It's what's inside that counts ...

Annemarie's story

 

 It’s What's Inside that Counts.I can think of many occasions when what is inside is what counts: the spy and the resistance worker with the cyanide pill, what's inside the small print of all those documents we sign, the sudden kindness in someone unexpected and, of course, all those ingredients in the stuff we put into our mouths. 

 

With it being near Christmas I have two family stories regarding 'it's what inside that counts'. My first thought was about Christmas pudding, never much appreciated in our family.Christmas puddings originated in the 14th century contained beef, mutton, raisins, wines, spices and among other ingredients, suet, which we still have in today's puddings (don't tell your French friends!). 

Over the centuries it became less savoury and much fruitier with the addition of a hidden coin, the finder of which was ensured luck for the year (- as long as he didn't swallow it!)The puddings must have been very rich because in 1664 the Puritans outlawed the 'sinfully rich dessert' - along with a long list of other pleasures. We usually have quite a houseful at Christmas and I remember one particular year when we had two very young lads from Belarus staying. Time for the pudding and we all sat round the table paper hats on and inside surprises of crackers strewn; the lights were turned out and their eyes widened as the pudding was carried in, clothed in its brandy-burning, blue cloak, followed by the crackle and flames of the holly sprig catching fire. Anticipation as the pudding was doled out followed by great excitement when coins clinked onto the their plates amid the debris of currants.    Then wonderment and laughter as our son 'magicked' a silver fork, silver napkin ring and finally a small silver teapot seemingly from his mouth. Eventually the boys tried a spoonful of the pudding - a simultaneous screwing up of faces and shaking of heads ensued. Fortunately I had made a frozen ice cream Christmas pudding as well - and no it had no secrets inside. 

 

My second story is about my mother, known to everybody as Omie. When she was 90 she spent her Christmas with us and my sister and family. We were nine around the table and the youngsters were bored as there was no dessert after the Boxing Day meal and they were ready to leave the table until THE BOX OF CHOCOLATES was mentioned. These were Russian Roulette chocolates. Thirty six luscious chocolates, each nestling in its crinkly golden bed, eighteen in the top layer and eighteen below. Innocent - but delicious- looking chocolates. Ha ha! One hid a secret within! One chocolate contained a whole, small, spicy-hot chilli inside. The warning was announced in fairly large, red letters underneath a Russian snow scene, on the cover of the octagonal box, “Yes! Yes! We won't mind,” said the children.”It's only one chocolate and we can spit it out!”The box was duly passed around the table starting with Omie. Silence reigned as we watched - hopefully on the children's (and my) side. Eyes closed, Omie enjoyed the velvety unctuousness of her chocolate. The box was passed reverently round the table. Each child screwed up his or her face as he or she bit tentatively into the chocolate then relaxed and savoured the mouthful. Three circuits of the box, ever lighter and ever more crackly with its empty gold cases; then the final round had arrived; the suspense was tangible as we all sat, elbows on the table watching for the unlucky victim. One grandchild was ready to quit but greed overcame fear and he grabbed a chocolate, stuffed it bravely in his mouth and, barely chewing, swallowed it. Relief spread on his face. Then John eeny-meeny-moed his fingers over the remaining eight amid cries of “Hurry up, grandad!”. Seven chocolates - Omie slipped her last one in her mouth - “ Ooh, delicious!” she sighed. Another screwed-up face as another grandchild bit into her chocolate, then relief as she savoured it and glee as she watched the next three chocolates being carefully selected. Eventually the box sat on the table between my sister and myself, the last two chocolates winking invitingly at us. My sister looked at me ( what long-awakened thoughts of sibling rivalry lay in that look!) and closed her eyes, her hand hovered over the box and she picked the one hopefully innocent chocolate. A huge smile spread from ear to ear as she luxuriated in all its lush creaminess and anticipated my next mouthful. Now, I like curry but not very hot, certainly not a whole chilli and what's more I like my chocolates with something sweet inside; but a glass of cold milk at the ready I popped the last chocolate into my mouth and bit. A smile spread over MY face as I tasted the praline-popping inside that dark chocolate coat. Everybody looked at me; surprise on all their faces; where was the chilli? Omie smiled. “I had it - in the very first chocolate,” said Omie, “ I didn't want to spoil the game. And yes I can still feel the heat of the chilli despite three more chocolates!”My wonderful mum! Now there is always a thought amongst the younger members of the family that at family Christmas that it might just be worth staying to the very end of the meal.

