Before I jump forward to years later, I want to finish up about the bizarre penance doled out to me. Hopefully, this will be the last record of any of my Novitiate penances. This penance was for talking to my secret crush outside the building of our small college. I broke several rules. You can probably at this point, identify them.   

I will leave it up to you to assess how absurd you think my penance was.  We were having a free day outside which meant people could visit while enjoying the wafting of exceptionally luscious smoked meat grilling.

My penance was ridiculously absurd, especially on a hot sunny day near a sizzling grill. One of the wool coverings we had to wear to protect our veil necessary for winter weather and temperature, was called a rigolet. It was a black scarf that could be fastened at the chin. 

Imagine yourself alongside the other Sisters who were not supposed to laugh.  How they must have laughed within themselves or maybe among themselves when they saw me walking out to the festive gathering wearing a rigolet. 

I appeared psychotic as if I thought it might be snowing with sub-zero temperatures. Maybe worst of all, but I'm not sure if it was the worst, I could not speak.  I was supposed to remain silent. Of course, I was being watched to ensure I was serving out my penance obediently.

I don't remember if we ever secretly whispered in a discussion about that situation later or not. Probably not. As with many things, this is also a blur. I have to say I don't remember anyone else ever having to wear a rigolet on a hot sunny day.

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Years Later

Our Novitiate building was repurposed for various events. One was to serve as a mundane convent office space. Another was, to provide the Sisters a perfect location for retreats. The setting probably would still have that prayerful spirit surrounding it. However, it also had a bit of a cooking hex lingering.

I was asked by the Sister retreatants who were all my friends, to come and cook for them. Now that sounds like it would be enjoyable and and give them a nice chance to be reflective without having to worry about preparing any meals.  

The meals would be ready for them after I rode 2 miles on my bicycle to get to them and prepare the food. The sense of success thus far felt good.  The next meal on the list was a pot roast.   Everything was there, the onions, carrots, potatoes, and a rich-looking potroast.

I packed everything into a baking pan, threw them into the oven, set the temperature, and rode my bicycle back to one of my temporary homes, the convent, Actually, it was called the Mother House or as I referred to it, The Big House. As scheduled, I would return in 2 hours. Has anyone seen the glitch yet? Or the second one?

I was feeling very proud as I rode my bike back to the post-Novitiate building. I had single-handedly provided several fine meals for the eight sisters who were on retreat. I thought maybe they would even pray for me in place of leaving a tip.

Remember the cooking hex, ever our companion. As I cut into the pot roast, I should have known the all too reddening of the meat to be a foreshadowing of a cautionary cooking tale repeat performance. I missed it, as I was brought up recognizing beef only,  a bit red.  Which cautionary tale? Where do we begin?

I placed the baking dish of pot roast and veggies onto the table, awaiting the surely famished group of Sisters who had been fasting all day with no snacks. They kept the usual silence as they prayerfully glided into their chairs. 

Able to be scooped up in a large serving spoon and placed onto their plates, it wasn’t until the rock-solid carrots and potatoes rolled around on their plates did it become solidly obvious nothing had sufficiently cooked. 

I found out later, everything still needed two more hours to cook. I also learned the quick trick of boiling the carrots and potatoes to tenderize them. I had been invited to join them. Of all times!

Self-prescribed silence was broken, no need for a penance. There was no one there to dole them out those times were gone for everyone. We all laughed hilariously and banged our carrots and potatoes on the plate just to see how hard they were. I don't remember what they ended up eating. This was another blur in my Novitiate cooking history. But didn't that sound a lot like the frozen brownies with ice cream on top? So familiar.

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How Romantic

Maybe it is because both of us had been in the convent at one time. Granted, it was not the same convent, but yet a convent. My partner at the time,  who is Doolie in my Be Wee With Bea books, thought it would be fun to travel 2 hours to get to my house, with all four dogs for a nice romantic Thanksgiving meal.

We both carried to this occasion, a cooking hex from decades ago.  Everything was nicely prepared and baking in the oven, with hopes to soon smell the simmering turkey wafting toward our noses. Time went by and still, there was no aroma of turkey.

Out of puzzlement, we finally opened the oven door. My stomach sank with a thud, to discover the turkey had barely cooked. I found out later the oven in my new house had a wrenched door, it would not fully shut. To keep it shut properly I had to move the lever so it was almost ready to go into the cleaning mode.

You will note I can conveniently forget the bad times. I have no idea what we ate. There must have been something else good I pulled out of my freezer so we could have a nice meal.

This final travesty I am about to relate is almost unbelievable. I had enjoyed my supper with my friend who is called Timothy in my Be Wee With Bea books. I was getting some ice cream which was as so many foods seem to be,  rock solid.

I did not want to wait until it softened, so I grabbed a steak knife out of the silverware drawer and began chopping at it. I don't know what it is about things that are either shoulder-high as in the freezer or waste high on the counter.  They have to fall aimed directly at my toes.

The knife flipped out of my hand and instantly morphed into a sharp-bladed projectile headed right for my big toe. My toe begins to gush red onto the kitchen floor in this romantic moment. 

My frantic brain began to search ways to fashion a butterfly bandaid since I had none in any medicine cabinet in the entire house. At that point, I made a mental note to buy some the next time I was out shopping.  

I was meeting with defeat as I could not properly shape the bandaid. Everyone I cut, came out the opposite of what I needed. My friend inquired what was going on. I was mortified to have to show him what I had done. He was a Pisces and a very calm person. The reason I called him Timothy the wood carving beaver in my book is because he is a wood carver.

He came up with a perfect solution while referring to some of his wood carving art faux pas. “When one of my creations loses a toe, and I have to refasten it. I tape it this way.”

He proceeded to wind the bandaids in such a fashion to hold my toe together and stop it bleeding any further. Here is another blur. I have no idea if we had the ice cream and found a way to soften it. We may have used the microwave. I don't know.