also got my Jello-O salad and my cake.” Maggie started for the door.
    “Did you bring your pickles?” Gertie did a mental inventory of Maggie’s contribution.
    “Oh damn, I forgot my pickles. I better run home and get them.”
    “No need. If the others come through, we’ll have enough. Besides, there’s a couple jars left over from the Esther Circle, but I’m sure those girls won’t mind if we used them today.” Maggie agreed.
    Over the next half-hour, the other eight women of the Judith Circle straggled in, each bringing her own cake or pan of bars and Jello-O salad. Every woman arrived with a jar of her homemade pickles, much to Maggie’s relief. All blinked in surprise when they saw Gertie with her apron over her black dress, but Maggie signaled them not to make a fuss.
    Even though the entire circle understood the usual hotdish recipe was being tripled for the first time in memory, they were astonished by the mound of ingredients Gertie set out on the counter. Each woman walked through the kitchen, marveling at how gigantic sixty pounds of hamburger looked, or how twenty-seven cans of tomato paste all set in a row resembled a battalion.
    Each and every one said a few words about the shame of it all and the pain of it all and those things you say when you don’t know what to say but need to say something.
    Gertie shook the dime jar to get everyone’s attention. “This is no time to lollygag, ladies. We have a lot of work to do.” Everyone hopped to and took on a job.
    “What is that?” the newest member asked, pointing to the mason jar half full of dimes.
    “Gertie, tell her the story,” Maggie yelled, hoping the distraction would help the old woman.
    “You watch today. An old woman in a flat straw hat will come in and sit at the back table. She’ll eat three plates of food and stuff rolls in her purse. Don’t you pay any mind. That’s Cissy German. She comes to every funeral. She always leaves us a dime. The dimes go in that jar. It’s our ‘tip jar.’” Gertie almost giggled as she finished.
    Maggie started cutting the nine pounds of bacon into small pieces. Angie Krump grabbed the eight bunches of