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Jackie's contribution:

"It’s what’s inside that counts"

 

Dear Abby, 

 

I have been reading your column in the Chicago Post for years and have laughed out loud at some of the ridiculous things people ask.      Now it’s is my turn to ask a silly question and get your advice.   I recently had a row with my boyfriend -    we were going out to a party you see and I got all dressed up and felt like a Barbie doll in its packaging.       I literally spent my last dime on this new dress with plunging neckline, had my hair done and even my nails were painted to match my outfit. I’d opened that bottle of body lotion that I’d got for Christmas a few years ago.   

I felt so cool  I felt like Madonna a showgirl ready to affront the public and show the man I loved I was still sexy, glamorous and wantable    – so different from my everyday outfit of jeans, trainers and bomber jacket .  oh yes I put on my 5inch gold sandals too. Hee hee

 

I set the scene to come down the stairs putting on some dramatic music and as I slowly drifted down – taking one stair at a time very slowly I watched my boyfriends (now ex)  face I wanted to see his amazement and desire shine through again like it was at the beginning of our relationship.

   To be honest we haven’t been having good times for the last month or so – he always seems to be out with the boys (or so he says) and when we go on the high street he’s turning his head at all the pretty girls.     So you see this was my last chance  to make him fall in love with me all over again.

 

Well, I can tell you when he saw me coming down those stairs in my outfit his eyes popped out of his head – I promise he became google eyed.  But not in a good way.    He didn’t smile, just looked disgusted, then went back to playing Fornite on his phone.       

Then he was shouting, how can you go out like that, you look like a tart – all dressed up - who are you trying to seduce now.   Trying to get the attention of all the boys at the party heh … well I don’t like it and I won’t have it – he went on and on just like my Mum used to when I was 14 and wanted to out for the night.

 

I was crying by now and wished that I hadn’t put on the false eyelashes and had perhaps exaggerated the blush and mascara which was smudging everywhere.

   Perhaps I had overplayed the short dress with sequins and leopard skin stockings  …

Well you know what he did Dear Abby, I just can’t believe it.  He said he was going to the party by himself cause he didn’t want to be seen with a tart that people would think he’d picked up on a street corner  (yes he called me that – a tart.     Unbelievable ).  

So there I am all by myself  sitting in the armchair with the cat in arms and crying over the latest episode of the Archers  on a Saturday night – the dress crumpled up in a heap on the floor.      He didn’t come back that night and we haven’t spoken since.   I’m beside myself with jealousy that he’s with another girl – tell me dear Abby what should I say to him when he comes over to fetch his things tonight –

 

Oh yes,  you’re so right and thanks dear Abby for your help I shall indeed tell him just that .

I shall tell him  “It’s what ‘s inside that counts.”  

 

Sarah's story.

 (it’s what's inside that counts)  Chrissy makes up her mind – 1-act play – to send

Characters:
wife
husband
two boys around 8 or 10: Anthony & Arthur
daughter, around 17, Chrissy

