September 20, 2010: Cooking A Crock Pot of Stew On a Rainy Day In YVR, Smells Yummy

The Therapy of Chopping, Hacking, Peeling, Slicing and Dicing

It was a deaf dark and strumpet stormy morning in YVR. I glanced at my worn bomber jacket and realized it would not be a good an optimum day for flying chandelles or lazy eights. [1] Too much turmoil of turbulence in the sky. Thus, the Red Baroness shall flaunt flauntingly for another day. The morning drowsed. However, at 06:16 I determined I could not remain a lazy beast. Also the harshness of rain in gutter was sounding a bit worrisome.

The A.M. rain was adequate enough I made time to line up all stuffed toys two-by-two in duets of twosomes.

After that chortling chore, I realised I would be in-bound rainbound housebound. What to do? Well, I have yet to score 30,000 points at Word Mojo and, each hobby, passion or activity I glanced upon looked so boring I almost needed oxygen due to the size of yawns my jowls and jaws would permit.

For some reason the idea of pulling the crock pot off of the lower shelf of the hand-carved marble kitchen cabinet, inlaid with semi-precious jade and rubies, seemed a good whizbang idea. This, of course, required cleansening dishes acquired last century, which meant adding a row of knitting to a Christmas-present-in-process. The knitting meant I recalled when I was owned by a cat (whom I still miss) and the uprising cost of the commodity of shorn sheep bits for knitting projects which seem almost always never quite finished.

‘scusa, the landline is ringing.

Ah-hem. My train of thought is unravelling.

Thus, stew. I used beef, a cheap cheapest cut that should soften after hours of pot simmering. I hesitated to use item recommended by Mr. Jonathon Swift. [2] [3] I confess, unabashedly, that I find cooking to be a soothing activity. There is a rhythymic rhombic rhythmic meditation in the motions of peeling, slicing, dicing, chopping and thwacking. The motions remind of Tai Chi sessions I attended once upon a time when my limbs were more bendable and flexible. Now, at times, my body acts like a Barbie before her body had in-built flexibility. Ah, Barbie what we made you do. ‘scusa.

Just stirring the pot.

Stew concocting can be quite pleasurable, the activity sets a mind to wandering about this-and/or-that in a lulling kind of fashion as life is reviewed in a review of events and moments. For examples: When did I make a first stew? (Well, gee I dunno). Who taught me to make stew? (Well, gee I dunno). Should I have used up the lamb shank? (Well, maybe). When did the polo ponies get an ipaddock?

‘scusa.

© September, 2010. S. Calliou. 20 September, 2010-09-20

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic From Microsoft Clipart Downloads

[1] To manage a chandelle, I would recommend using the NASA site re. flight manoeuvres. To practice, please click IWouldSoDoDat. To those with stronger stomachs, there is the Three Turn Spin. To give it a go, please click, TurnToScale.

[2] Mr. Swift, a satirical writer (now deceased), reports of serious assurance by a ‘very knowing American’ that a ‘young’ and ‘healthy child’, who has is about one year aged, can be a ‘wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked or boiled.’ School is back in session in YVR and thus stray children are more difficult to acquire as the neighbourhood playground is denuded of kidlets. Instead, biochild-units are fully supervised by teacher-units, also known as bots, who use laser sharp eyes and chalkboard erasers to efficiently provide tax-funded classroom management. There are problems with the fricassee-ing of kidlets. They can be noisesome as lowered into the flames: Best to wear ear muffs. I do digress.

[3] I decided against purloo as was out of rice. This southern U.S. chicken recipe can scrumptious.

TTFN

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Seeking The 'Inner'

Microfiction: Murderous Shorts. Saturday Nite Special: Short, Short Fiction

This Week: Member of the House

‘Pour quonk?’

‘O Lindsay, please speak English. We live just a mile from Hampton Court.’

‘Ma life est finis?’ a wail provoked another bout of spanking new tears.

‘He is a man.’ I reach and push face forwards a recent photograph of my son at a yachting race.

‘You,’ burbles disrupt a smoother delivery, ’He. Is your son?’ The sound of tissues wrenched from an already mangled box interrupts speech, ‘You approve?’

‘No. I do not approve.’

‘This is our fourteenth anniversary.’

‘Yes,’ I soothe, seeking distraction from the mess of make-up and twists of tissues littering the hand-woven Turkish carpet, ‘Perhaps, you married too young?’

Another howl of despair detours any possibility of sensible dialogue.

‘You were seventeen?’

‘We were married on my eighteenth birthday.’

A change in the lighting of the room catches my attention, a shadow enters the library before appearance of Fritz Michael Hastings. His pewter grey eyes assess the unpretty scene. The clench of his jaw, which hides his upper lip, indicates a desire to be anywhere but with a weeping woman.

‘She has found out about the affair,’ I offer as tidbit of exposure of this scene now centuries old.

‘Which?’

A shriek erupts from between the pouted lips of Lindsay Diane Sawyer McElwane-Hastings, my daughter-in-law of fourteen years. I feel all charitable obligations of society fulfilled with efforts made to assist this female who married ‘up’ and seemed to have a fear of heights.

‘All of them,’ I supply as simplest answer whilst fishing in amongst the dish of liquorice all sorts, my fingers seeking one pebbled with blue sugar granules.

‘What’s to be done?’

I point my chin towards the patio where Chef Adelaide has laid out a luncheon’ the salmon croquettes, chitterlings, hog maws, cod cheeks, ham hocks, shrimp scampi, salad Nicoise and French fries no doubt chilled and less flavourful. I toss Lindsay a glance of supreme annoyance at wrecking a summery meal.

