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Hot Chocolate 03/20/2010
 
“It’s the voluptuous inner-thigh quiver that does it”. 

 I pour scalding water into a row of grubby candle holders. One cracks, spitting hot water all over the counter. I hastily dab at the waxy mess with a crumpled napkin and scoop the shards into the bin, hiding the evidence with an empty meringue box. By the window, two young women stir mugs of hot chocolate. One wears a low cut v-neck. The other wears a jumper. Vee and Jay converse. 

 VEE: ‘She has a talent, that woman. There’s no denying it.’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Lucky lady’.

 VEE: ‘Nah, there’s more to it than just luck. She’s skilful. She’s dexterous. I mean, I’ve tried to make Passion Jellies four or five times, and each attempt has been an utter slump. Surely if luck had any part to play it would have intervened by now?’

 JAY: ‘Aww, I’m sure your Passion Jellies weren’t that bad.’

 VEE: ‘I served the first and second attempts in a communal bucket with straws. The third had to be carved. Conclusion: I don’t have what it takes.’

 JAY: ‘Still. I bet they tasted lovely.’

 VEE: Shakes her head. ‘Not really. The taste buds can only handle so much gelatine.’

 JAY: ‘Ah, Nigella. How does she do it?’

 VEE: ‘I wonder. You know what else she does? She boils ham joints in cola.’

 JAY: ‘She doesn’t!’

 VEE: ‘She does. And she mashes marshmallows into her spuds.’

 JAY: ‘She doesn’t!’

 VEE: ‘She does.’ 

 Both girls spoon cream pensively. 

 VEE: ‘When you get the munchies at night, what do you normally eat?’

JAY: ‘Erm, I don’t know… fruit?’

 VEE: ‘Really? You’d honestly opt for vits over carbs when the midnight munchies hit?’

 JAY: ‘Well, maybe toast. Or pizza. But sometimes fruit. Usually fruit.’

 VEE: Dubious. ‘Whatever. So I was watching this episode where Nigella got the munchies, and you know what she did?’

 JAY: ‘What did she do?’

 VEE: ‘She put six croissants in a dish, then slathered them in melted butter, sugar and an ENTIRE TUB of double cream. And then she baked them. And then she ate them.’

 JAY: ‘What, ALL of them? All by herself?’

 VEE: ‘Yep. I saw her do it. It was live. It was real.’

 JAY: Sadly. ‘Croissants make me fat. I’d get fat if I ate six croissants.’ 

 Vee slams down her mug. It slops. Jay jumps. 

 VEE: ‘You know what? We shouldn’t have to worry about getting fat. We shouldn’t have to care about getting fat. I’m SICK of people STRESSING OUT about being FAT!  Take a look at Nigella! She’s no slimster, but she’s happy. Why can’t we eat six croissants and be happy?’

 JAY: ‘I think six croissants would make me feel sick’.

 VEE: Sighs. ‘You’re missing the point. It doesn’t necessarily have to be six croissants. It could be two. It could be three. It could be anything, anything that breaks the ‘half-a grapefruit-and-a-glass-of-water-at-room-temperature’ norm. Don’t you see what’s happening? Society has been shackled! Where is the FREEDOM? Where is the JOY?’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Shackled. Totally.’

 VEE: ‘I asked myself: why don’t we live more like Nigella? Why don’t we eat pie when we want pie, why don’t we embrace our ripples and rolls as Mother Nature intended?’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Rolls. Totally.’

 VEE: ‘So you know what I did? I cooked those croissants.’

 JAY: Gasp. ‘Oh. My gosh. You did?’

 VEE: ‘Yeah. For Gerald and I. Figured I’d whip up an after-work treat for both of us.’

 JAY: ‘The whole butter, sugar and cream shebang?’

 VEE: ‘The works. Baked, bronzed and bubbling to perfection’.

 JAY: ‘Crikey. I might have to make this for Trev.’

 VEE: ‘I followed the instructions in her book. She recommended you eat half the dish, then lug it up to the bedroom and work up an appetite for the rest later’.

 JAY: ‘Oooh, she says that? Goodness, she’s such a vixen!’