Time & place: here and now 
Set: what is going to be the sitting room of a house, a few odd pieces of furniture scattered here and there, several cartons, most as yet unopened, one piece of furniture only is already set up: the television on its rectangular stand.  No bookshelves, no books.  One door to the outside.  The walls are a sort of pea-green.
The parents come in through the door, carrying still more cartons, followed by the boys, both tugging at the same one, and lastly Chrissy carrying a large carton.  The parents put down theirs.  During the following exchange, the boys continue to tussle, then put down the box and begin to open it.  The husband stands there listening to his wife, but she begins tranquilly opening hers.  Chrissy stands there at first lost in her thoughts, then watching and listening.
Wife:    What a horrible colour!
Husb.:    What?  What’s a horrible colour?
Wife:    The walls.
Husb.:    The walls?  We chose it together.
Wife:    You chose it.
Husb.:    I did not.  We chose it together.
Wife:    Your pressured me.  As usual.
Husb.:    (growing more and more irritated)  Then  why didn’t you say so before we painted it?  (No     answer)  Just stirring up a spat again, eh?  That’s what you want.
Wife:    That’s what you want.  Now I’ll have to look at that colour day in and day out.
Husb.:    You won’t be looking at it.  The only thing you ever look at is the telly.
Wife:    How do you know?  The little you’re here!
Husb.:    Still griping?  That’s all you’ve done since we got up this morning.  Had a bad night?
Wife:    You should know
Husb.:    Bitch!
Wife:    Oh, shut up and get out!
Husb.:    All right, then!  I will!  (He storms out the door, slamming it.)
Wife:    (who has by now taken a framed photopgraph out of the carton and fetched a hammer and a     nail)   Bastard!
(The boys have by now taken a largish toy figurine, eg. Darth Vader from Star Wars or Son-Goku or whatever, out of the carton and are both tugging at it.)
Anth.:    It’s mine!
Arthur:    No, it’s mine!
Anth.:    You lost yours!
Arthur:    I did not!  You broke it!  So this is mine now
Anth.:    It is not!  (They begin to scuffle physically)
Wife:    Anthony!  Arthur!  Stop it!
Arthur:    He’s taking my Darth Vader (or whatever the name of the figurine is)!
Anth.:    No, it’s mine!
Wife:    I don’t care whose it is.  Cut it out and start helping.
Arthur:    I want my Darth Vader!  (gives Arthur a kick)
Anth.:    He kicked me!
Wife:    Shut up!  Put that down and go bring in some boxes!
Arthur:    No!
Wife:    What did you say?
Arthur:    I’m not going to.
Anth.:    Me neither!
Wife:    (growing more and more angry)  And why not?
Arthur:    ’Cuz I don’t want to!
Anth.:    Me neither!  (and the two run out the door, forgetting the toy)
Wife:    Come back here!  (turns and sees Chrissy standing there)  And you, Chrissy, stop dreaming!
Chris.:    I’m not dreaming.  I’m thinking.
Wife:    Well, stop thinking.  Get busy and do something.  Put down that box.
Chris.:    It’s mine.
Wife:    And what if it is?  Go and bring in something else.  (as she turns back to her job and gives a     finishing blow of the hammer to the nail but hits her finger at the same time)  God dammit!      (stands back and admires the photograph now in place)  That’s done!  All of us at Disneyland     Paris!
Chris.:    (shudderng)  God, what a day!
Wife:    What did you say?
Chris.:    Nothing.  It’s just not a very good memory for me.
Wife:    Well, go and get Arthur and Anthony.  I want them back in here.  (Chrissy puts down her box     and goes out, as her mother takes out other items, rather awful, most of them, and puts them     here and there)
Chris.:    (coming back in)  They won’t.  They don’t want to come in.
Wife:    Those good-for-nothings?  Good riddance, then.
Chris.:    Where’s Dad gone?
Wife:    To the pub, most likely.  If there is one in this neighbourhood, he’ll find it.
Chris.:    (picking up her box again)  Why do you provoke him like that?
Wife:    Me?  Taking your father’s side again?  And put down that box!
Chris.:    No.  It’s my things.  Not a whole lot of stuff, but what counts.  My computer, some books and a     few clothes and things.  That’s all I need.
Wife:    All you need for what?  Going somewhere?
Chris.:    Yes. 
Wife:    And where are you going?
Chris.:    To Madge’s.
Wife:    That’s nice!  Everybody going off and leaving me with everything.
Chris.:    No, I’m going for good.
Wife:    (visibly somewhat stunned and bewildered)  For good?  But when we’ve just got this nice house     in a nice neighbourhood … ?
Chris.:    It’s not the house or the neighbourhood, it’s the mess inside.
Wife:    That’s just temporary.  A place is always disorderly when you’re moving in.
Chris.:    No, I mean us.  All of us.
Wife:    Us!  Your own family!
Chris.:    Yes, us.  It’s … unbearable.
Wife:    (taken aback, she says nothing for a moment; then:)  But you can’t stay at Madge’s!
Chris.:    Yes, I can.  She proposed it, a few weeks ago.  But I wasn’t sure.
Wife:    You’re really moving out?
Chris.:    Yes.  Yes, I am.  To Madge’s for a start.  Then my own place, as soon as I can.
Wife:    You won’t have more than a rented room.
Chris.:    A little room, with just me in it.  And peace and quiet.
Wife:    Chrissy, you can’t go!
Chris.:    Sorry, Mum.  I am sorry. (Puts down the box, goes over and givers her mother a brief hug.)  But     I have to.  ’Bye.    (She goes out, carrying the box).
(The door is not slammed but the picture falls off the wall and the glass shatters.)
Wife:    (sitting down on one of the chairs or boxes, her head in her hands)  Bloody family!  What’s the     matter with them all anyway?

Dialogues: + 535 wds
(takes about 4 mins probably)

A staircase to nowhere

Annemarie's story

Stairway to Nowhere 

 

