A scientific phenomenon doesn’t just apply to science.
Scrambled eggs and a cup of minty and splendiferous tea
The sun peeked out from the lake of the cloud party, knowing itself as an uninvinted guest, but not unloved. That’s me. A small mistake on a timetable but met with good-natured humour. That’s Mum. Despite the pressure and the hostile world always stomping on our doorstep, never resting, she makes a tea party for fairies, a secret bush of blooming strawberries and feathers of lost pigeons and things that appeal to my inner child.
Her silky auburn hair. The fact that she thrusts love into her cooking like one might thrust keys into their allotted holes. Then, her perfume. It smells like the pastries on the highway sold by the old man who has threadbare carpets and a dry throat. Mum’s one of those people who have such wondrous Personalities, yet living proof that some of the best people are saddled with the worst fears and curses that hostile world throws at us like snowballs.
If you were a mere passer-by, and you took a mere glance at the chocolate skin and the scarlet nails, you would think She’s flawless! However, that would depend on what language the passer-by was talking in. My passer-by speaks English, for he’s a seller of ice cream on the Blackpool Pier. Probably Mr Frosty.
Anyway, as the rays of morning bliss trickled onto our windows, Mum takes it as a cue to make breakfast. Breakfast was taken in our house at different times, not because she needs to pop out to but some splendiferous milk, (because the pantry was always full of foodstuffs) so we ate when the sun rose. Many of the days, it was convenient for me to wake up and run downstairs and still have time to read before school Laying out the forks and knives, on the other hand, was a much more difficult task, since Mum always likes her cutlery in a specific way:
Place the table Knife directly to the left and the pudding for to be placed second from the right behind the dinner fork.
Napkins to be within easy reach from the ‘guest’.
Since we had a Small Coffee Table For just the two of Us , the rules were hard to carry out, especially since Mum was so pernikerty, she would often tut if I left A leaf On the welcome mat. But I was taught better than to laugh at this woman’s way of life.
After all, we are all unique and exciting. But some people laugh at their fellows in tanks of water and cages of metal. I will never understand this way because that’s me.
Mum silently heats the pan. We don’t have a microwave to cook our breakfast. Why should we? I Make for small talk. I begin to discuss the time we had a blue plastic bowl. It’s a good thing to talk about bowls. There are so many ways to take the Conversation to the next level. Like Talking about our favourite food or our dinner parties. It’s clear she wants to hear. She rocks her head to my direction. Then, she makes eye contact and meets my look with a casual smile. I smile back.
Smiling back is less exhausting than being the first to smile. Now no awkwardness or discomfort. Just silent happiness. And that’s my regular cooking time. Seeing as the kettle was whistling like the ears of somebody fuming, I make the desicion to start making tea. Scouring the cupboard, the pink floral teapot we use on Tuesdays sits patiently on the shelf, waiting to be looked at, to be picked up and filled with hot brown liquid. Next, the doors of the herb cupboard open up and my eyes forage for any minty tea leaves. The tea leaves always taste watery at first, but once you get the ratio correct, it actually has a tingling to the cup.
Trotting to the table, I brush the night dust out of the fold of the cream napkins - Mum hates dusty napkins. In a flash, the toast launches out of the toaster, flying into the block of butter. “I can see why you cook by campfire Nicky!” We laugh. Mum’s laughter isn’t shrill, or loud, or the similarities of a fox. She laughs like a chuckle, but a strong one that has a mixture of dogs whimpering and maracas shaking ( the traditional ones, not the plastic pods ). Finally, she sits down next to me, wearing her floral blouse and swishy short skirts that fall short at her bare knees.
It doesn’t look nice. Mum says I’m entitled to my own opinion but I must be careful of my words. We eat in silence; it’s one of those silences that say I really like this food and I like this happy, peaceful atmosphere. That depends on whether the silences speak French or Welsh. I’d like a Mexican accent atmosphere. Rather ridiculous, but not far off, because of the causeways that have taco restaurants.
Quickly, I’m hurried off to school, two miles away. I start walking at six ‘O’ clock, so I won’t be late when school starts at half past seven.
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