‘How could she not know?’ Fritz questions.

Lindsay’s face is a study of upset, her lungs inhale quickly before recommence of lament. I try to soothe, ‘It is not as if Stephen is dead.’ At this statement, she hurls a rather antique lute against the fireplace.

I jot a hasty post-it that Stephen reimburse for the lute, rumoured to be the one posed for the painting The Prodigal Son, either painted by J. Cornelius or someone very much a good mimic ‘in the style’ of Mr. Cornelius.

Fritz assists as I stand and we step onto the freshly scrubbed stone terrace.

We sit and enjoy the bubbly taste of a white wine, the grapes grown on one or another of our tax-sheltered estates in France.

‘How?’

‘This.’ I push a bright yellow envelope towards Fritz. He extracts the contents and takes, for my taste, rather too long to examine each photograph of my son in various poses of sexual escapade. It appears Stephen does not have a type.

‘How much will this problem cost?’ Fritz reaches into the interior of his charcoal grey, pin-striped suit and withdraws cheque book, Mecalculator, Mephone, Mepen and Mepad. ‘Is this Lindsay’s difficulty? Inadequate funds.’

‘No,’ I nearly blush, ‘We are financially secure despite the small oil loss.’ Chef places a pansy salad afore us. ‘No, she is the young wife who discovers the unfaithful husband.’

I sip at my wine.

‘A classic script,’ Fritz chews patiently at a forkful of purple and white cultivars. ‘A fable you understand.’

‘You helped me understand dear husband.’

Fritz pours us each another glass of wine and begins to paw through the photographs again.

I watch, torn between resentment, agony, anguish, neutrality, rage, sorrow, shame and absurdity. Yes, how my husband had taught me the correctness of the Hastings family in public and the Hastings family in private. I hold a hand to my throat and finger the delicate strand of pearls, first gift of begging forgiveness.

‘O,’ Fritz places his glass gently on the table, ‘This could be problematic.’ He holds up a picture for full view.

I look away from the tangle of sheets and limbs in full-frontal moonlight.

‘No. Look. It is Monique,’ Fritz holds the picture for closer study, ‘Yes. Monique. I cannot recall her surname. She’s a bit of a chatterbox. Not much gets by her. She plays the innocent but many a parliamentary career hangs in the balance of those hips.’

‘Do not be crude.’

‘Yes. My love.’

‘What do you recommend?’

Fritz stands, kisses my wrist, winks and begs he ‘has an appointment,’ leaving me to perform suicide watch with the daughter-in-law. How could she not know? I study my fecund daughter-in-law, whose primary occupation has been birthing, readying herself for a birthing, concluding a birthing, shopping for layettes, booties, teething rings, nursing bras, schools, pre-schools, strollers and whatnots, which always involve the remodel and renovation of the ten-bedroom chalet built by the lake. I speak to myself as her wailing would drown even the trumpeting of elephants. ‘How could she know? Her life is consumed with motherhood.’

My daughter-in-law has made me a grandmother six times. I hear her inhale deeply and use the opportunity to instruct, ‘Men are men,’ I open, ‘There are certain concessions to be made. The photographs were sent to obviously upset. There was no blackmail or request for money.’

My words cause another burblement of weeping before she manages to restate, ‘It is our anniversary. The children, Stephen and I were to attend Le Cirque du Soleil. Together. As a family. Tonight.’

The anniversary, of course, does not involve view of clowns and acrobats but more a circus of media for somehow my son manages to become headlines as apparent victim of a murder-suicide in some rather bizarre exploration of - well, items related to sex. I lose a child; she a husband. I am unable to calculate Fritz’s losses as he proposes an outlandish replacement candidate for Stephen’s MP-ship for the riding of Elk Hoofs, Manikatchewan.

However, tonight, as the spotlight shines upon the stage, I understand. Fritz squeezes my hand as Lindsay beams at the crowd.

I wince at the tininess of her breathy, ‘Thank-you.’ I raise eyebrows at Fritz.

‘Do not worry, my pet. Nerves. We rehearsed her for this.’

I watch but cannot hear Lindsay’s laugh buried in the cheer of the crowd. At this she raises her arms, waving vigorously, and begins to twirl. It would seem mourning is concluded.

‘How much?’ I query Fritz.

‘A bit more than expected but given the circumstances, an investment that will pay for a Hastings will sit in-house again.’

I lean forwards to watch the tableau as Lindsay motions and her six children – my grandchildren, our grandchildren – join their mother on stage. She hugs each one with delight, turns to the microphone and I hear in her voice a richness of soprano, a deepened timber from deep within a woman who has moved beyond the joys of mommyhood into the territory of the joy of power.

She flashes me a smile.

I nod and return with a tilt upwards of my chin to acknowledge and affirm.

© Sharilyn Calliou. 26 June, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic From Spice Comments

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Loneliness Meditation for Tuesday 27 January 2009-01-27

Things I Am Glad Old People Told Me

Loneliness Meditation for Tuesday 27 January 2009

Sometimes people go missing from our lives. Many reasons. There is gap, absence, hole. Breath is automatic yet what is breathed? There is loneliness. Once I had a case of the ‘Big Lonely’. I was fortunate an older person listened to me. Then I was asked to stop, look and name everything around me. I am, sometimes, dense but I trusted this person. So, I replied, ‘Birch bark tree. Ants. Moss. Grass. Bird flying overhead. River.’ I think admit my ego got in the way and, wanting to impress, gave an extensive inventory of flora & fauna.

‘See,’ I was told gently, ‘You are never alone. The Creator did not make it so (hu-)man to be alone. We only think it so.’

Then they talk with me - listen - until I laugh or smile.

Ho

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