She didn't want to look back at the room she had shared with three other girls. She didn't want to see it ever again. It would just be tempting fate - after all the last two times she had left with promises of a new family she'd returned to that room within a few weeks. Now she was not even excited; she merely hoped, yes, just hoped there was the faintest chance that this time it would be forever. So picked up her blue rucksack, which 'they' had bought for her, she followed her newest foster parents and this time it was meant to be forever because they said they had adopted her. They had taken her out quite a few times but now they loaded all her possessions into the back of their car. In fact her worldly possessions amounted to an old suitcase, that the home had given her, filled with her few clothes, some books and a few other knickknacks. The other girls hugged her and called out 'wished it was me going' and 'come and see us'; she hoped not, well not at the home anyway. She climbed into the back of the car and stole a look at her new 'mum and dad' in front of her. They were kind and they didn't shout at her like the previous couple who'd fostered her. Those two had shouted at her for not eating; they would lose their temper when she dropped things, often breaking things. She didn't do it on purpose, she just got so nervous and when they shouted at her she would scream back at them and then cry for hours. Within days they sent her back to the home, saying she was 'difficult and stubborn and badly behaved'. Nobody ever asked Ellie what the adults were like or how they behaved. But these two - well they were patient and spoke kindly to her and when she didn't feel like eating much they tempted her small plates of tasty titbits. They asked her about herself but she didn't want to think or talk about herself. Eight years spent being passed backwards and forwards between various foster families and the home and most of the time she felt forgotten, cross and lonely. She could not remember a real mother - or father. She did not know why she had ended up in the home. Yes, Mr and Mrs Marlin seemed to like her and even gave her hugs.“You alright at the back, Ellie?” asked Mrs Marlin, turning round with a big smile on her face. “We won't be going to the old house where you came before, because we have moved to the country; you're going to live in an old farmhouse and we'll have chickens, some pigs and maybe a cow. You know Mr. Bojangles, our old cat - well she's already there waiting to see you. Ellie smiled uncertainly but the smile went out as quickly as the sun is obscured by a fleeting cloud. So she would again be going somewhere new. She closed her eyes but whether she was really asleep, Mrs Marlin was unsure. She gazed at the girl - scruffy auburn curls falling over a round, freckled face, two somewhat skinny hands wound round the rucksack. A lump rose in her chest when she thought of the sad life of their new daughter. She and Bill had waited, waited in vain, then discussed and debated before fostering and finally they took the decision to adopt Ellie.“Here we are, darling. Wakey! wakey, Ellie. We're home, “ said Mrs Marlin, gently rubbing their new daughter's hands. Ellie rubbed her eyes and stared at the old stone house. She climbed out of the car and still clutching her precious rucksack she looked around a courtyard. A stone wall surrounded it with a big tree in the middle and suddenly a smile crept across her face as she recognised Mr Bojangles stretched on garden table. Dropping her rucksack she encircled the fat black cat with her thin little arms, holding him close to her face and smelling his fur, still slightly damp from a recent shower. She gazed around - at the blue door with baskets of summer flowers hanging either side, the windows with a light shining from within, at the gleaming red bicycle decorated with a red bow on the handlebar, round to the far wall where she saw a narrow stone stairway.

“Look, Mrs Marlin,” (she still couldn't call her Mummy). “ it's a stairway to nowhere; it's just wall, wall and more wall. That's so funny.”“Why don't you put Mr.Bojangles down and climb the stairway, Ellie?”She put the cat gently down next to her rucksack. Her skinny white legs carefully climbed up the rough stone steps, her hand grasping the somewhat rusty iron rail When she reached the top she came to a little platform and hidden behind a red hibiscus plant in an old chimney pot was a wooden chair. Seated on the chair was a large fluffy teddy bear holding a card which said in big letters : “Your home is NOW HERE for always, Ellie”. “So you see, “ said Mr Marlin (her new dad, Ellie thought to herself) “ it isn't NOWHERE but now here with us, your new forever family.”At the top of the stairs a smile spread over the little girl's face, stretching all the way up to her eyes as she fingered the words on the card - her staircase to now here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah's contribution:

stairway to nowhere  4  through the barn

(30.09.2020)

 

 

Through the barn, past the ranks of wood cut and stacked high for the winter, past the stairway, barely more than a ladder, leading to the gloomy upper regions, out through the green-light-filled door at the back, into the secret, grass-filled garden.

To the left, a small, rock-encircled planted place, with a few red begonias and some rhubarb leaves hiding their scarlet stalks.  Beyond that a wall, and a rose tree with pale pink roses, and in the corner a little cabin made of stone, with a red-tiled roof.  Whose cabin?  For what?

Straight ahead a statue of a mysterious wooden man, peeping between the ivy leaves that almost clad and cover him—no, two men, for there is another peering over his shoulder.  Our eyes moving still further right, a little wall that separates us from nothing, only a corner space with another wooden man among the greenery, slouching there, his hands in his invisible pockets.  Silence, and not a soul otherwise.

On the right hand wall, in the very middle, between the brambled  nook at the back and the closer corner, rich with tumbled weeds, or wild flowers if you will, a stone staircase.  Dotted with pink begonias in pots, up it leads, and stops, before the wall.  A stairway to nowhere.

Shall we go up?  Picking our way carefully between the flowerpots, setting our feet down one after the other, we arrive at the top.  Stretching our hand forward, we touch the wall.  And it opens a crack.  Pushing forward we pass through.

