Saturday 1 February 2020

The Foostie Cabbage Fiasco Part 2

Ah had ma back against the wa. Literally, ah wis sittin at the table wi ma back against the wa, it wis ma favourite seat, ah aye sat there fer ma breakfast. Ah could look roond the room fae there an see them aw. The Holy Yin's picked up a stalk o rhubarb, cut the end aff wi ma butter knife, well, she mair squashed it aff than cut it, an she's awa tae stick it in a bag o sugar. Mary Peters has a face oan her that's a mixture o apoplexy an apology as she scuttles ben the scullery fer a bowl, she's aye haein tae cover up fer the Immaculate yin, an she pours a bit sugar in an sticks it in Mary's hand afore Mary Hopkins sees. Mary's busy tho, she's standin at the tap end o a long stare, at the bottom end o which is the tap end o Mary Whitehouse's heid, the front end o which is buried in yin o the Observer's sections, an eventually she realises that her stare's daggers are jist bouncing aff Mary's heid an so she turns an vacates the scene, leavin the pot o upturned goulash as an unexploded ordinance fer somebody else tae defuse...

"Oh that's wairsh!" howls the Holy yin, wi her face aw suddenly puckered in, an she's lookin doon at the rhubard stalk like it's jist jumped up an bit her oan the nose. "That cannae be yin o Mr Dalrymple's then, he wis tellin me that Hughie's dung had brought oot a lovely sweetness in his stalks this year, mibbe that's yin o Ivy's, she'll hae been up along thae canal banks, bet ye whit ye like, ye never ken whit's pished oan them up there. We'll need tae mind pit plenty sugar in when we're stewin them..."

"We?" squeals Mary fae the scullery where she's started fryin the bacon. "We?" she squeals again, as if we hadnae heard the first time, "An who's this "We" then? Mary, d'you actually ken where the scullery is in this hoose? Oh aye! It's that place where ye chuck yer dirty dishes when there's naewhere left tae sit, eh eh no?" Mary the Mother o God makes a big show o lookin aw roond like she's tryin tae work oot where the voice is comin fae, this amuses Mary Peters an they share a wee conspiratorial wink. "Yes Ma'am!" she barks, an salutes wi a stick o rhubarb tae the heid. "Point taken, received and under-stood. Over and out!" then she picks up the upturned pot fae the table an goes tae stick it oan her heid like a hat. She wis a bit daft that way. She stops hersel jist in time, looks in the pot an screws her face up, then sticks the pot back doon oan the Magazine, right way up this time, afore pickin up yin o the Sports sections an plonkin hersel doon oan the settee next tae her big pile o rhubarb...

Mary Peters tries tae keep the joke gaun by marchin up an doon the room like a sodjer, she'd let oantae us yin night that she wis a frustrated majorette an aw her days she'd had tae be held back fae joinin in the Orange Walks when they came through her bit, even that time in her First Communion frock. Weel she didnae look that cute this time as she wheeled aroond in front o the fireplace, clocked that the moment had passed an so she tried tae make oot she had a purpose in the room, an she wis fulfillin it, though whit is wis she obviously wisnae sure...

As ah'm watchin this ah become aware o Mary Whitehouse ower the other side o the table, ah'm side-eyein her, she's nane the wiser. She's obviously had her fill o her cultural supplement, an she's got her eye oan the Magazine, an she's wondering how tae extract the Magazine oot fae under the claggy pot withoot touchin the claggy pot... zen-like inscrutability ma nippy arse, ah can read her like a book! She's probably thinkin aw aboot how she could will the pot intae another existence, whether she could tai chi it oantae some other astral plane or feng shue it intae the sink, when she says "Mary, didn't you want the goulash for breakfast? I thought you liked it, that's why I left you... um..." an trails aff...

"Oh aye, that wis ma intention...", she liked tae please did Mary, she wis aye offerin hersel up tae somethin or other late at night an regrettin it in the mornin, she wis notorious, so ah wisnae surprised really when she adds "but ah had that awfy sick feelin again this mornin, an it wisnae yer goulash Mary, honestly, ah didnae even get as far as the scullery but ah had tae dive intae the cludgie... there wis nothin though, ah jist retched. Ah'm sure it wisnae yer goulash though Mary, that tasted sae... promisin last night, no that ah had that much."

"No. Nobody did. I think people mostly had the bread, mmm... " Says Mary peerin ower the rim o the pot, "I think it was the beans... though maybe the cabbage wasn't the best or..." Mary Hopkins' heid appeared at the scullery door, backwards an nearly sideways, cos she wis still fryin bacon. "Eh? Ye whit? Ye stuck cabbage in a goulash? Are ye aff yer heid? Ye dinnae pit cabbage in a goulash ya numpty, ah thocht you said ye had a Hungarian auntie's recipe an ye wid be makin, ye even said it yersel, ''authentic Hungarian goulash', ye cried it authentic! Did yer auntie tell ye cabbage? Did she? Did she?"

Mary didnae suffer fools very gladly at the best o times but she took a special glee in poppin Mary Whitehouse's bubbles, an of course, a lot o Mary's bubbles were food bubbles, or raither they were food-substitute bubbles, she wis forever cuttin somethin oot or findin somethin tae replace somethin else, she'd gaun through her tofu phase, her caboc phase, currently she wis stickin cabbage in everythin. The hoose had a constant undercurrent o rank vegetation, an ah mean an undercurrent cos every noo an again ye got caught in an eddy or a wee draught, sometimes ye felt it warm an close oan yer skin...

"Aye!" shouts Mary fae the scullery like she'd heard ma thoughts (she wis uncanny that way, sometimes she shouted ma thoughts oot afore ah'd even had them masel!) "Cabbages!" she cried, as she appeared at the door wi twa bacon rolls an handed yin ower tae me. "Ah'm sick tae the back teeth o the manky smell o cabbage in this hoose, are ye no aw cabbaged oot yet?" she directs this at Mary Whitehouse as she squeezed hersel oantae the settee beside the hundredweight o rhubarb, managin tae shove yin o the stalks along the settee like a snooker cue straight at the bowl o sugar Mary's been dippin her bit rhubarb in, an up-endin the bowl oantae the carpet. Mary looked at Mary, who looked right back at Mary, then they baith looked up at Mary Peters who jist stood up automatically an went tae fetch the brush an pan. She wis an awfy lassie that way, far too biddable, she wis little mair than a lackey tae the rest. Ah looked ower at Mary Hopkins an we baith bit intae oor rolls, ah looked ower at Mary Whitehouse as she studied her paper, ah looked ower at Mary Immaculate as she sooked her rhubarb, an the look oan her face even managed tae make ma bacon roll taste wairsh. Still, at least there wis a wee bit peace...

Then, a muffled shreik came fae the lobby, suddenly gettin louder as Mary threw the lobby press door open an came runnin through makin a noise somewhere atween a gurgle an a gargle, droppin a cairrier bag wi a big thud in the middle o the flair an divin straight intae the scullery, grabbing the bunker wi baith hands an retchin intae the sink. We aw looked up, looked doon at the bag oan the flair, looked back at each ither, an then back up at Mary who turns, still grippin the sink, an twists her neck roond like that lassie in the Exorcist, well a bit like it, same expression, an croaks oot in a demonic growl,

"Foostie cabbage..!"


The Foostie Cabbage Fiasco Part 3



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