 VEE: Grimly ‘Hmm. It’s all very thrilling in theory, isn’t it? All that cream. Such romance. Such passion. Anyways, there never was a ‘later’ incidentally.’

 JAY: ‘Oh?’

 VEE: ‘Turns out Gerald’s bloody lactose intolerant, doesn’t it? First he lost his fluids, next he lost his consciousness. He spent five hours in A&E having his bowels stitched back together.’

JAY: ‘Golly.’

 VEE: ‘And that’s not even the worst of it - I gained seven pounds over night!’

 JAY: ‘Oh dear! I am sorry.’

 VEE: Perplexed. ‘I just don’t know how it happened! I mean, I only ate two croissants!’  
  


 JAY: Sadly. ‘Croissants make me fat. I’d get fat if I ate two croissants...’  
 
 
 
“I don’t mind it once they’re dead – it’s just the dying that’s a drag”. 


I slosh a glug of vinegar into a bucket crammed with steak knifes and soup spoons, top it up with hot water from the coffee machine and haul it into the cutlery cupboard. The steam puckers my fingers. I tease out a handful of spoons and begin to polish them as a couple of diners enter the restaurant and sit down at a table just within audible range of my station. 


HE: “I know love. The prolonged pain, and all that. It can’t be a pleasant way to go.”

SHE: “No, no, it’s not that. It just takes so long. Pain aside, you have to play the waiting game. Even if you were sure that they had eaten the poison, you wouldn’t know if they were truly dead. Then you’d have to find them after they’d died. And they’re never easy to find, you know. You have to wait for the smell. It isn’t practical” 


She takes a slice of bread from the basket and draws the butter dish towards herself. A dull clunk resounds as knife meets butter, testimony to the fact that it had only been removed from the deep freezer half an hour ago.  Upon attempting to spread butter chunks, the bread tears and crumbles. Instead, she slices the butter as one would a block of cheese and makes a sandwich. 


SHE: “Besides, it’s messy.  Remember when Sid used warfarin on the beast that ate his neighbour’s kittens? The fat brute slunk away to the warmest place he could find to die. They found the decomposing carcass fused to the hot water pipes in the attic a fortnight later. Can you even BEGIN to IMAGINE the STENCH?”  


The man shifts in his chair, picks up his fork and studies the prongs.  


SHE: “It smelt like sewage apparently. Putrid, fermenting carrion. Half-cooked, you know? They had to scrape it off the pipes with a…”

HE: “Yes, yes, dear. Very nice. But it just doesn’t seem – ethical. Having your insides corroded away like that. It’s not nice. I wouldn’t fancy being poisoned.”

SHE: “Nobody is going to poison YOU, silly! It’s rats we’re talking about.”

HE: “Yes, but still.”

SHE: “You know, Diane went into the pantry on Christmas morning to find her marinated ham mauled to shreds. The blighter had munched right through the cling film. Looked like a prehistoric carnivore had been at it. That’s not right. Are you telling me that’s right?”

HE: “No, no, of course not dear, but the difference is that ours aren’t domesticated. They seem quite happy in the compost heap. Plenty of food, adequate shelter – what more could they possibly need? Our house must hold very little appeal for them.”

SHE: Absently. “And then there are traps, I suppose. A bit of gorgonzola, and CRUNCH! Bob’s your uncle. Saying that, you can never be too sure. They might get sneaky, and figure out a way to swipe the cheese with their spines intact and their skulls in one piece. Always best to be thorough, don’t you think?”

HE: Puts down fork. “Jenny. I refuse to poison the rats.”

SHE: Blinks.“Oh, there will be no need for poison, dear”.

HE: Exhales, relieved. “Brilliant. You know, we can always move them elsewhere if it would make you feel better? Besides, the female looks heavy – I think there might be a litter on the way.”

SHE: “She had them already.”

HE: “Really? That’s wonderful! How many?” 


She softens a piece of butter on the side of her plate and spreads it onto a crust. 


SHE: “Five.”