Into a swirling, screaming darkness, with no longer a support underfoot, or wall behind us, or path before us.  Wind and noise, light and dark struggling for mastery.  Only a light at the end, at the end of what?  Far away and indecipherable, like a glimmer of hope.

All around us, demons howling, “Were you good?  Were you bad?”  Which way to go?  Forward only, there is no going back.  Whistling and shrieking: “Were you good?”  How to answer?  All we know is that the moment has come.  As to the outcome, how it will end, as yet we know nothing.  Is this then nowhere?  Or it is something more?

+ 365 wds

 

 

Jackie's story: 

 

A staircase to nowhere

 

A few years ago I realized, after talking to friends and even family that I had missed out on something important in my life.  Something that everyone or almost everyone around me had been doing for sometime and in some cases years on end.    I discovered that a lot of people around me had been seeing a ‘psy’ a psychologist for therapy sessions and some all through their life .

 

I had never worried too much about the work of psychologists or thought about what therapy could do for me.   I imagined that if you had to see one, then you were ill mentally, had a problem ,  your life was in a  turmoil or had a phobia about something. 

None of these things applied to myself but listening to my entourage persuading me, who had, I began to think,  thought  I had a problem too – also, you know the feeling that “she’s doing it so I should do it too” syndrome.   I was curious to find out what it was all about.   They described their séances with the psy as mentally exhilarating, liberating and even a joyful “full of beans” attitude to life after their sessions. 

 

So there I was,  having been persuaded to take the jump and join the club of ‘psy’ users…………..

– I asked around and chose the nearest one to my home and it turned out to be the most expensive but off I went.     I dressed casually,  shook hands with a suave man’s firm handshake and installed myself on his red leather sofa.   He was dressed in a black leather jacket and very tight slim  jeans with a leather bow tie.  His thick glasses had little wings on the sides edged in gold and turned upwards – hair sleeked back and gloss shone.    He reminded me of a raven – notably the ones guarding the Tower of London;  Watching every movement I made and ready to pounce.          Immediately I felt unease and wished the dark hands of the clock ticking loudly on the wall behind him would speed up.

 

After asking me what was troubling me which I had a hard time answering  (the bus was late …. it was raining and I had forgotten my umbrella …… the dog was upset at being alone  etc. )  unperturbed at my attempted humour,  he proceeded to explain the steps needed to put me on the path of my well being.

 

“Let us imagine”, he started and I thought “oh dear imagination isn’t my strong point - this is going to be interesting” 

Visualize, he continued that you are on the first step of a staircase – there are 12 steps going up and each step represents a period in your life.  Which, he explained, could become a guide to a new way of thinking.   Today we shall stand on the first step and explore your childhood then up and up until the present day and conclusion …

So here I’m thinking each session to discuss one step and there are twelve of them at 600 $ an hour – this is going to ruin me just to climb a staircase, but we started.   

 

About the time we had got to session 6  – the 6^th step up the imaginary staircase I started to scramble, and going up found me out of breath  climbing into past lives, searching, talking and explaining …. - boring.  I began to fidget and constantly changed the appointments putting them off week after week.  

The raven psy narrowed his black eyes and as he was about to pounce on my discontent,  frowned, ruffling his jet black like feathers and  reached for his pipe  …..

My dear, he said we’ve come to a dead end – this staircase is going nowhere.   Goodbye.

 

 

Theme for the story this month was: A Pinch of Salt

Sarah's story:

 A pinch of salt  5  A recipe, rev

 

 

Emma fell for him immediately.  Tall, well-built but slim, dark, no wonder he had the lead role.  But these qualities alone would not have sufficed.  It was his deep bass voice, which not only made him the star of the show but also pierced deep into Emma’s heart.  I suppose one should say, into her entrails, because we all know and admit nowadays that love starts with sex.

To herself, she admitted the crush.  How could she not?  But she hesitated to say she was “in love with him” because she didn’t know him from Adam, in point of fact.  And there was little chance of her meeting him.  The town was big, and she was not a member of that theatre group nor likely to be, as she could neither act nor sing.  But she thought about that production for days, and was on the point of splurging and buying a ticket for the last performance, though she knew that was what silly groupies did.

And then it happened that on the Tuesday of that week, day on which she worked as a volunteer at the Food Distribution Centre after she got off work, she saw him there as well.  Not asking for for food, surely!  No, it seemed he was offering his services.  A one-off?  Or was he to be a permanent member of the team?  She got up her courage and went over to talk to him.

“No, no,” he assured her, it was not just for this evening; he hoped to be able to make it a regular thing.  These times were so difficult for some people.  Her heart beat faster at this proof of his generosity and humanity.  But there was little else to say and much work to be done at the centre.

She wondered if she could invite him to dinner?  What a preposterous idea!  The idea had come out of a memory: her mother’s saying to her that “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”  Her mother, whose family was from the French West Indies, made a certain dish that Emma remembered, though her mother had never made it again after her father had died.  “Too many memories attached,” her mother had said.

This dish was the one, according to Emma’s mother, that had won over Emma’s father, if anyone could believe such a tale.  A “chicken colombo” though not an authentic recipe, her mother had said.  “I simply made up my own version, with the ingredients I had on hand,” she had said.  As Emma remembered, it went like this:

            Cut the chicken into bite-size pieces and brown them slightly in oil.

            Add some finely diced onion and green or red pepper and cook gently till the onion is translucent. 

            Add some sliced carrots, some green marrows, a little garlic and a couple of spoonfuls of colombo (depending on             how hot you want it to be, her mother had said).

            Add chicken bouillon or fond de volaille and water, and simmer for at least half an hour.

            At the end thicken if necessary, add coconut milk (or cream, if you can’t get the former), and serve over rice.

And, as she also remembered, it was delicious.

Inviting a man to dinner, however, was problematic.  In the old days, that might have been a simple way of getting to know someone; you assumed that he didn’t know how to cook, and that you were doing him a friendly favour, and maybe things would go on from there and maybe not.  But nowadays—what man would take such an overture as anything else but an invitation to jump into bed?  And jump out of the next morning to go on his way.  That was not what she had in mind, at least not yet.  She wanted to know him better first.  She felt that something more serious was in the balance.  And so she hesitated.

But she could not help confiding in her best friend.  Candee listened with interest, and said she had seen the show too and agreed that Robbie Chanda was hot stuff.  But she agreed too that inviting him to dinner might be taken as too brash a move, considering how little they knew each other.

Now Candee was not someone who would win the prize as the world’s most loyal friend, and she had the expedient philosophy that all’s fair in love and war, so the next Tuesday she too showed up at the Food Distribution Centre.  As it happened, Emma herself was not able to go that evening, as Candee had reminded her that this was the last evening of the sales and that if she still wanted to get that jacket she had better go now.  Candee also lost no time in inviting Robbie Chanda to dinner, for she had no qualms about being brash.  And she made the chicken colombo recipe, as she remembered it.  Things went as expected, and Candee noted the evening down in her Leporello book, as she called it.  (She had once seen Don Giovanni.)  She didn’t mention the incident to her best friend, however.  Some things are best kept secret.  Then she waited for Robbie Chanda to call her back.

The following Tuesday Emma was back at the centre, but Candee did not appear.  Not that Emma expected any such thing, for she had never heard that her friend had been there the week before.  Robbie Chanda came over to her as they were taking a break.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“Which friend?”

“Isn’t that Candee Jacobs a friend of yours?  I thought she was.”

“She is,” said Emma, astonished.  “But why would she be here?”

Robbie Chanda told her about the preceding week, and how he had looked for her but not found her and someone had said that the girl Candee was a friend of hers.

Emma was pleased a this bit of news, though amazed at her friend’s coming to the centre, and even more at her silence on the matter.  She was, however, taken aback by his next words.

“And you know what?  She even invited me to dinner.  Out of the blue like that.  Said she had a special recipe.  I went, of course.  Partly out of curiosity, and partly because I never turn down a dinner invitation.”

By this time Emma had almost bitten her tongue off.  She was speechless.  He glanced at her, and took on an apologetic tone.

“You’re not upset, are you?”

“Upset?  Why should I be?”  She was embarrassed at her own spluttering.  Why couldn’t she be cool and collected as Candee always was?

“I mean, my sleeping with your friend.”

Emma stared at him.  Had it gone so far as that?  What a quick worker that viper was!

“It didn’t mean anything, you know.  She obviously expected it, so why not?  I’m not tied up with anybody.  At least not yet,” he added as he looked at her, which confused her entirely. 

She recovered enough to ask, “And what was this dish that she concocted for you, if I may ask?”

“A sort of chicken colombo.  It was good, but not exceptional.  And yet, I think it could be made better.”

She nearly strangled on her next words.  “It was my mother’s recipe!’

Robbie Chanda laughed, a hearty bass laugh and her heart flipped over.  Oh, that treacherous Candee!  And now she could never invite Robbie Chanda herself, not after this!

“I’m a pretty good cook,” he said.  “What do you say if I invite myself over and we try to better the recipe together?”

She stared at him again, and only just barely managed to get out whatever words were necessary to agree.

 

So he came over and they made the dish together and it was delicious.  “Why didn’t you like it when … my friend … made it?” Emma asked.

“She obviously forgot an essential element.”

“But I gave her the directions just as my mother gave them to me, and Candee is nothing if not scrupulously accurate in everything she does.  She’s not very original, but she does know how to follow a recipe.”