HE: “Ah, see! Now we shall have a proper mischief of rats – for that is the appropriate collective term, dear, a ‘mischief’. Five adorable babies! Lovely! And to think you were considering POISON only a second ago…”

SHE: “I told you – poison won’t be necessary”. 


He fidgets with a corner of his napkin. 


HE: “Really?”

SHE: “Yes.”

HE: “Not necessary?”

SHE: “Nope. I used your spade.” 
 
 


“The kidneys, ma’am?”

“Ah, yes – for my husband. Mine was the basil and aubergine terrine.

Thank you so much.” 
 
Scallops 03/02/2010
 
Are you male or a female?” 


I peel another napkin from the top of the stack, unfold it, pinch it, tug it and refold it again in a seemingly complicated manner before dropping it point downwards into a wineglass. The table next to the one I’m standing is occupied by a middle aged couple and a dish of scallops. The woman dips her fingers in a bowl of lukewarm lemon water. The man rolls up his sleeves. 


HE: “Decidedly female.”

SHE: “Ah. By far the best way to be. Famous?”

HE: “Exceedingly.”

SHE: “Iconic?”

HE: “No question.”

SHE: “A celebrity?”

HE: “Of sorts.”

SHE: “Respectable?”

HE: “Naturally”.

SHE: “A thespian? An ardent enthusiast of the dramatics and all things Shakespearean?”

HE: “Not to my knowledge.”

SHE: “Political?”

HE: “Political…?”

SHE: “I knew it! You’re Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini!”

HE: “No, I’m not Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini.”

SHE: “But you’re always Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini!”

HE: “Not today. Besides, you forget. I’m female.”

SHE: “Whatever.” 


She spears a scallop with her knife aggressively and bites it off the blade.   


SHE: “Are you a controversial scientific pioneer or a contemporary medical researcher?”

HE: “Not really.”

SHE: “Are you a philosophical theorist, a religious fanatic or an extreme ironer?”

HE: “Interesting. Do those come hand in hand?”

SHE: “Answer the question.”

HE: “No. I’m not.”

SHE: “Are you a social liability?”

HE: “Quite the contrary.”

SHE: “Are you compos mentis?”

HE: “Refreshingly so.”

SHE: “Are you Dr Gillian McKeith?”

HE: “You just asked me if I was compos mentis. I said yes. The two aren’t compatible”

SHE: “Just because you don’t like bean sprouts.”

HE: “One of my major failings in life, I apologise. Please resume.”

SHE: “A historical figurehead, monarch, governor, legislator, colonist or ambassador?

HE: “No.”

SHE: “A current figurehead, monarch, governor, legislator, colonist or ambassador?

HE: “No.”

SHE: “Are you still alive?”

HE: “As far as I’m concerned.”

SHE: “So you’re not dead?”

HE: “Not yet.”

SHE: Pensively. “Right.”  


Here, a thorough interrogation ensues. After a considerable length of time, during which I manage to fold my way through three and a half napkin stacks, she throws down her knife in exasperation. 


SHE: “Ok. So you’re NOT a journalist, botanist, radical activist, publicist, rapist or geotechnologist. You’re neither political nor analytical; you aren’t a highflying medic, or an MP, or a magistrate.  You’re no world record breaker or global peace maker, prominent aristocrat, diplomat or thermostat, professional dancer, successful freelancer, reputed financer or science advancer. You aren’t Buzz Light-year. And you’re definitely, DEFINITELY not a notorious criminal, a pop-idol reject or an immediate relative?”

HE: “That’s right.”

SHE: “Are you sure?!”

HE: “Yep.”

SHE: Sighs. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to admit defeat. Well played!” 


She falls back in her chair, smiling slightly. Wipes her brow. Sips her water. 


SHE: “But do tell me. Who WERE you?”

HE: Grinning. “Well … have you ever watched Chicken Run?”

SHE: Pauses. “Yes.”

HE: “I was Babs! Teehee! I don’t want to be a pie… I don’t like gravy! Chicken, blue hair! Classic! Ha… haha… ahahahaha!! Such fun! Don’t you agree, Mildred?”                


Silence. 


“Milly?”