“Perhaps your mother forgot to tell you something that was obvious to her, and maybe even to you.  A pinch of salt.  That makes all the difference.”

There is no need to go on with this story, which developed very nicely just as the reader may expect.  Whether or not the relation endured, I cannot say, but perhaps it did.  They say too many cooks spoil the broth, but sometimes two good cooks make a fine pair, especially when that is not the only thing that unites them.

 

+ 1450 wds

Annemarie's contribution:

A Pinch of Salt 

 

As they stepped down from the plane a gust of stifling heat met them. Alan wondered why he had agreed to come, particularly as he didn't feel part of the group. But Anna insisted he was included. He privately believed that the grant from the Royal Astronomical Society, which had made possible the young astronomers' visit to the observatory, had been 'influenced' by her father, Professor Bright. Whenever Alan put forward one of his theories to the professor it was as though his words ricocheted back without the professor hearing or he would respond with an offhand gesture and a joke. It certainly was not his hearing; he always seemed to listen intently to the other students and as to the joking Anna said « Oh! It's just his way. You must take it with a pinch of salt.»In fact Alan was often told «to take it with a pinch of salt.Don't take it so seriously. Lighten up! «Well he would see how light this working holiday in the Sierra de San Pedro Martir would be and how seriously his fellow companions took him. Already they had spent had more than eighteen hours together in the confines of the plane with a brief stop in Mexico City, followed by another six hours and more along the coastal road in a bus with narrow upright seats. They had been told there was the possibility of food, drink, WiFi and toilets on board the bus, only one of which proved true - fortunately the toilet, only one of which was working. And that was very smelly and there was no paper! It was an interminable hot, dusty and bumpy ride. Sleep was intermittent, conversation desultory, hunger and thirst preeminent. On reaching the cabins in the National park they dumped their baggage and, exhausted, headed for their beds, the three girls in one cabin, the three guys in the second cabin. No time for anything but along, long sleep. Midday and the sun beat down; underneath a copse of sugar pines, the mountains in the distant view, six dishevelled astronomy students sat outside the cabins discussing the programme for the rest of the week. Apart from the nighttime visits to the observatory where they would be researching and testing their theories they planned on hiking in the park where there were a great variety of mammals: mule deer, bighorn sheep, cougar, bobcat, ringtail cat, coyote. They also hoped to see the many avian species including bald eagles, golden eagles, falcons, woodpecker, black vultures and particularly the condors, which had been re-introduced to the wild in the National Park. Then there was an incredible variety of vegetation, trees and plants. Alan muttered that they hadn’t come all this way to hike in the sweltering heat or to see birds and animals they could see in a zoo back home. After all, this was a chance in a million - a new moon, one of the best observatories for stargazing - so why not spend more time in the observatory where they could meet, discuss and learn from the astronomers who worked there. In unison the others laughingly mocked him;«All work and no play makes Alan a dull boy... oh, Alan we're in Mexico ...fantastic scenery, we'll have to try the food and then there's the Tequila to try, barbecues etc...have some fun, lighten up. Hell, why don't you try a drink for once!»Alan swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent and the muscle at the side of his mouth twitching. Another dig at him for being teetotal. Well, yes, perhaps he would 'lighten up'.They hiked the pine trails high in the mountains during the day and cooked on wood fires outside the cabins before the evening visits up to the observatory. With the moon a mere super-thin silver crescent the stars were astonishingly clear and after a long discussion with one of the resident astronomers Alan knew he would make the professor listen to his theory once he was back at Warwick university. No more ignoring him or worse still, mocking him in front of the class. The visits to the observatory had exceeded his expectations; he had even learnt something from his forced hikes.On their last evening the guys went off foraging for wood for the fire while the girls prepared tostadas and enchiladas. It was Alan's turn to be barman and while the others sprawled around the fire he cut some limes, placed salt in a small dish and poured a measure from a bottle into six glasses.«I just want to thank you,» said Alan, «for including me on this trip. I know I am often the but of your jokes, that I supposedly take life too seriously but I have learnt a lot from our hikes about the flora and fauna of Mexico and tonight I propose a toast to us all with tequila, made from the blue agave plant. As you know, and you keep telling me, I don't drink but 'enjoy!'as you always say.»He handed round the six glasses, the salt and wedges of lemon to the five of them as they sat round the fire. He watched as they went through the ritual - lick the back of the hand, pinch of salt, swig of tequila, bite of lemon - and he watched again five contorted faces. He added a heap more wood to the fire, this time wood he had collected, and he retreated to his cabin. The extremely bitter and nauseating taste of the sap of the Mexican oleander, well-hidden by the sour lime, made them shake their heads and pucker up their mouths. The fumes of that same oleander reinforced the effect of the sap. Who knew that this so-common shrub harboured such toxicity in its sap, its branches and in its leaves. Drowsiness, dizziness, nausea - he watched from the darkness of the cabin as one by one his five friends toppled over. Slowly a silence fell, heavy like wet autumn leaves on a London pavement Too far, too late to call for hospital help. No more would they call him a nerd. He lay on his back and contemplated the dark Mexican sky peppered with bright stars holding, who knew what, fame for him.

 

Story from Geraldine:

A PINCH OF SALT

 

 

When   George woke up that morning, he felt as if he could have gone  back to sleep for another very long time  but that he would never forget, never, never, the blaze of the previous evening.

He could still feel smoke in his nose, his head was spinning, his eyes were swollen and tearful and he could just about  hear Joan’s faint voice crying out « it’s OK Dad, you’ve made it !  What about having breakfast now, I’m starving ! »

And this little voice pulled him together, his consciousness waking up to his small flat where they were all packed tight, waiting for instructions from the local authorities to what would be their next step.

He sat up in his bed,  his girlfriend Leonie fast asleep next to him , her son Alexander tucked safely under her arm.  And, in the kitchen his 2 other children, also with swollen eyes, waiting to find out what steps to make towards breakfast.

As he opened the door,  he discovered that everywhere was covered in cinders, the air was blurred, the outdoor temperature was more than 40°C , so he slamed it  which woke up Leonie and Alexander still fast asleep.

Dad, why did you come back so late last night and why are we all scrambled in here ?  Is it going to be like this during all our holiday ? asked Suzan, his young eleven year old daughter.

Look sweetheart, you’ve been seeing lots of pictures on Television showing how our country is burning and…we had very hard times last night at Leonie’s home where we were staying for New Years Eve, as we were told by the firemen around 11o’clock to get our belongings safe in the cars in order to leave if necessary.  They also suggested that we shouldn’t drink too much, although we were to celebrate a lovely New Year full of hope,joy and hapiness !

So what happened then, asked David, his thirteen year old son ?

Well my boy, we did what they asked us to do and went around the farm to see if Leonie’s Mum was Ok in her house : it was very hot : the eucalyptus around were on fire and the strong wind was blazing towards us, so we got quite nervous : this New Year was looking as if was going to be a nightmare. Nevertheless, we celebrated at midnight with a little toast to the future, and went to bed to try and get some sleep : it could be necessary for the coming hours said the firemen who had their hoses out and were fighting the flames.

And did you sleep, were you frightened,  asked Joan, his eldest daughter ?

Well, we didn’t get much sleep but we tryed to rest a bit.  The firemen were at work, asking us to get out of their way so they could try and do the job.  It was so terribly hot too…  So we took a few showers and had a laydown.

Then, everything went very quickly : Leonie’s Mum was evacuated as it was getting too hot and we were told that the flames were starting to lick our house, so we grabbed Alexander, ran towards the car and got started : yes I was frightened : the three of us had to get out of here as quickly as possible, the heat was intense, the smoke was thick, making my head spin and I had to keep control on what I was doing : rescuing us and getting onto the main road before we would get trapped !  It needed an enormous amount of concentration and energy, so yes, I was frightened, but I didn’t have time to give in to it.

But why did you get here so late then ?  Well, because we started driving down along the coast, but there were huge traffic-jams all the way down, because the Authorities told all the people on holiday to move back to their homes  immediately before they would get surrounded by the forest fires and so everybody was on the roads….  And the smoke was just terrible : we had our headlights on all the time, tried to get some air to breathe and had to stop from time to time because of the headache that was creeping up my temples and to get a bit of food and drink for us all…. And empty our bladderes !  Smiles…

 

And now, lets get some breakfast on.  We all need to  support each other for the next few days : Leonie was given bad news on her mobile : her house has burnt down to the ground… so she and Alexander are now homeless and going to be staying with us for a while.  Let’s try and make the place as confortable as we can and be nice to each other. 

We are only allowed out to do our shopping as quickly as possible and if things get worse around here, we will be evacuated by sea by the Army.  So, listen carefully :  the meeting point on the beach is beside the children’s playground : it’s covered with a thick 10 centimeter ash carpet which means you have to have good shoes on, just in case.  So whatever happens, we all stay together all the time and behave as responsible people : do you understand ?

Yes Dad, yes we do.  What about  some cereal and eggs and bacon for us all ?  I’ll take the order : how many eggs ?

Thank you sweatheart.  That’ll be great.

And turning towards Leonie, George said in a whisper « It’s good they are taking it with a pinch of salt, but it was really the worst chapter in my life I could ever imagine ».  Love you.